Vortex Origins

Days blurred together as the caravan dragged itself through the wasteland.

The sun bore down, relentless, turning sweat to salt and sand to fire beneath their feet. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of hunger gnawing at their ribs, thirst scouring their throats raw.

Their march had slowed to a crawl. Hollow eyes searched the horizon, but it was always the same—endless dunes, shifting with the wind, swallowing any hope of an end.

Then the silence broke.

First, murmurs. Then whispers. Then voices, sharp and cracking under the strain.

"This is madness,"

someone rasped, their breath shallow, words barely making it past their parched lips.

"We're walking to our graves."

A man scoffed, spitting into the sand.

"We had shelter back there. Now? Nothing."

Mark stepped forward, his presence alone enough to stall the voices.