Zorahl walks. Always. Under the merciless sun, the dunes scream, the wind whips, the sand gets everywhere. He doesn’t flinch. The spice burns in his veins, his pupils widen. Sharp vision. Everything in its place. Thirst doesn’t reach him. Fear neither.

His stillsuit clings to his skin like a second birth. Blackened by time, patched up in haste, but functional. He needs nothing more. His weapon? A curved blade, thin, sharp. It has tasted blood before. It knows its purpose.

Zorahl is a ghost of the desert. He stalks, he waits, he strikes. And when he strikes, it’s over.