Without them, it’s over. Not tomorrow, not in ten years. Now.
The Zorghans harvest the water. They scrape the air, squeeze the mist, steal every last drop from the desert. They don’t talk. They don’t complain. They condense.
Once, they chased storms. Now, they crawl beneath the dunes. Lower. Deeper. Further.
The sun? A lie. Water? A debt. And them? A necessity.
Without them, the Zorgers collapse. No water, no hope, no future. Just sand and empty husks. They are the cornerstone, the silent gear. The reservoirs fill, and no one asks how.
But everyone knows.
The Desert Lords despise them. The raiders hunt them. But when the throat burns, they all crawl back.
The Zorghans do not drink. The Zorghans wait. The Zorghans are already here.
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The Zorghans harvest the water. They scrape the air, squeeze the mist, steal every last drop from the desert. They don’t talk. They don’t complain. They condense.
Once, they chased storms. Now, they crawl beneath the dunes. Lower. Deeper. Further.
The sun? A lie.
Water? A debt.
And them? A necessity.
Without them, the Zorgers collapse. No water, no hope, no future. Just sand and empty husks. They are the cornerstone, the silent gear. The reservoirs fill, and no one asks how.
But everyone knows.
The Desert Lords despise them.
The raiders hunt them.
But when the throat burns, they all crawl back.
The Zorghans do not drink.
The Zorghans wait.
The Zorghans are already here.