In the endless amber sands of the Silent Desert , where the wind carved faces into cliff sides and the sun bleached bones into glass, there walked a camel with no hump.
Her name was Zal , and her back was flat as a dried-up riverbed. The nomadic tribes whispered that she had drunk an entire oasis in a past life—not the water, but the memory of wetness itself . Now her body rejected all liquid; water slipped through her like ghosts through fingers, leaving her eternally parched.
But Zal had learned a different hunger.
When sandstorms came roaring across the dunes, she would stand with her mouth wide open, eating the wind . Not to sate thirst—but to devour the stories caught in the gale.
