Chapter 254: Hidden Daggers
Arriving at the base of the first beacon, everyone looked like they were a step away from the grave.
The thing wasn’t even impressive up close, just a towering slab of pale stone hammered into the sand like a nail, its surface scorched and pitted as if the desert itself had tried to chew on it and failed. But it cast a shadow, a real one, and that shadow might as well have been a palace.
The moment the group reached it, their bodies folded. Knees hit sand. Hands braced. Some people didn’t even sit properly; they just collapsed wherever the shade touched them, as if the heat had been holding them upright out of spite and finally got bored.
Besides Kael, who seemed to have had better days, yes, but today was still not the worst he had experienced.
His throat was dry, his skin crusted with sweat that had turned into salt and grit, and his shoulders ached from carrying Christy for miles, but compared to training under a man who thought "recovery" meant "do it again," this was... tolerable.
Miserable, sure. But tolerable. He was still thinking clearly, and in a place like this, that mattered more than water.
He placed Christy slowly in the shaded area of the beacon and sat right next to her while the rest of the group sat around them.
Christy’s foot scuffed the sand as he eased her down. She tried to stand on her own for half a second out of pride, then her knees wobbled, and she let him finish. Her breathing was shallow, controlled, the kind that tried not to waste moisture. Kael watched the others too, how they moved, how they looked at the bag Garron carried like it was a holy relic. Hunger made people stupid. Thirst made them worse.
"Alright, food distribution time," Garron said as he pulled out the bag.
The bag hit the ground with a dull thud, not heavy enough to be comforting. Garron squatted over it like a guard dog, shielding it with his body, his eyes sweeping the circle.
Even in the shade, his lips looked split. His hands shook slightly when he untied the mouth of the bag, small tremors, the kind that came from pushing too long and sleeping too little.
Unlike what everyone expected, that he’ll use a way to either extort or make sure that someone gets the short end of the stick, everyone received a ration of food, some dried jerky, and a waterskin to drink from.
One by one, Garron handed them out. No speeches, no bargaining. Just distribution. That alone drew wary looks, like kindness was suspicious because it usually was. The waterskins were light, embarrassingly light, and the jerky smelled like salt and desperation. Still, hands reached out quickly, snatching their portion and tucking it away as if someone might change their mind and take it back.
"How much is left in there? This isn’t enough to sate hunger," the old man said, greedily looking at the pouch.
The old man’s eyes weren’t even on his own ration. They were locked on Garron’s bag. Not the contents he’d already been given, what remained. His throat bobbed when he swallowed, and the sound of it was dry and ugly. Kael could practically hear the thoughts crawling behind that stare: If I take more now, I live longer.
"This is good enough for now, just suck it up." Garron replied, "We can’t overeat or drink; we need to keep our rations."
Garron’s tone was flat, but his hand tightened around the bag strap like he expected someone to lunge. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. The group was tired enough that conflict still felt like work.
For now. Kael watched the old man’s jaw clench, watched him calculate whether he could get away with something.
Kael didn’t really think much of the situation.
He tipped the waterskin anyway, just enough to wet his tongue and rinse the grit off his teeth. The water was warm, tasted faintly of leather and dust. Not refreshing. Just necessary. Then he slid the jerky into his jacket without chewing a single strip. It wasn’t a restraint for the sake of discipline.
It was math.
"You’re not eating that?" Christy asked before she took a bite.
She held her own strip between two fingers, already halfway to her mouth, eyes flicking to Kael’s pocket like she couldn’t decide whether he was smart or insane.
"No, that’s bait. Jerky is very salty; the amount of water you drink isn’t enough. Unless I’m next to an oasis, I won’t eat it," Kael made sure that his voice wasn’t loud, but just enough for everyone to hear him.
He didn’t need to lecture them. He just had to say it once and let fear do the rest. People understood dehydration the way they understood knives: you didn’t need to know the science, only the consequence. Salt without water wasn’t food. It was a countdown.
Hesitation came across the group, looking forward, the second beacon wasn’t anywhere in sight. And just the trip to the first one almost had them die from thirst. If they add salt...
Hands paused. Teeth stopped mid-bite. Even the skinny guy’s throat worked like he was suddenly aware of how little spit he had left. One by one, jerky disappeared into pockets and bags like contraband.
Kael didn’t look smug. This wasn’t a victory. It was triage.
"Smart lad." Christy smiled as she also hid her jerky.
"Now," Garron said, "We’ll rest until it’s nighttime. We should move by then. If you guys can grab a few hours of sleep, it will help us navigate the night."
The suggestion landed like a stone in still water. Rest sounded good until you remembered what rested in the dark. The desert had a way of making you feel exposed even in shade, like anything could be watching from the dunes, waiting for the moment your eyes closed.
"Do you even know how cold it gets at night, and you want us to move during it?" the skinny guy said.
He tried to sound outraged, but his voice wavered. He hugged his own arms unconsciously, already imagining the temperature drop, already feeling it in his bones.
"You have a better option?" Garron replied with a question.
Silence answered for him. The day was heat that cooked you. The night was cold that stole your strength. Pick your poison. The tower loved choices like that, choices where both options were punishment.
The group remained quiet.
Kael watched them sink into themselves, watched exhaustion tug at eyelids. Their fear was real, but it wasn’t useful. Fear didn’t produce water. Fear didn’t shorten distance. Fear just made you hesitate until you died.
Kael then spoke, "I’ll handle the night coldness."
Every head turned. Even the calm one with the cowl tilted slightly, attention sharpening. Kael could feel their suspicion like hands on his skin. What does he mean?
"What? You? How?"
The question came fast, almost offended, like Kael had claimed something he didn’t earn.
"I got my ways, you won’t have to worry about it.
His tone stayed casual, and that was the worst part. People trusted panic. They trusted desperation. Calm sounded like a lie.
"Unless you got blankets under there, I doubt we can solve this issue," the old man said.
The old man’s eyes were narrowed now, not greedy, testing. He didn’t like that Kael had influence without permission. He didn’t like that people listened.
"As I said, you won’t have to worry about the night coldness. It’s the best time to make good progress..."
Kael didn’t elaborate. He wasn’t about to explain anything to a group that would sell him for a sip of water. Let them take his certainty as arrogance if they wanted. Arrogance didn’t matter as long as it worked.
"Fine, fine, we’ll see about that," the old man moved closer to one of the beacon walls and closed his eyes, trying to catch some sleep.
The old man settled down too easily, back against the stone, chin tucked, arms folded like he was in a tavern instead of the tower. Either he trusted people too much, or he didn’t care who died first as long as it wasn’t him.
"He sure as hell is trusting of others, sleeping like that in a place anyone could be a killer," Christy said.
Her words slid into the shade and didn’t leave. The group reacted to it exactly the way she intended, eyes darting, posture tightening, hands drifting closer to weapons they’d been pretending not to have. For a few minutes, nobody slept. They just watched each other, waiting for a twitch, a reach, a mistake.
This made everyone anxiously look around. As if trying to guess who might be the first victim, and who might be the first to kill.
Soon, exhaustion beat wariness. And everyone began dozing off, thankfully, under the shade, the heat was less powerful.
One by one, heads dipped. The skinny guy fought it longer than most, blinking hard, but eventually his chin dropped. Garron stayed half-awake with the bag close, eyes slitted, like he was sleeping with one ear open. The calm one with the cowl didn’t fully sleep at all; he just went still, breathing shallow, dagger within reach.
Kael was also the same.
He let his back rest against the beacon stone and allowed his eyelids to lower, not because he trusted them, but because he trusted himself to wake first if anything went wrong. His breathing slowed, his body settling into that half-sleep state that wasn’t rest, but wasn’t fully alert either.
Soon, however, he felt the shift of something, opening one eye slowly, it looked like it was nighttime. And someone was moving in the dark.
