The dunes screamed.
It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the shifting sands or the dry moan of the horizon. No, this scream came from deep beneath the earth—a thunderous, gnashing howl that split the silence like a blade.
Niri didn't dare look back.
Looking back meant fear had won. Looking back meant you slowed—meant hesitation. On Dakun, hesitation got you eaten.
Her feet pounded over the sand, kicking up clouds that caught the early glare of the twin suns. The sky above was a pale, merciless white. Not a cloud. Not a bird. Just heat and more heat. And behind her—death.
She could feel the vibrations in her bones. Each pulse was a warning. The worm was close.
The air shimmered from the rising temperatures, making the dunes ripple like water. But there was no water here. There never was. Just sand, heat, and creatures too old and too cruel to care that she was human—if that word still meant anything.
"Brilliant," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Fantastic day, Niri. One root in your stomach, no water, no shade, and a ten-ton maniac hungry for a snack."
A shadow shifted far behind her—a dune rising unnaturally fast, sand bulging upward as if some great beast was being born from the planet itself.
Niri didn't need to see it to know what it was.
Sandworm.
Massive. Fast. Blind but more precise than anything with eyes. Drawn to sound. Drawn to motion. Drawn to heat.
She threw herself down the side of a ridge, half-running, half-sliding, her feet barely catching purchase. Her boots were old, cracked at the heel. Her scarf was damp with sweat. She tasted dust in every breath.
The worm howled again. The sound didn't come from a throat. It came from everywhere—the ground, the sky, her own chest.
She stumbled but caught herself. Her legs burned. Her lungs stabbed. Her heart was sprinting faster than her body.
"I hate this planet," she wheezed. "I hate this sun. I hate whatever god decided worms needed teeth."
And still—she didn't stop.
The sand behind her erupted.
She didn't see it—she felt it.
A sudden whoomph of pressure, like the world inhaling sharply. The shockwave launched a spray of sand past her, pelting her back and arms with grit sharp enough to sting. She ducked her head, raised her arms, and kept running.
Don't think. Don't stop. Just move.
That was her only law.
It had kept her alive longer than it should have. On this forsaken planet with no name on any current star map, where most life had either fled, died, or adapted into monsters, survival wasn't a skill—it was a ritual. You either performed it daily, or you were swallowed whole.
Her name was Niri. That much she knew.
Everything else?
Gone.
She didn't remember where she came from. Not what city, not what family, not what planet—if there had even been another planet. The only world she knew was sand and ruin. Her earliest memory was waking under a rusted metal overhang, surrounded by heat and silence, and the certainty that something had already tried to kill her.
Her small stature helped. Less heat to radiate. Less noise to draw attention. Her agility had become her lifeline.
The worm roared again—closer.
Niri skidded down the far side of a dune and rolled behind a jagged outcrop of blackened stone. She pressed herself flat against the scorched rock, barely breathing. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Not here. Not like this.
The sound passed overhead—like thunder rolling through gravel. She didn't look. She just waited.
And then… silence.
Only the wind.
She dared a glance over her shoulder.
Nothing but a gaping scar in the dunes where the worm had passed.
"Still hate you," she muttered.
She reached into her pouch for water, but it was empty. She tossed it aside.
The heat clung to her like a second skin. The twin suns were climbing fast now. No clouds. No cover. She had maybe an hour before she'd need to find shelter again.
But that wasn't her priority.
Not now.
Because her eyes had just caught something strange—something unnatural.
A flicker in the sand. A faint glint of metal.
And where there was metal, there might be shade.
Or death.
Usually both.
She didn't hesitate.
She ran toward it.
The glint grew sharper as she closed the distance, buried half beneath the slope of a dune like a secret the desert had failed to keep.
Metal. A shape. Not jagged wreckage, but intentional.
She dropped to her knees beside it, brushing away the hot sand with trembling hands. Her fingers found edges—smooth, worn, circular. A hatch. Old, but intact. Sealed tight.
"Please," she breathed, not sure who she was talking to.
She pounded the panel beside it with the heel of her fist.
Nothing.
She slammed it again. And again. Her palms stung, skin breaking.
Clack—hiss.
The hatch shifted with a low groan, splitting open just enough for her to wedge her shoulder into the crack and heave.
She dove inside just as the dune behind her rumbled—maybe another worm, maybe just her imagination. She didn't wait to find out.
The hatch sealed behind her with a heavy metallic click.
Silence fell like a curtain.
For a few long seconds, she could hear nothing but her own breath and the faint ringing in her ears.
It was dark. Utterly. The kind of dark that pressed against your eyes even when they were open.
Then a glow bloomed into life.
Soft. Blue. Calm.
She turned slowly.
Floating at the center of the chamber was a sphere—metallic, but not hard-edged. It pulsed gently, as if breathing. No markings. No controls. Just presence.
It hovered there, lighting the small, circular room—just large enough for one person to curl up and wait for the end of the world.
She approached it without realizing. Held out her hand.
Warm.
Alive?
She didn't know what it was, only that it didn't try to kill her.
And that made it the kindest thing she'd met all day.
She wrapped it in cloth, pulled it close, and sat down against the wall.
Her pulse began to slow. Her breath evened out.