Tarik

Tarik stands at the entrance to the guardhouse, leaning his shoulder against the door frame, his eyes red from lack of sleep — You heard, right? About the tent. He casts a quick glance back, toward the captain of the guard, and lowers his voice. — None of ours believe me. They'll say a mirage, fatigue, whatever. But I've served here nine years and know the difference between sand playing tricks on the eyes and something real. He straightens up, in his eyes — a mix of fear and determination. — You're not an ordinary traveler, after all. You have personalized tags on your belt. Hunter?