The world had shrunk to the rhythm of pain. A hot, bright throb with every limping step, synced with the hammer of Lulal's heart. The fight with the mountain lion felt like a memory from another life. Now, he was the wounded prey.
Gilgamesh moved beside him, a solid, silent pillar of support, his arm a brace under Lulal's. The boy's face was set in a grim mask. He had carried Lulal for the first day after the river crossing, but even his divine strength had limits against the relentless, broken ground.
"We need to stop," Gilgamesh said, his voice low.
"We can't," Lulal gasped, sweat stinging his eyes. "If they're following, they'll have dogs. Sound carries in this silence."
It was then they saw the smoke. A thin, grey tendril rising from behind a low ridge ahead. Not a campfire. A signal.
They were too late.
Figures emerged from behind rocks and scrub, not with a charge, but with a silent, encircling precision that was more terrifying than any roar. They were the Sand-Walkers, a tribe whose name was whispered on the trade routes. Men and women with skin like worn leather and eyes that held the flat, merciless sheen of the desert itself. They carried not swords, but wicked, hooked spears and weighted nets.
Gilgamesh shoved Lulal behind him, his body coiling, a growl building in his throat. The air crackled with the promise of slaughter.
"No!" Lulal hissed, gripping his shoulder. "There are too many. The nets. They know how to trap strength."
A tall man, his face a web of scars, stepped forward. He was the chieftain, Bakar. He didn't speak, just looked them over. His gaze lingered on Gilgamesh, noting the blood still crusted under his nails, the unnatural density of his young muscles. His eyes narrowed. Then he looked at Lulal, at the intelligent fear in his eyes, the way he held himself despite the injury. Prey, but not helpless prey.
Bakar pointed a bony finger at Gilgamesh and made a series of sharp, guttural sounds. One of his tribesmen translated, a younger man with a nervous tic. "The Scar-Faced One asks… what manner of demon-child is this?"
Lulal's mind, fogged with pain, snapped into focus. This was not a fight. It was a negotiation. He pushed forward, leaning heavily on his good leg, and met Bakar's gaze.
"He is no demon," Lulal said, his voice strained but clear. "He is strength. And you are hunters. And hunters," he paused, letting the words hang, "always have a use for strength."
Bakar's eyes flickered. The translator conveyed the message.
"We need no strength from outsiders," Bakar grunted, but he didn't order the kill.
"Don't you?" Lulal pressed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He gestured to the barren hills. "A tribe this large, in land this lean. You are not just hunting gazelle. You are hunting something else. Something that hunts you back."
A ripple went through the Sand-Walkers. Bakar's scarred face tightened. Lulal had guessed right.
"The Great Lizard of the Salt Flats," the translator said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It has taken three of our best. Its hide turns our spears. It is a demon."
Lulal looked at Gilgamesh, then back at Bakar. "My… companion… will bring you its head. In return, you give us water, food, a guide to the southern river, and let us pass in peace."
Bakar stared at him for a long, tense moment. The only sound was the wind whistling through the rocks. Finally, he gave a sharp, single nod.
The agreement was sealed. But as two tribesmen moved forward to lead them to their camp, one of them, a jittery youth spooked by Gilgamesh's unblinking stare, shoved past Lulal.
It was not a malicious push, but it was enough.
Lulal's injured leg buckled. With a cry of shock and pain, he fell, his knee twisting sideways with a sickening, wet pop. White-hot agony blinded him. He heard Gilgamesh's roar of fury, the sudden scramble of the Sand-Walkers raising their nets.
Through the pain, Lulal clawed at Gilgamesh's arm. "Don't! It was an accident!"
But the truce was shattered. Bakar's eyes hardened. He saw not a potential ally, but a liability and a loose cannon.
"Take them," Bakar commanded, his voice cold. "The strong one to the pit. The weak one… we will see if he can be fixed. Or if he is only meat."
As rough hands grabbed him, Lulal's last thought was not of his own pain, but of the terrifying, unleashed fury in Gilgamesh's eyes as they dragged him away. He had gambled on diplomacy and lost. Now, they would both pay the price.