Princess Prick and Whisk walked silently, save for the crunch of sand beneath their boots and the occasional muttering from Whisk, who had started counting clouds. Out loud.

  “That one looks like a sword! No—wait. It’s a fish. Or a swordfish. That’s a thing, right?”

  Prick didn’t answer. She adjusted the straps of her satchel and kept her eyes forward, scanning the horizon.

  “Hey, Princess,” Whisk called again, slightly out of breath but annoyingly chipper.

  “What do you call it when a swordfish becomes a real sword?”

  “You don’t,” she muttered.

  “A sword-wish!”

  She stopped walking. “Why are you still here?”

  He caught up, grinning like he’d just told the world’s funniest joke. “Because you clearly need me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re out here chasing a myth in the middle of a cursed wasteland. That screams ‘please help me, Mr. Hero!’”

  “I had things handled before you showed up.”

  “Yeah,” he said, glancing at her. “Sure looked handled.”

  Prick rolled her eyes and resumed walking. “Fine. Follow me if you want. But don’t get in my way.”

  Whisk saluted with a goofy grin. “Aye-aye, Captain Princess.”

  By sunset, the sky had bloomed into bands of purple and burnt orange. The air cooled just enough to make walking bearable, but the desert never truly let its grip go.

  Prick finally stopped at the base of a broken stone formation shaped like a jagged crescent. “Here,” she said. “We’ll set up camp.”

  Whisk dropped his sword with a thud and collapsed onto the sand. “Finally. I thought my feet were gonna become raisins.”

  “You don’t make raisins with feet.”

  “Well, you do if your feet are grapes. And these feel very grape-like right now.”

  Ignoring him, Prick pulled out the things they got earlier while walking.

  A damaged cloth that she’s been holding since earlier contained a tangle of rope, a folded tarp, and bones and sticks that she picked up earlier.

  She began constructing a small lean-to using the curved stone as a brace.

  Whisk watched her for a moment. “You really know how to camp, huh, Princess?”

  “Don’t call me Princess, and I read about it,” she said without looking up.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You read about it?”

  “Yes. I used to study a lot. Books were the only way I could explore the world.”

  “You’re weird,” he said.

  “You’re loud,” she replied.

  He grinned again. “Fair.”

  They lit a small fire using tinder Prick collected earlier and shards of flint she kept in her satchel. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to push back the dark.

  For a while, they simply stared at the flames. Then Whisk broke the silence.

  “So,” he said, poking the fire with a stick. “What’s your story, really? I mean… you’re a princess. You could’ve stayed behind big stone walls and had people bring you snacks.”

  Prick hugged her knees, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “I don’t have a kingdom anymore. I told you that.”

  “Can you tell me your story of what happened?”

  She hesitated.

  Then she began to speak.

  “It was quiet. Safe. I wasn’t allowed to leave much, but I had books. I used to sneak out and go to the library when I was supposed to be learning about proper etiquette and swordplay.”

  Whisk laughed. “Etiquette? Really?”

  She gave him a look. “It’s harder than it looks.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Her voice lowered. “It was my birthday party. Random people, everyone I knew, and my family turned into stone. My father… my mother… my friends, the citizens, all of them.” She paused, her throat tight.

  “I saw all of them turned, only I was left…”

  Silence hung between them for a long moment.

  Whisk stared into the fire. “I didn’t know it was that bad here…”

  “What do you mean?” Asked by Prick

  “Well, in my hometown, the curse hasn't reached us yet, so I didn't know it was that bad…”

  “Lucky you,” she smiled at Whisk.

  “That’s why I have to find the Lost Oasis. If there’s a way to stop the curse, to reverse it, it’s there. I don’t care how hard the journey is—I have to try.”

  Whisk leaned back on his elbows, staring at the stars. “Sounds like something a hero would say.”

  “And what about you? What’s a cat beastman doing on the human side?”

  He shrugged. “Family stuff wasn’t working out. I had dreams. Big ones. I wanted to become a swordsman. A hero. My people thought I was crazy.”

  “Because cat-beastmen like me are supposed to be smart. Inventors. Tacticians. Not sword-swinging lunatics.”

  He grinned again. “So I left. And the fangback? That was my first real fight.”

  She blinked. “Seriously?”

  “Yep. First one. Hurt like crazy. But it felt… right. Like I was finally doing something that mattered…”

  Prick reached for her journal, flipping it open and writing silently by firelight.

  Whisk glanced over. “You always write before bed?”

  “Helps me process. I’ve documented everything since the curse started.”

  He leaned a little closer, peeking. “Ooh, does it say anything about me?”

  She snapped it shut.

  “Go to sleep, Whisk.”

  “Fine, fine.” He flopped down on his back. “But I'd better get a cool nickname in your book. Like ‘The Fangback Slayer.’ Or ‘Sir Whisk the Brave.’”

  She rolled her eyes, smiled just a little, and put out the fire.

  At sunrise, the peace was shattered.

  A shriek echoed across the dunes. High-pitched. Startled.

  Prick shot up, reaching for her satchel. “What was that?”

  Whisk groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Ughhh, can’t we get one morning without—”

  Another shriek. This time, followed by a voice.

  “Thief! Stop that! Get back here!”

  Prick and Whisk rushed toward the source of the sound, sprinting over the ridge just in time to see a small, brightly cloaked figure darting through a patch of rare desert flowers.

  Behind them, a merchant carrying a basket of herbs tripped and fell.

  “My Desert Blooms! They’re all I have left!”

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  Prick narrowed her eyes. “A thief…”

  Whisk was already drawing his oversized sword. “Looks like it’s hero time again.”

  They bolted down the slope with wind-churned sand biting at their heels. Prick kept her eyes on the tiny figure ahead—quick, nimble, and darting through flower patches like a desert hare.

  The bright cloak flared in the wind, a blur of reds and yellows, as if the thief was trying to blend in with the blossoms the merchant was plucking.

  “There! Left!” Prick shouted.

  “I see it!” Whisk hollered, already veering in that direction, sword bouncing awkwardly on his back. “Why are thieves always fast?! That should be illegal!”

  The small thief jumped over a rock and disappeared into a dip between two dunes. Prick skidded down the slope after them, breath sharp in her throat. Her legs ached from the previous day’s march, but she pushed harder.

  They caught up to the thief by a shallow rock basin filled with water, rare in the desert, likely enchanted. The thief was cornered, hood pulled tight, clutching a small satchel stuffed with colorful petals and roots.

  “Stay back!” the thief cried. A girl’s voice—young, maybe ten or eleven. “I have—um—a cactus!”

  Whisk blinked. “You have a what now?”

  The girl yanked a small round cactus from her cloak and held it out like a weapon. “One wrong step and I’ll prick you with this cactus!”

  Whisk slowly raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa, okay! Cactus villain—we hear you!”

  Prick stepped forward. “You stole from that merchant back there. Why?”

  “I didn’t steal! I borrowed without asking! That’s different!”

  Whisk leaned in and whispered, “That’s still stealing.”

  “Shh,” Prick muttered.

  The girl’s lip quivered. “My brother’s sick. He caught the dust fever. These desert blooms are the only thing that keeps his coughing down. The merchant wouldn’t trade unless I had silver—and I don’t have any.”

  Prick's face softened. She looked at the desert blooms in the girl’s hands, then at the terrified way she clutched the cactus like a sword.

  “Where’s your brother now?” she asked gently.

  The girl pointed behind a large boulder. “Over there. He’s sleeping. I was gonna be back before he woke up…”

  Whisk scratched his head. “Well, this is awkward. I was ready to fight a cactus villain and now I feel like the villain.”

  “Because you are, sometimes,” Prick muttered.

  “That’s rude, and I’m a hero.”

  The merchant has caught up with them. He was dusting himself off and muttering angry things about “flower-picking thieves.” But when Prick explained the situation—clearly, calmly, and with a few persuasive facts about the healing properties of Desert Blooms—he relented. He even knelt beside the boy and handed over a pouch of proper herbs.

  “Not all desert blooms are equal,” he said, softer now. “Some will help, others will make it worse. You’d better use the right ones if you want your brother walking again.”

  The girl cried and bowed over and over, mumbling thank-yous through hiccups. The merchant grumbled something about “no refunds,” but waved them off.

  As the sun began its descent, casting golden light over the dunes, Whisk and Prick lingered near the large boulder, no longer in a rush to move on. Mira sat beside her brother, gently dabbing his forehead with a cloth, while Whisk paced nearby, still fidgeting with leftover adrenaline from their short chase.

  “We’re not leaving them out here,” Prick said quietly, glancing toward the girl and her brother.

  Whisk nodded. “Good. Because if you did, I’d have to call you the real Desert Bloom Thief.”

  With a sigh, Prick unbuckled the strap on her satchel and pulled out her things to make camp. She spread it out with practiced care and began building a modest camp. A tarp tent for the kids. Then she instructed Whisk to get sticks and stones for a fire.

  The girl watched with wide eyes. “Are you a traveler or a wizard?”

  “I’m Prick,” she said simply, laying the last stone that gathered by Whisk. “I plan ahead.”

  “That’s amazing! I’m Mira, and Kira is my brother over there, in case you didn't know, we're twins.”

  Whisk chuckled as he tried—and failed—to light up the fire. “She’s the brains. I’m the hero protecting her.

  “I guess he’s kind of a hero?” Prick echoed.

  Whisk gave her a grin and a shrug.

  Once the fire was crackling and warm, Mira curled up next to it, hugging her knees. Prick had helped her settle Kira in the canvas tent, giving the boy more rest while the air cooled.

  Whisk flopped down beside the fire and tossed a twig into the flames. “So, Mira,” he said, tone softer now, “how long have you and your brother been out here?”

  Mira looked down, nudging the sand with her toes. “Two days. We ran out of food yesterday. But the flowers help him sleep. That’s why I had to get them…”

  “Where are your parents?” Prick asked gently.

  Mira hesitated, her lower lip trembling before she answered.

  “They… They were taken by bandits. A week ago. We were traveling to a place called “Sandhollow”, just passing through the canyon. But then, men with sharp blades came and attacked the caravan. My papa fought them… he fought really hard. Mama helped us get away while they… while they…”

  Her voice cracked, and she rubbed her eyes.

  “They told us to run. Told me to keep Kira safe.”

  There was a long silence. The fire popped and crackled.

  Whisk’s fists clenched. “Where are these bandits now?”

  “I don’t know,” Mira said. “They left after the fight. I tried to follow them, but it was too dangerous.”

  Whisk sat back, biting his tongue.

  Prick leaned forward slightly. “You’ve done well, Mira. You got your brother somewhere safe. You protected him. You’re really strong.”

  The little girl blinked at her, eyes glassy, but nodded.

  Soon enough, Mira’s body sagged, the long day pulling at her. Her eyelids drooped, and she leaned against a stone beside the fire.

  “She’s falling asleep,” Prick whispered.

  Whisk stood and gently picked Mira up, carrying her to the tent. He returned moments later and sat back by the fire, his ears twitching with the wind.

  Prick pulled out her journal again, her quill catching the firelight as she scribbled.

  “Whisk noticed Prick and asked, “…Did you write about the fangback and any updates on my name in your book?”

  “You’re still listed under as ‘annoying,’” she said, not looking up.

  He chuckled, then leaned back and gazed at the stars.

  The fire died down until only embers glowed. One by one, they drifted to sleep under the quiet hush of desert night.

  A high-pitched voice broke through the morning air.

  “? Waaaake uuup, sleepyheads of the sands! The sun is shining and so are our bands! ?”

  Whisk snorted himself awake, clutching the hilt of his sword. “Wha—what’s happening?! Is this an ambush? Are we being serenaded?!”

  Prick sat up next, blinking. “Do you hear music?”

  Mira was still curled up inside the tent, but Kira remained fast asleep, oblivious to the cheerful racket outside.

  More voices followed the first. Instruments strummed. Bells jingled. Laughter echoed.

  “? No need to worry, no need to fear! The Caravan of Kindness has finally appeared! ?”

  Whisk peered out from the mouth of the cave where they’d taken shelter the night before.

  “…Prick,” he said slowly, eyes wide. “I think the sand has finally driven me mad.”

  They stepped outside together, squinting into the blinding gold of morning.

  Down the slope of the cave, a long line of color and chaos rolled across the sand. Brightly painted wagons creaked along, pulled by enormous desert goats adorned in garlands. People danced beside them—acrobats, musicians, children juggling scarves, and even a few odd creatures carrying trays of sweets. Floating lanterns trailed behind them despite the daylight, bobbing in a light magical breeze.

  There were banners strung between poles reading:

  “THE CARAVAN OF KINDNESS – BRINGING SMILES TO THE SANDS!”

  Drums thumped. Someone juggled pies. A group of traveling performers sang while walking on stilts, casting long playful shadows across the sand.

  Whisk’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “…Yep. Definitely mad.”

  The scent of roasted dates and honey filled the morning air as the Caravan of Kindness marched towards them.

  Whisk stared, slack-jawed, as jugglers and ribbon dancers swirled through the dunes like a moving rainbow. One of the acrobats even did a cartwheel over a sand dune, landing with a flourish in front of them.

  “Hello, friends!” a tall woman greeted, her voice like warm wind through leaves. She wore sun-colored robes layered with soft pinks and whites. Her silver hair cascaded down her back in a long braid, and a necklace of glowing crystal seeds shimmered at her chest. “I’m Mother Niva.”

  “No offense,” Whisk said, still blinking, “but… are you real?”

  Mother Niva laughed gently and reached to tuck a flower behind Mira’s ear. “Quite real, child. We are the Caravan of Kindness, and kindness is our mission. Now come, there’s warmth to share and stories to trade.”

  Prick hesitated, her eyes scanning the group. They were a strange sight—bards, tinkers, mystics, and cooks, all smiling as if the world hadn’t crumbled around them. But Mira clung to her side, and Kira still rested sleepily in the camp..

  “…Alright,” Prick said. “But we won’t stay long.”

  They were ushered in with open arms. The wagons were adorned with silks and bells, and everywhere people laughed, danced, and sang like the desert wasn’t cursed. They were travelers who brought medicine to villages, rebuilt shelters, and sang for the lonely. The world called them fools. The sands called them miracles.

  Mira giggled as she was handed a warm flatbread covered in sweet syrup. Kira still slept like a log on Whisk’s back, drooling lightly.

  Prick marveled as a seamstress offered to patch her satchel for free. “You carry a lot,” the woman said. “Make sure it doesn’t tear.”

  Whisk spun in circles, eyes wide as he tried to keep track of fire breathers and a chicken that seemed to be dancing on beat. “Is this... paradise?”

  “No,” Prick muttered, “just unusually festive.”

  That night, they all camped in a circle of wagons near the base of a tall dune. Colorful lights floated above the camp, suspended by gentle magic. Laughter echoed like fireflies dancing.

  Prick used her things on her satchel once more to pitch a tent, but this time, she was faster. Her hands moved with practiced ease while Mira set pillows around the fire and Whisk... tried to roast dates and burned them all.

  As dusk gave way to stars, music played softly around the camp.

  Then, from the tent behind them, a soft voice spoke.

  “…Where are we?”

  Everyone turned.

  Kira was awake.

  The boy rubbed his eyes, dazed, staring at the fire and all the people around him. “What is this?”

  Mira jumped up and hugged him tightly. “You’re awake! You’re okay!”

  Kira blinked, then blushed. “W-why are there so many people? Are we in a castle?”

  Whisk chuckled, setting a plate of burnt dates next to the boy. “Even better. You’re with us. And you just missed the guy juggling torches. Don’t worry—I’ll tell him to come back.”

  The night turned into a celebration.

  Drummers played under the moonlight. Dancers twirled with scarves that caught the wind. Merchants gave the children sweets, and the travelers told tales of wonders they’d seen: oases that whispered secrets, sandstorms shaped like beasts, and stars that moved when you wished just right.

  Whisk laughed, letting Kira ride on his shoulders as the boy marveled at everything. Mira danced with a scarf around the fire. And somewhere along the way, Prick disappeared from the group.

  Whisk noticed around the time someone tried to teach him how to belly dance. He slipped away, wandering past wagons and quiet shadows.

  He found her sitting alone on a dune, staring up at the stars with her journal closed on her lap.

  “There you are,” he said, plopping down beside her. “Didn’t know desert royalty had social limits.”

  She glanced at him. “I just needed some air. It’s… a lot.”

  “Too much singing?”

  “Too much feeling like things are okay,” she admitted. “It almost makes me forget.”

  Whisk looked up at the stars too. They were bright tonight—like someone had dusted the sky with glass.

  “Don’t forget,” he said. “But it’s alright to breathe for a moment.”

  She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she hugged her knees and leaned her head back.

  “I dream of ending it,” she whispered after a moment. “The curse. The stone. I want to see my mother again. I want her to smile at me. I want her to say I did something right.”

  Whisk stared at her quietly.

  “I was always the kid who didn’t want to be a princess,” she continued. “And now I’m the only one who can save the kingdom.”

  He gave her a small smile. “Sounds like a Princess and hero’s job to me.”

  She looked at him.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What do you dream of?”

  Whisk grinned. “Easy. I wanna be the kind of hero who makes everyone shout my name. Someone with a giant statue built after them—sword held high, scarf flapping dramatically.”

  “…You don’t even wear a scarf.”

  “I’ll get one,” he said defensively.

  She laughed softly. “You really think you’ll become a famous hero?”

  “I have to,” he said, staring at the stars. “It’s the only dream I’ve got. And if I can help people like you along the way… maybe it’ll mean something.”

  They sat in silence for a while longer, side by side, the fire from the camp a soft flicker behind them.

  Then Whisk nudged her. “Hey. You snore, by the way.”

  “I do not.”

  “You did last night. Little squeaky ones. Like a hedgehog.”

  “You’re sleeping outside tonight.”

  “Already am.”

  They laughed again, and for a moment, the desert didn’t feel so heavy.

  They didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

  But for now, under the watchful eyes of the stars, they had warmth, they had company, and they had each other.