Prologue
Until the moment that the sky split apart, the only movement had been the lazy haze of heat rising from the sands and the slow crawl of shadows hiding from the twin suns above.
The slit was small, a rough window into a world that was not this one. Air rushed out of the tear, cool and humid and entirely different from anything the desert had felt. The world sucked at it like a parched man taking a swallow of fresh water.
The form that slid out of the hole and fell into the side of a sand dune was small, a lithe package covered in tatters of black cloth. The impact sent dust into the air, more when it rolled unceremoniously to the bottom of the dune.
A figure stepped out of the hole in reality, landing with its feet just-so to absorb the impact on sandy ground.
The tear slid shut without sound or protest.
Masking its visage with a raised hand, the figure searched the horizon, gaze darting across an ocean of sand and more sand. Their hand lowered and they turned their gaze down to the pile of cloth and exposed flesh that was already cooking under the relentless gaze of twin suns.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
With sure steps, the figure made their way down the dune, sands shifting beneath them but never enough to compromise their balance. They stood above the pile of cloth for a while, then reached around to the small of their back and removed a bottle. Water sloshed within it, condensation covering the tin surface with droplets that were wicked away by the heat.
“Good luck,” the figure said before dropping the bottle onto the sand.
They turned just as another tear opened up in the world and stepped into it.
The desert remained, unphased by the drama, by the horror that had passed on its surface. It had buried its share of sorrows in sand and heat, and it would do so still.
From the pile of cloth came a hand, emaciated and weak. Fingers like withered branches reached out with only the slightest tremble and grasped the bottle.