With a last admiring look around her, Ottílde gathered her things and set off, making sure the moon now descended to her right.

Four hours later, Ottílde began to search for a place to spend the day. She slowed her jog to a trot and scanned the sands for traces of shelter. Finally, her eyes hooked on a dark shape in the eastern distance, perhaps five miles away. Adjusting the straps of her pack, Ottílde switched her spear to the other hand and took off towards the east.

A satisfied smile curled her lips, as she ran up to a genuine oasis — she had mistaken a mirage for shelter more than once on her long journey. Sturdy bushes made a half circle around a large pool, which was the end result of a trickling spring. The water spouted from a stone that towered over its fellow boulders.

Strange that boulders are out this far when there aren’t any mountains nearby, Ottílde thought as she paced around the oasis on silent feet. She made a circuit of the collection of stone to be sure no surprises awaited. When she found nothing of interest, Ottílde returned to the spring and knelt down to drink.

A gasp made the water bubble against her mouth and she pulled back to frown at the pool. Her pale face shimmered on the water’s dark surface. The only time she had sipped water this cold was when she was a little child in Roanaan and had drunk winter water from the pond by her home. Her gut clenched with the memory and, for a moment, she felt a sharp nausea flow through her. Licking her lips, Ottílde forced away the memories and focused on the water’s taste. It was sweet, like the smell of star lilies.

As the water’s aftertaste settled on her tongue and throat, a sense of great pleasure flooded her body and made her skin tighten. Her eyes widened with the sensation as she thought, No other food or drink in my life will ever compare to this. In fact, it took a good deal of will power for her not to plunge her head into the water and drink until she burst.

Unnerved without knowing why, Ottílde stood and began to ready her camp. She did so as silently as possible, in case any game was nearby. One of the huge rocks, a flat-topped bar of stone, had a shelf protruding from the middle of one of its long sides that faced the spring. Ottílde set out her bedroll beneath it, but refrained from unpacking anything else. Instead, she took up her spear, bow, and arrows and went off to find something for dinner.

Half an hour later, the weary hunter returned to her camp empty handed. No game near an oasis at night? The portent of an abandoned oasis pressed on her. “Something strange…” she trailed off and turned in a slow circle, her skin prickling with apprehension and her ears straining against the silent night. Nothing.

Her options were few. She could gather up her things and continue on, hoping to find another shelter, but if she failed she would have little protection against the fury of the three suns once dawn arrived. Or, she could remain and face whatever had chased away the local populace. It would get the job done.

Ottílde flicked her eyes around the oasis again and jerked her head decisively. Then, she readied her camp and took out the last of her dried meat.

When her tribe had left her at the southern tip of the Bettiran continent, they had supplied her with enough food to last four months. By strict rationing, she had made it stretch for another two. Halfway through her journey she had rarely had to rely on the slim pickings of the desert. With the last bite of meat she thought, Either starvation or the desert. I’d rather go down fighting, but it’ll all end in either case.