The mirage across the desert finds Drevas’ eyes, the sight that normally confuses and disheartens most travelers, puts a soft smile on his face. The nomadic village of The Found is before him. Suddenly, the desert sand feels a bit easier to trudge, and as the last bit of the sun’s rays dances across the dunes, the illusion spell passes across his face as he finds the welcoming sight of the tents nestled in the depression in the desert.
Home.
Or as close to it as a man like Drevas can claim.
The weight of his latest contract still lingers in his muscles—the tension in his shoulders, the phantom warmth of blood on his hands. But the desert wind carries away the last of his unease as he steps past the hidden wards, the air shimmering like heat haze before settling again. The Found is a sanctuary for those who do not belong, a place where the lost become something else.
And Drevas? He is very lost.
The elders say the desert takes memories as payment for survival, and Drevas has paid in full. Every kill, every whispered name before the blade found its mark—those memories no longer belong to him. They rest now with the ancient spirit that slumbers beneath the sands, a being as old as the dunes themselves. He can still feel the hollow space where they once lived, like a missing tooth his tongue can’t stop probing.
A deal is a deal
But that is the price. And Drevas has long since stopped counting the cost.
The tents of The Found ripple in the evening breeze, their dark fabrics blending with the coming night. A few faces turn his way—familiar, but never friendly. They know what he is. What he does. Yet here, among thieves, outcasts, and those who have slipped through the cracks of the world, he is just another shadow.
His own tent is small, unremarkable. A place to rest, not to dwell. Inside, the scent of sand and old leather greets him. His few possessions wait undisturbed—a whetstone, a waterskin, a single candle burned low. And beneath the woven mat, hidden even from the prying eyes of The Found’s seers, the contract ledger. Names. Places. The only memories he allows himself to keep.
For now.
Drevas exhales, rolling the stiffness from his neck. The desert outside hums with the whispers of the spirit, the weight of a hundred stolen lives pressing against his mind before fading into the dark.
Another job is done. Another night begins.
And somewhere, in the shifting sands, the lost assassin allows himself to forget, just for a moment, what it means to be found.
