The Debtor's Pilgrimage

The contract burned against your thigh, a brand of cold fire that never quite numbed. You'd felt it the moment you'd crossed the last dune—a pull, a warning, a countdown written in the ache of your bones. The relic hummed in your pack, a low, resonant thrum that seemed to sync with your heartbeat.

You crested the ridge and saw it: the ruin. A collapsed watchtower of rusted iron and crumbling stone, half-swallowed by the shifting sands. And from somewhere beneath that rubble, a thin, reedy cry. A child's voice, muffled and terrified.

The wind picked up, scouring your face with grit. The second moon hung low on the horizon, a pale sliver of bone against the bruised sky. Time was a currency you couldn't afford to spend. But the crying continued, and your boots were already moving before your mind caught up.

You dropped to your knees at the edge of the collapse, pressing your ear to the cracked stone. The humming in your pack grew louder, as if the relic, too, could hear the desperation beneath.

"Hello?" The voice was small, trembling. "Please. I'm stuck."