The Salt Baron's Mask

The salt wind bit at your cheeks as you cinched the camel's girth strap, the coarse rope burning your palms through cracked leather gloves. Behind you, the expedition stirred—guards muttering over their rifles, pack animals complaining, and Silas, always Silas, standing too close as he watched you work.

"A merchant who knots a load like a sailor," he said, voice carrying on the dry air. "Fascinating."

You didn't turn. "A merchant who's crossed the Wastes enough to know a loose strap kills faster than thirst."

His laugh came low and sharp. "Indeed."

Captain Elara Voss appeared at your shoulder, her shadow cutting the blinding white of the salt plain beyond. She didn't look at Silas. She looked at you—your hands, your stance, the careful way you'd just flicked the rope's tail into a tidy half-hitch. Her eyes narrowed a fraction.

"Mount up," she said, and the command carried the weight of someone who'd decided something about you. "We ride before the sun climbs higher."

The camel lurched to its feet beneath you. Ahead, the salt flats stretched like a frozen sea, dotted with the black teeth of ruined towers. The treasure was out there, somewhere under all that white. So was your real name, if you were careless.

Silas fell in beside your mount, his smile sharp as flint. "Tell me, merchant—ever fence with a blade? You've got the hands for it."