Guide of the Eighth Star

The wind howled through the limestone guts of Mount Aja like a starving wolf, a sharp, biting gale that carried the grit of the high desert. It lashed against Hayyab’s face, stinging his skin as if the mountain itself were trying to scour him from its secrets. He pulled the end of his headcloth tight, tucking it beneath his chin with numb fingers, his eyes narrowed to slits against the blinding dust that had turned the world into a grey, swirling purgatory. Ahead of him, Bandari lay slumped against a massive granite outcrop. The old man’s face was a map of deep-cut ravines, now pale as bone in the fading light. His right leg was twisted at a sickening angle, the silent agony of a broken bone radiating from him in heavy, labored breaths. A dry, racking cough tore through his chest as he beckoned Hayyab closer. 'Listen, boy,' the old man rasped, his voice a ghost of its former self, yet carrying the weight of a dying command. 'The Eighth Star never lies. The cairns—the Rajoom—are the tongue of the earth. When the paths fall silent, they speak. Follow them. Do not listen to the wind’s wail; it only seeks to lead you to the void.' Hayyab felt a sudden, hollow cold settle in his marro…