High above the baking sand—way, way above the whole rock-ball called Senedro—the Setrums lounged on their ridiculous silver balconies, munching star-fruit like it was movie popcorn. Every now and then one of them flicked a hand and the clouds reshuffled so they had a better view of the walking-disaster film titled Max Donman Still Isn't Dead.
"He should've face-planted an hour ago," Myer muttered, licking juice off her thumb.
Dias shrugged. "Kid's got stubborn wired into his DNA. Too bad he's marked."
What Max hadn't understood was that, the farther he ran, the farther the Shams would chase. They'd spared him only because they wanted him to lead them deeper into the desert. Max was a pawn, and the Shams were waiting—no hurry.
Just then Max tripped, cursed, and staggered back up. The Setrums cheered like drunk college fans. Betting pools materialized on floating screens: HOW MANY STEPS BEFORE HE FAINTS AGAIN? The over/under swung wildly.
But the entertainment break was over. Bigger business waited. Yern, the freaky Seer of Echoes, drifted in from the mist, eyes glowing like glitchy LEDs. "Chosen vessel is moving," he announced, voice doubled, trebled—like three podcasts playing at once.
"Status?" Dias asked.
"Synced and sprinting," Yern replied. "Gulutel's muscles, my steering."
Down on the ground, miles east of Max's meltdown, Gulutel the bear-rider barreled across scrubland—no bear this time, just his own tree-trunk legs pumping like pistons. Clutching the Scepter of the End, the guy was a slab of muscle on autopilot, and Yern's presence inside his skull crackled like bad radio:
> Hustle, big guy. Two days to Gulia. No detours.
Also hydrate—possession dries me out.
He'd ditched the bear patrol so cleanly that, by the time Fien realized the damn stick was missing, tracking him would be a nightmare—buying Gulutel the precious hours he needed.
Gulutel didn't answer; his mind was basically a locked gym locker. But his body obeyed, sand exploding with every stride. The Scepter had to be yanked from Fien before she accidentally vaporized half the continent—or, worse, figured out the fun settings.
Myer watched Gulutel's glowing silhouette tear across the dunes and sighed. "Feels dirty, hijacking one of Fien's top heavies. Can't wait to see her reaction."
Dias grunted. "War's already dirty. We're just mud-wrestling with fancier rules."
Above them the betting screens flashed again—Max had collapsed for the fifth time but crawled another six feet. The odds shifted. The Setrums roared, hurling cosmic coins at the display.
"Place your bets," Dias said with a crooked smile. "Does Max reach that city first, or does Gulutel hit Gulia with the scepter? Either way, the board's about to blow."
Lightning rippled across the clouds—no weather, just the universe clearing its throat. Down below, one mortal limped toward salvation, one demigod sprinted toward Gulia with world-ending hardware, and somewhere in between, a naked queen with too many armies was about to learn she wasn't the only power player on the field. Senedro, man. Never a dull sunrise.
Hope you know, the desert doesn't do pep-talks. Out here the sun just roasts you, flips you, roasts you again, like it's got some personal beef. Max Donman could practically hear it sizzling his brain cells. He staggered forward—lips split, skin lobster-red—trying to remember why running from a nightmare octopus-angel thing had sounded like a good idea.
Then the mirages hit. First up: Jenna Kossel, floating toward him in that pale-blue hospital gown, IV line swinging like a sad party streamer. Back on Earth they'd been stuck in adjacent beds: Jenna with stage-three cancer, Max with a "we have no idea what's wrong but you might randomly stop breathing" diagnosis. They'd binge-watched trash TV and prank-called nurses. She called him "Donut" because auto-correct butchered "Donman," and the nickname stuck like glitter. He'd been too chicken to tell her he was in love. Now her ghost just smiled, that same crooked grin, and it hurt more than the sunburn.
The vision flickered. Jenna was kissing Jim Slevann—yeah, the Night Rider himself—right there among the beeping machines. Max had walked in on that one for real, back when everyone was alive and cancer-free fantasy worlds didn't exist. He'd bolted, humiliated, straight into a vending machine. Broke his nose on a row of stale Snickers. Nice job, champ.
Another heat-wave ripple, and boom—Tisha Donman, big-sis, day-one ride-or-die after their folks crashed and burned. She dragged Max through inhalers, hospital bills, and late-night panic attacks, and how did he pay her back? By vanishing into self-pity, skipping meds, tanking school, haunting hospital wings like a budget ghost and pushing her to die in a "total accident" he never forgave himself for. He'd never buy that it was "just an accident." Now here she was in the shimmering air, eyes huge with that silent question: Why weren't you there for me?
Max dropped to his knees, desert sand scorching through torn jeans. "I'm sorry," he croaked, voice shredded. The mirages didn't answer. They never do.
Cue cameo number four: an orderly from the psych ward where Max landed after the whole "something possessed me to do this" fiasco. The orderly wheeled a cart of meds past him, dead-eyed, totally done with Max's nightly escape attempts. "Back to bed, Houdini," Mirage Orderly muttered. Max laughed—half choking, half hysterical—because the desert had officially become his greatest hits of bad life choices.
He tried to stand; the world tilted like a busted pinball machine. His canteen? Bone-dry. His backup canteen? Also dry—turns out plastic melts when you face-plant onto hot rocks. Great.
The sun hammered him again, but underneath the frying pain something else buzzed: that weird glowing ring-shaped mark on his shoulder. It pulsed icy blue against all the red, like his skin had downloaded a neon screensaver. Every throb whispered: Keep moving. Yeah, easy for you to say, mystery tattoo.
Max crawled, hands sinking into sand that felt one degree shy of lava. The hallucinations trailed: Jenna cheering softly, Tisha pointing toward the faint outline of a city on the horizon—maybe ten hours away if he had, say, a functional body and a gallon of Gatorade. He had neither. Still, he dragged himself forward because giving up meant letting the Sham that slaughtered his escort win, and screw that thing.
After what felt like an eternity—and probably ninety seconds—he collapsed again. The visions dimmed. Only Jenna remained, kneeling beside him, palm cool on his forehead. Totally impossible, scientifically ridiculous, yet weirdly comforting.
"Get up, Donut," Mirage Jenna whispered, voice mixing with the wind. "Tell the story. Somebody needs to hear it."
Max spat dust, gasped, and pushed up on shaking elbows. One crawl, then another. If he could just reach that city—any city—maybe he'd find water, answers, hell, even a halfway decent Wi-Fi signal. Stranger things had happened: he'd literally ridden a broom last month.
The desert answered with silence and one relentless command: Keep moving, Donman. And so he did, shoulders blistering, ghost squad in tow, chasing a horizon that refused to get closer.