Dawn came with a gray color—as if the sky itself was hesitant whether this day was worth starting.
The ten people woke up without needing to be roused. No one slept soundly when they knew that today they would face something that could kill them.
They ate a little—the hard bread that was almost gone, the water that had to be saved for the journey home.
Then they gathered wood—the piles of dry brush and dead branches that had been collected yesterday.
Hakeem divided the tasks in a low voice:
"Torin, Amira, two others—you carry the wood, form the fire circle. Not too close to the herd, we don't want them to run before the circle is complete."
"How big should the circle be?" Amira asked.
"Big enough for them to feel they have space. Small enough for us to control. About fifty paces in diameter."
"And us?" Feng asked—his voice was slightly trembling.
"We wait. When the fire is lit and the camels start to panic, we go in. We choose the youngest one—a young camel is about our chest height, it doesn't have its full strength yet. We separate it from the herd, chase it out of the fire circle, and catch it outside."
"And if they attack?"
Hakeem looked at Feng with serious eyes. "Then we run. No camel is worth dying for."
No one argued.
They had already seen too much death to underestimate the danger.
It took an hour to form the circle.
They worked in silence—placing piles of wood at regular intervals, forming a nearly perfect ring.
The camel herd was in the center—eight of them, including two young ones who were still close to their mothers.
The adult camels were large. Very large. Their humps were high, their long legs ended in large feet that could crush bones.
And their eyes—their eyes were wary, they had seen predators before and they knew how to survive.
"Ready?" Hakeem whispered.
Everyone nodded—although no one was truly ready.
"Light the fires. Slowly. One by one. Give them time to see but not enough time to panic too quickly."
Torin lit the first pile—sparks from the flint, smoke rose, then a small flame.
The fire spread to the dry brush—faster than expected.
The second pile. The third. The fourth.
The camels raised their heads—they smelled the smoke, they saw the fire.
One of the adults snorted—a low, warning sound.
The herd moved—getting closer to each other, forming a defensive circle with the young ones in the center.
The fifth pile. The sixth. The seventh.
The circle was almost complete.
The camels started to get restless—moving back and forth, looking for a way out.
But there was no way out. Every direction had fire.
The last pile was lit.
The circle was complete.
The camels cried out—a long, high-pitched sound, almost like a frightened human.
"NOW!" Hakeem shouted.
They went in—four people from four different directions.
The camels panicked—they spun, they tried to flee, they bumped into each other.
Hakeem targeted one of the young ones—a small camel with light brown fur, not yet as tall as the others.
He ran—not directly at the camel, but to the side, cutting off the path between the young one and its mother.
The young camel was confused—its mother was on one side, the fire was on the other.
It chose to run from the fire—straight toward the gap that Feng had intentionally opened.
"CHASE IT!"
Feng ran—not trying to catch it, just to steer it.
The young camel ran out of the fire circle—into the open air.
Hakeem, Amira, and two others chased it.
The camel was fast—very fast for its size.
But not as fast as an adult camel. And the terrain here—deep sand—slowed everyone down.
"SNARE! THROW THE SNARE!"
Amira spun the rope—a wide circle, she threw it toward the camel's front legs.
She missed. It was too short.
The camel turned—it tried to go back to the herd.
Feng cut it off—his spear was raised not to attack but to block it.
The camel stopped—confused, afraid.
A second of hesitation.
Hakeem threw the snare—this time he hit.
The rope wrapped around the front legs.
Hakeem pulled—hard.
The camel stumbled—but it didn't fall.
It jerked—with a surprising force that almost threw Hakeem.
"HOLD ON! DON'T LET GO!"
Amira grabbed the rope—helping to pull.
The camel jerked again—harder.
The rope slipped from Amira's hand—her palm was burned from the friction.
"DAMN IT!"
The camel tried to run—but its front legs were still tangled in the rope.
It stumbled—it fell to its side with a heavy thud.
"NOW! TIE THE BACK LEGS!"
Two men ran—with ropes in their hands.
But the camel—even though it had fallen—was still dangerous.
Its back legs kicked—hard, fast, instinctive.
One of the men dodged—barely.
The other was not fast enough.
The camel's foot hit his waist—the horrible sound of something cracking.
The man flew—he fell three meters away, not moving.
"JIRAN!" Feng screamed.
But there was no time to check on him.
The camel was trying to get up—its front legs were still tangled, but its back legs were free.
Hakeem leaped—he pinned the camel's neck from behind, his body weight pushing its head into the sand.
"TIE IT NOW!"
Amira and Feng moved—their hands were trembling, but they moved.
The rope wrapped around the back legs—once, twice.
The camel struggled—but it couldn't get up with Hakeem on its neck.
"TIGHTEN IT!"
The rope was pulled—very tight.
The camel was still struggling but it couldn't kick anymore.
Five minutes—it felt like forever—until the camel was tied securely enough.
Hakeem got off—his breathing was heavy, his body was trembling from adrenaline.
Then he turned—he ran to Jiran who was still not moving.
Jiran was breathing—shallowly, in gasps.
But he was breathing.
Hakeem knelt beside him—his hand touched his hip where the kick had landed.
Jiran winced—he tried not to cry out.
"Don't move," Hakeem said. "I have to see how bad it is."
He touched him—slowly, carefully.
His ribs—broken. At least two, maybe three.
His hip—not broken, but badly bruised, maybe cracked.
"Is it... is it bad?" Jiran whispered—afraid of hearing the answer.
"You're not going to die," Hakeem said. It wasn't comforting, just honest. "But you can't walk. Not for a few weeks. And your ribs—you have to have complete rest or they could puncture a lung."
"So... I can't go home with you?"
"You can. But not by walking. We have to carry you."
Jiran closed his eyes—not from pain, but from something worse.
Guilt.
"I'm a burden."
"No. You're part of the price." Hakeem looked at the tied camel—it was still struggling, but it was starting to get tired. "This is the price of meat. The price of building a future. There is always a price."
Feng knelt on the other side. "Can we heal him?"
"Here? No. We need Li Yuan. Or at least a safe place for him to rest."
"That means we have to go home. Now."
"Yes." Hakeem stood up. He looked around—at the captured young camel, at the two goats that were still tied up at the camp, at the nine people who were left.
"We have three animals. One camel, two goats. That's enough to start. We can't risk any more—not with Jiran like this."
"How do we carry everything?" Amira asked. "Three animals, one injured person, our supplies—that's too much."
"We'll make a stretcher for Jiran. Two people will carry him in shifts. The animals—we'll tie them together, form a chain. One person in front to guide, one in the back to make sure they don't get left behind."
"And the rest?"
"The rest will carry the water, the food, whatever we have." Hakeem stopped. He looked at the sun that was already high in the sky. "We'll rest for one hour. We'll let Jiran stabilize a little. Then we move. Fast but carefully. Three days home—maybe four with all of this."
No one complained.
They knew this was the only way.
An hour later, they started to move.
Jiran was on the stretcher—made from branches and cloth, carried by two of the strongest men who changed every hour.
The three animals were tied in a chain—the camel in the middle, the two goats in the front and back. They still struggled sometimes, but they were starting to get tired of resisting.
The remaining nine people walked—slowly, very slowly because they couldn't move faster than the weakest.
A journey that should have taken three days was now four. Maybe five.
But they were moving.
On the stretcher, Jiran winced every time the stretcher swayed. His broken ribs shifted—a sharp pain that made his breathing stop.
But he didn't complain.
He didn't ask to stop.
Because he knew—every minute that was wasted was a minute that separated them from Li Yuan, from healing, from a chance not to die in the desert.
Hakeem walked in front—his eyes constantly scanning the horizon.
Not for danger—although danger was always there.
But for the way home.
For the nameless village where twenty-four people were waiting.
For Li Yuan who—somehow—always knew what needed to be said when there were no clear answers.
Li Yuan, he thought in silence. I hope you can heal him. I know you said your body is weak. But please—if there is any way—please save him.
I've already lost too many people.
I don't want to lose one more.
The first day of the journey home—they made good distance.
The second day—Jiran started to get a fever.
Not a high fever. But enough to make everyone worried.
An infection, maybe. Or just a body responding to trauma.
"Can we go faster?" Feng asked—worry was clear on his face.
"Not without killing the others from exhaustion," Hakeem said. "We keep moving. That's all we can do."
The third day—the water was starting to run low again.
They were still two days from the village. Maybe more.
"We have to ration again," Torin said.
"How much is left?"
"Enough for half a ladle per person per day. For two days."
"That means we'll run out before we get there."
"Yes."
Hakeem looked at Jiran—his face was pale, his breathing was shallow, he was sweating even though it wasn't that hot.
"Give him more. He needs more."
"But we—"
"I know. But he's injured. His body needs water to heal. The rest of us—we can endure with less."
No one argued.
Because they all knew—Jiran was injured for them. For the meat they were bringing home. For the future they were trying to build.
Giving him more water was the least they could do.
The fourth day—they saw the village on the horizon.
It wasn't clear. Just a faint line that could be buildings or could be a mirage.
But Torin—who knew this region best—said:
"That's the village. We'll get there before nightfall."
A relief—almost tangible, almost touchable—spread through the group.
"Should we speed up?" someone asked.
"No. We'll keep this pace. It's better to arrive late than not to arrive at all because someone collapses from pushing too hard."
They walked—each step was now lighter because they knew the end was near.
Jiran opened his eyes—for the first time in several hours.
"Did we... did we make it?"
"Almost," Hakeem said. "Hold on for a little longer."
"I'll hold on. I'm not going to die in the desert after enduring the Forge."
Hakeem smiled—a small but real smile.
"No. You're not going to die. I'll make sure of it."
They arrived at the village as the sun was starting to set.
The villagers came out—they saw the ten people returning.
They saw three animals—a camel, two goats.
They saw one person on a stretcher.
The old man—the village chief—walked forward.
He looked at Hakeem. Then at Jiran. Then at the animals.
"You succeeded."
"Yes. But there was a price."
"There is always a price." The old man turned around. "Carry him inside! Give him water, a place to lie down!"
Some of the villagers ran—they helped carry Jiran.
Hakeem looked at the building on the east side—where Li Yuan usually sat.
And he saw—a silhouette in the shadows.
Li Yuan was standing—his face was turned toward them even though his eyes couldn't see.
But Hakeem knew—somehow—Li Yuan already knew they were coming.
He already knew someone was hurt.
He already knew they needed help.
Because Li Yuan always knew.
In a way that couldn't be explained.
In a way that made Hakeem sure—more sure every day—
—that Li Yuan was not just a wise old blind man.
But something more.
Something that was not yet time to question.
But one day—one day—he would ask.
And Li Yuan—perhaps—would answer.
Or not.
But today was not that day.
Today was the day to bring Jiran to Li Yuan.
And to hope—with all his heart—
—that the hands that had once secretly healed them in the Forge—
—could heal once again.