Alone in the Drift
Three days into solitude, your camel kneels beside a shard of black stone jutting from the dune. You dig with raw hands until an obelisk emerges — taller than two men, inscribed with the route in glyphs older than Aythari tongue.
The waypoints sit a thousand leagues east of where they should be. The road has been walking west since before your people drew breath. You were never its master. You were its echo.