The Wrong Horizon
Seven nights into the Sirocco Wastes, you halt the caravan beneath stars that lie. The Whispering Pillars should rise three fingers left of the Jackal's Eye — yet only flat, pale salt stretches where dunes were promised by seven generations of blood-memory.
The merchants are muttering. The route, somehow, has moved.
The truth lies in what your ancestors carried, what your feet still know, or what only solitude can reveal.