My heart shrivels with the environ the farther we trudge from Sunia. The distance between us stretches taut like a strained cord, but her words have never been closer. Lush hills turn to vast and empty plains. Sand is everywhere. In my shoes, in my eyes, in my lungs. There is little to do but think.

Ever shifting, the landscape is somehow constantly changing yet always the same. Golden plains of nothing as far as I can see. The sunlight, reflected against the dry earth, comes from above and below. Even when I close my eyes, it is burned into my vision. It is all I see, asleep or awake.

Teak weaves a hat from dry and desiccated reeds to give to Mab, whose once fair skin has turned crimson and cracked. The others fare not much better. Clothes are torn and rearranged into face coverings, and water skins, slung low and sloshing over hips, are more treasured than diamonds.

Only Wart seems to relish the change in scenery. He slithers in the sand like a fish in water, burrowing and cresting the waves, skittering along the surface. On more than one occasion, I have feared I've lost him, only to be startled by an eruption from the ground. I have learned to look for the subtle sinking in the sand that denotes his presence somewhere far beneath the surface. He has become a subterranean creature. Often, I feel I am on my own again.

My teachers have become less enthusiastic. There is little to hunt, less to learn. Incessant heat drains the morale from our very pores, leaving nothing but the barest motivation to keep walking. Kari reminds us (admittedly less and less lately) that the only way out of the desert is through it.

There are blisters on our feet from the journey, blisters on our face from the sun, blisters on our hands from the work. I am so thirsty, I feel as if I might wither and be carried off by the vicious, whipping wind.

My feet sink deeper with every step. Each movement is a monumental effort. Several of our fellow travelers have suggested retracing our steps. It is clear that this desert does not wish to be crossed.

As I look around us, I have no idea which direction I would go, if I were to break out on my own. Our tracks are erased by the wind. Landmarks shift in their pull. All I can hope is that Kari knows where she is going, because I am hopelessly lost. Sunia or Inte, forward or back, I would rather be anywhere but here.

For as hot as the days can be, the nights are worse. From the moment the sun sets, we rush to set up shelter. Temperatures plummet, and fires are nearly impossible to maintain against the merciless, untempered wind. We huddle with our Incarnates for warmth and pray that there will be no storm in the night.

Sandstorms strike harsh and unpredictable, halting all progress. We link arms to keep from losing one another in the blinding rush. I have learned to keep my head low, my breaths shallow beneath the cloth to keep from choking. My eyes squeeze tight against the grit. No matter the precautions, we will be coughing up dirt for weeks.

On the rare occasions that I do see Wart, the changes are notable. His snout has elongated, several sharp teeth sprouting where once there were none. It is a miracle that he has stopped biting, instead using his tail to express his displeasure with the occasional, stinging slap. For the most part, though, his revenge is limited to hisses.

The warts on his back have grown into concerning humps, doing nothing for appearance. He is a scaly, warty mess. Even Mab doesn't lie to say that he is cute any more. I have overheard people referring to him as The Hunchback. Perhaps it is time to rename him as mere "Wart" is no longer fitting, but the endearment has grown on me.