They never spoke much on the road. Not because there was nothing to say, but because the silence between them felt whole, like a third traveler that moved beside them.
The spires had no names. No maps told of their shapes, nor did stories mark them. And yet, standing there as the sky bruised from violet to indigo, the two knew this place had seen more than history could hold.
They didn’t know what they were searching for. Or maybe they did, but couldn’t name it yet. Sometimes, the desert felt like it was listening. Sometimes, it answered back: with wind, or starlight, or the hush of fire cracking under a sky so wide it made you feel like a question.