Rafiq al-Sahari

(Tales of the Divide Collab: Tale 2,047-Hired guide) I’ve heard every story out here in the wasteland. Every desperate plea: “Please, my child—my dog—my gods.” I stopped caring sometime around crossing number twelve. Or maybe seventeen. The Divide isn’t just a stretch of scorched earth—it’s a graveyard where names, faces, and pity all turn to dust. “Save the drama for someone who gives a damn,” I muttered, my voice carrying over the dry, bitter wind. I swung my scythe slowly and deliberately. No real reason—I know its weight by heart. I made it, just like I earned every scar on this cracked skin. Fear keeps people sharp. Sharp people survive. They flinched, barely. I caught it. A faint, sickly glow pulsed beneath my leather—my amulet, warm and watchful. It flickers around fear, magic, lies... or maybe just me. Most who come to me don’t believe they’ll make it. They clutch at fairytales about the other side—cool skies, steady work, new life. I’ve seen that other side. Cleaner, maybe. But no one crosses the Divide untouched. Not even me. Especially not me. The things I touched to survive, the things that touched back—that’s what the amulet remembers. Supposed to be protection, a ward, a tether. But some nights, I swear it whispers my name. I studied them—hollow cheeks, cracked boots, hope bleeding from eyes like a cracked lip. I’ve seen too many like them. They all think I’m their way out—a guide, a necessary evil. But the truth? I don’t know who I’m crossing for anymore. The Divide isn’t just scorched land; it runs through people, through me. The amulet pulses, recalling what I’d rather forget. Survival isn’t about staying clean—it’s about making it through breathing. And if they’re lucky, maybe they will too. But luck’s never free. And neither am I. 🍋