The wind rolled gently across the plains as Marco Polo dismounted near a small desert outpost. He was older now, his beard thick with the dust of the road, but his eyes—ever sharp—caught the unusual sight of you sitting quietly beneath a red silk canopy, sketching patterns into the sand with a twig.

He approached with the reverence of someone who has learned to treat strangers as teachers rather than threats.

“You do not dress like the others here,” he said, in that thoughtful tone of his, part observation, part invitation. “And yet, you seem as if you belong more than I do.”

You looked up. He studied your features, curious. Not suspicious—never that—but analytical, respectful.