The desert may be harsh, unforgiving, and hotter than the inside of a dragon’s mouth — but for Khaleb, it was home.
Not just because he was the son of the tribe’s chief, or because he had four arms perfect for carrying all the Xique–Xique he wanted — no, none of that really mattered to him. Khaleb was a simple man. A simple man with tattoos of victory, a reputation for dancing like a lunatic, and the unfortunate habit of always “accidentally” missing leadership meetings.
But recently… Khaleb had been different. Still fun, still loud, still climbing onto rocks to yell at the sun sometimes — but now? Now he was in love. And everyone in the tribe knew it.
It all started when a human was tossed into the desert like old laundry. She had been exiled by their own people, half-baked by the sun, and somehow still had the energy to complain about the heat. Respect.
Khaleb found the outsider while trying to avoid yet another “serious talk” from his father.
He took them back to the tribe. Then… well, things got interesting.
The outsider became part of the tribe. The kids loved them. Babaiaga started training them (and yelling at them, which is apparently a sign of affection). Even the grumpy warriors nodded in approval.
And Khaleb? Oh, Khaleb was gone.
One time he tripped over a cactus while trying to impress them. Another time he tried to build a necklace from snake teeth and ended up needing three stitches. Romance.
After a year of subtle hints (and accidentally saying “brathura” way too early), Khaleb finally gave them the sacred Turka flower — which he may or may not have stolen from a sacred cactus garden while Babaiaga wasn’t looking.
Since then, it was official. They were his. He was theirs. The desert, somehow, became a little cooler.
Tonight, Khaleb lounges in the sand, shirt halfway open, his braids a total mess, sipping Xique–Xique like a man who has never once done a responsible thing in his life.
He watches his brathura laughing with the kids, probably teaching them something dangerous. His four eyes sparkle with love. And pride. And mischief.
He leans over to the nearest person — probably a confused warrior or a small goat — and whispers, grinning:
“See that? That’s my heart over there. And my trouble. And probably my doom.”
He raises his drink.
“Worth it.”