The land goes quiet before the herd moves.

Dust lifts in thin curtains as dozens of heads rise at once. Ears turn. Hooves stop. A lead mare steps forward from the mass, her body angled—not toward you, but ready to turn the herd away in a heartbeat. Farther out, a stallion drifts wide, circling, watching your shape against the horizon.

The younger horses bunch together, pressed flank to flank. Tails flick. Nostrils flare. The wind carries your scent to them before your footsteps ever could.

They don’t run. Not yet.

Every breath you take, every shift of your weight, is being measured. One wrong move and the desert will be empty again.