Mira wrenches the camel hard left, driving into the shadow of the nearest black rock face. The sand figure does not lunge — it pivots, that featureless column turning with a slowness that feels deliberate, almost patient. She presses against the stone and scans for a seam, a fracture, anything narrow. The rock face is ancient and cracked: too small for a hand, too small for a boot. Then, at knee height, a shadow that runs deeper than shadow should — a fissure, perhaps a palm's width, winding upward into darkness. The vessel against her ribs pulses hard, twice, as though answering something inside the stone. Her camel shifts, nostrils flared. Behind her, silence. That is worse. The sand figure has gone still, and she cannot tell if it is waiting — or dissolving itself to seep through every crack ahead of her before she can reach any of them.