Mira ties the cord. Her fingers work the knot the way her mother did — thumb over, under, pull — a gesture so old it lives in muscle memory rather than mind. The cord settles warm against her collarbone. The sand beneath her knees gives another slow lurch, and she rises before it can open further, stepping back onto firmer ground. She stands. The pendant rests against her sternum, no heavier than a dried seed. She waits. Then it moves. Not a swing or a pull — more like a lean, a pressure so faint she might have imagined it, but consistent, the way a compass needle holds its bearing. Northeast. Toward a band of darker rock she has been watching all morning, a ridge she could not explain why she had kept circling around until now. Her camel watches from three paces back, ears forward, unmoving. Mira closes her hand around the pendant and turns northeast.