Do not try to kill it. Find the way out first, and count how many of its heads are already awake.
The sailors say the squall comes first and the bird follows. The old hands know it is the other way around.
The sea is a day away and your waterskin is empty. Don't run. Something with two heads is counting on it.
A ribbon of glass across the dunes is not a wonder. It is a trail, and the other end of it is looking back.
The dunes stop humming. Then you notice the camels have stopped walking too.
The pool at your feet has always meant calm. Tonight it sings the storm-note instead — clear, correct, and a lie.
You know that cry — you raised that calf. Vrask has been listening long enough to know it too.
Count the shadows on the cliff path. If one of them doesn't belong to anyone walking beside you, don't look up.
He won't howl. Howling is for country where sound carries. He'll walk up close and make you an offer.
The birdsong stops first. Then the wind goes still. By the time you notice the silk, you're already caught in it.
Sorrel has tended Lyreleaf for eleven years. Nobody has ever asked where the real one went.
The lighthouse warns you off the rocks. It never warns you what's waiting in the water beneath them.