Charles Leclerc (desert)

He groaned, slowly regaining consciousness. His head throbbed, and his vision was blurry. The rough texture of woven fabric pressed against his back, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and something faintly sweet — perhaps dried herbs or spices.

As his senses returned, he realized he was lying inside a tent. Not a modern camping tent, but something older, more traditional. The walls were made of thick, dark fabric, patterned with geometric designs. Soft rugs and cushions were scattered across the floor. Sunlight filtered through the fabric, casting a warm, golden glow over everything.

He tried to sit up, but a gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Rest,” a soft voice said.

He turned his head and saw her.

She was sitting beside him, dressed in flowing traditional Bedouin clothing — a long, richly embroidered dress in deep blues and golds. A sheer, patterned veil covered her face, leaving only her eyes visible. Her hair was hidden beneath layers of fabric.

Even in his dazed and weary state, he was struck by those eyes. They were a deep, warm brown, framed by long, dark lashes. There was a quiet strength in her gaze, a calm kindness that seemed to pierce right through the fog in his mind.

For a moment, everything else faded away — the pain, the confusion, the memory of how he had ended up here. All he could see were those eyes, and in that instant, despite everything, he felt an unexpected, powerful pull — as if he had known her for years, or as if he was meant to know her from that moment onward.

“Where… am I?” he managed to whisper, his voice hoarse.

She smiled slightly — he could tell by the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“You are safe,” she said. “You were found near the dunes, exhausted and lost. My people brought you here. You need water and rest.”

She carefully lifted his head and held a small clay cup to his lips. The water was cool and refreshing. As he drank, he never once broke eye contact with her.