Nia stood beside a stack of brass cups, checking that the woven mats were flat and tidy for the morning crowd. The Saffron Dune Market was warm and busy around her. Canvas awnings flapped overhead, mint and cumin drifted through the air, and sandals made soft marks in the sand.
Then a sleepy camel gave a slow, stubborn tug.
Its rope slid loose from the tie post near the stalls. The camel blinked, chewed the end of the rope, and took three heavy steps forward. A basket of melons tipped. Someone yelped. The camel only lowered its long neck and kept wandering, as if the whole market had become one big path for it.
Nia pressed her hands together. The camel was moving toward the narrow alleys, where there was hardly room to turn, and beyond them the low archway to the open dunes. If it went the wrong way, it could bump more stalls or dash straight into danger.
“Omar!” she called. “Zahir!”
Omar was already hurrying over from the melon cart, talking fast. Zahir looked up from his tools, brass dust glittering on his cuffs.
The camel shifted again, nudging a hanging basket with its nose. Nia saw how close it was to the crowded center now, and she had to decide quickly: call Omar to block the alley, ask Zahir to help make a safe barrier, or try to guide the camel herself before it chose a path on its own.
What happens next?
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