Yanella Dustwhisper pressed her toes against the line where sand met stone and felt her wings start to fail. Beyond that line, a cool green road led to distant lands full of pixies she had never met. She wanted to see them more than she wanted anything. But the Scrub-Witch had cursed her to the desert, and every step past the sand drained her like a cracked jug. She took one step onto the stone. Her glow dimmed. Her legs shook. She fell back onto the warm sand and lay there, gasping, until her strength crept home. Three years she had tried. Three years the desert had kept her. A voice reached her from the sun-faded inn behind her. "Chasing the horizon again, little light?" Harbinge Dustworth shuffled across the leaning porch, pockets clinking. He collected dust in jars and other people's spoons in his sleeves. He dropped one jar at her feet. "The sand holds what the sand is owed. Pay it, and it lets go." Yanella sat up. "You speak in riddles, old man. I need an answer." He grinned and pointed at the ground near the inn's crooked steps. A dark thistle grew there, its petals black, its edges breathing out a faint purple mist. "The witch bound you with a living thing," he said. "Living things can be fed. Or starved." Then the thistle moved. From under its thorns darted a small brown mouse with blue-tipped paws, its long tail trailing soft light. The mouse looked up at Yanella and spoke in a thin, clear voice. "She planted that to drink the souls of trapped creatures. Yours feeds it. Yours keeps the curse strong." Yanella stared. "You talk." "I grant one truth to those the witch has wronged," the mouse said. "The thistle is the chain. Burn it, and the sand frees you. But the souls inside will rush out all at once. They will not be kind." Yanella looked at the black flower. She looked at the green road waiting past the stone. Harbinge said nothing, for once. He only slid a spoon from the porch rail into his sleeve and watched. She gathered a handful of dry desert grass. She struck two stones until a spark caught. The thistle hissed when the flame touched it. Its petals curled. The purple mist thickened and screamed. Shapes poured from the burning flower, pale and twisting, dozens of stolen souls tearing free into the night air. One brushed Yanella's cheek, cold as a grave. The thistle blackened to ash. Yanella stood. She stepped onto the stone. Her wings held. Her glow stayed bright. For the first time, the desert let her go. But the freed souls did not scatter and vanish. They circled above the inn, gathering, turning toward her. The mouse's tail light trembled. "They remember who burned their prison," it whispered. "Now they want somewhere new to live."