More than anyone, old Bob helped Dan keep order. He was the one you could always rely on. In the evenings they often sat together, talking through plans and sharing whatever news had reached their ears.

  “You didn’t sleep,” Bob said as he approached Dan, who was sitting by the fire, absently drawing lines in the dust with a piece of charcoal.

  “Like everyone else,” Dan muttered. “A mouthful of water before bed does not cure the heat.”

  Bob lowered himself beside him, resting his weight on his knees.

  “Dan… people are talking.”

  “Talking?” Dan looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles heavy beneath them. “About what now? That I am not making them dig hard enough?”

  “No.” Bob glanced away. “They say you do not drink by the ration. That you have a private supply. That a chief is not meant to suffer like the rest.”

  Silence settled between them, slow and thick.

  Dan rose, walked to the water barrel, leaned over it. He wiped his lips. Dry. Empty. Even the silt at the bottom did not stir.

  “I drink the same as any warrior,” he said quietly. “Less than the children. Less than the old. I ordered it recorded, Bob. I get one swallow less than your son.”

  “I know.” Bob stood as well. “I told them I know. But words spread. Like water in sand, they keep moving. I thought you should hear it from me.”

  Dan did not answer. His face remained still, but his fingers tightened.

  “You know what is strange,” Bob added. “These rumors did not grow on their own. First a boy repeated it. Then an old woman. Then two more, word for word the same. As if someone whispers the same line into different ears.”

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  “Any ideas?”

  Bob hesitated. He shrugged, too lightly.

  “Hard to say. Maybe someone tired of standing in the shadow.”

  After that conversation Dan could not sleep. He sat beside the well, elbows on his knees, staring into the dark and listening to the slow drops falling from the stone spout into the barrel. The sound was almost nothing, yet it felt like the most important sound in the world. Bob’s warning did not feel like idle gossip. Something was moving beneath the surface, like worms in dry soil. Perhaps someone was feeding doubt on purpose. For now it seemed small, but Dan knew how such small things grew. A crack left alone becomes a split.

  He rose, ordered the guards to change shifts, and walked away from the firelight. He needed air. His steps carried him past the barracks.

  Inside, the glow of a dying fire barely lit the space. Voices were low, the way men speak when they do not want to wake the sleeping, or when the subject is not meant for open air. Dan did not slow. He had no wish to listen in. He kept walking.

  The night inside the barracks was short and suffocating. Heat lingered under the roof as if it had nowhere else to go. A few warriors sat near the embers. One sharpened a stone blade. Another checked his arrows. The talk was slow and scattered until Klor spoke.

  “I heard your wife fainted, Taik.”

  The young warrior nodded without lifting his head.

  “From the heat,” he muttered. “And because she gave her share to the boy. She will recover.”

  Klor nodded and waited a moment, as if weighing his next words.

  “Tell me something. Do you think the chief drinks by the same ration?”

  Silence followed. A few men exchanged glances. One of the older warriors gave a short grunt.

  “Why ask that?” someone said carefully.

  Klor shrugged.

  “Just curious. He is not an ordinary man. He has to think, to decide, to lead. A dry head does not think clearly. Maybe he keeps a little extra. A special reserve.”

  His voice was calm, almost thoughtful, but a little louder than before. In the dim light faces were hard to read, yet the air thickened after his words.

  “Maybe,” one warrior said at last. “But he carries a different weight too.”

  “Of course,” Klor replied with a nod. “Of course. I only wonder how it truly is. We do not know.”

  He stood, brushed at his shoulder as if removing dust, and added while stepping away,

  “People love stories. Especially in a drought.”

  He did not look back. Still, he left something behind him, a taste in the air like smoke from a fire that seems to have burned out yet still stings the eyes.

  Leadership is tested in whispers.