On a dark night, when the moon was new and the air was still, Ja’far and his twelve men rode across the desert. Whipping the reigns, their camels and horses galloped faster. Sand caught the hooves then burst into the air. He tucked his shemagh tighter to protect his face from the sand that stung like hot needles in his eyes and against his flesh.

Ducking low, his lengthy cloak caught the wind, thrashing behind. Time was running out. Agrabah didn’t have long. Across the dune crests and down the flanks they raced, faster and faster until Ja’far saw it standing alone.

It was a figure all in black, blending into the night. Ja’far only noticed it because of the purple mist swirling from its almond-shaped eyes.

Like a mirage, it didn’t appear to move, yet as fast as Ja’far and his men traveled, they could not reach it. The Seer had been right about this. Their instructions were clear: to follow but never grasp.

Long into the night, they went, following the spirit’s glowing eyes down the dunes and into valleys, until their guide vanished in a puff of purple, sparkling sand.

They had arrived. Ja’far raised his torch and swung it to the side, halting his men.

Ja’far was the first to dismount his horse, eager and confident.

The others were reluctant.

Everything was silent. The desert had a way of smothering the natural symphony of life, suffocating even the faintest whispers. They were now distant from Agrabah, trapped in a desert valley encircled by dunes that loomed ominously, threatening to engulf them if they let their guard down. They were left vulnerable, at the mercy of the deadly sands.

Despite the darkness, Ja’far and Navid could see the worry reflected in their expressions.

Navid was Ja'far's head guard. He had a tough, imposing build. Slightly shorter than Ja'far, with a tough muscled physique. His shoulder-length dark hair was tucked behind his ear. He had a long scar that slit his left brow to the center of his sharp, angular cheek. Ja'far thought it made him look tough and indimidating on his stony, almost expressionless face. But there was passion in his eyes. Especially when he caught Ja'far eyeing him.

The other guards eyes darted around, flinching back to Ja'far as they waited for his command.

“The travelers say this place is cursed,” Navid said. “Daevas possess one’s body to corrupt him so that he may not be blessed by Allah.”

The warm, dry desert air filled Ja’far's lungs as he took a deep breath. It was unlike Navid to be superstitious, but that was before Navid had seen Ja’far’s magic and the Seer of the Sand’s apocalyptic warning. Beneath Ja’far’s shemagh, his skin had begun to perspire, his sweat causing him to feel itchy in his beard, under his armpits, in his groin. Wearing lighter clothing in the desert, where temperatures could freeze in minutes and sand could strip flesh from bone, would have been unwise. The Seer had warned him to stay protected. Only now that he was here, where a strangeness overwhelmed him, did he understand that there was more to the Seer’s warning that he had foreseen. Midnight would soon be upon them. There was no time to discuss daevas.

“They’re afraid,” Navid said. “There are terrible, evil things out here.”

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“There are,” Ja’far responded. “That’s why we’re here.” He turned around, gazing at the night-shrouded desert where dunes rose like colossal waves in a black, wrathful, and tumultuous ocean.

Ja’far sensed the eerie presence of magic enveloping them, unlike any he had encountered before. This was dark magic. It flowed around them, a buzzing vibration in the air, that emanated from within the sand. He looked over Navid’s shoulder to observe the eleven other guards as they peered into the desert with a dubious countenance, then to his assistant, Iago. Iago had dismounted his horse and was padding the inside of a satchel to hide and protect the artifact they had come for.

With some encouragement and reassurance, the guards, supposedly the finest in the kingdom, remained dubious but complied with Navid’s orders.

Iago brought with him the satchel made of a strong oryx hide lined with wool and silk and stood one shoulder behind Ja’far. “The moon is new and the night wears on. We haven’t but an hour ‘till midnight,” Iago warned. He shuffled by.

If a rhinoceros was ever bumbling, Iago was preposterous. He was hefty at the waist and chest with short, stubby legs that bowed slightly at the knees which caused him to shuffle wherever he went. His rugose face was lousy with pockmarks and the shape of his head was like that of an autumn gourd. Despite his unsightly appearance and raspy voice, his bumptious mien seemed a better fit for a handsome intellect who possessed an abundance of wealth and an inadequate supply of modesty.

“Should you not find it, there is another way,” Iago’s voice trailed up at the end in a way that indicated he was anticipating Ja’far’s piqued curiosity.

The princess, known for her discerning nature, had once again declined a suitor. The ibn il-homaar, unlike the previous one, had left for good after her rejection, signaling a shift in Agrabah's political landscape.

Ja’far regarded Iago with a mix of curiosity and disdain. It resonated with Ja’far that Iago would mock the princess's latest suitor, calling him the son of a donkey. The prince was a man with uncouth behavior much like his father, the King of a minor African kingdom.

Iago chuckled, “That ravenous little beast of hers sank its teeth into his rear end and almost ripped his leg off. King Donkey will certainly have a fit.”

Ja’far scoffed at Iago, a gesture of disdain. “Do not dare suggest my failure, you wretched being, or I will hand you over to the deava’s and witness them rid you of your pitiful existence. The Seer of the Sands has guided me to this place. The Seer is never wrong.”

“We have but one hour,” Iago said again with more urgency.

Ja’far lowered his head, the shadows deepening in his dark amber eyes. “Mark my words, your eagerness will wane when the hour strikes, and the true peril reveals itself.”

The guards stood in a tense silence, their gaze fixed on the encroaching darkness that enveloped the desert, almost as if the night itself crept closer with a curious hunger for intruders. They shifted their weight restlessly, some instinctively reaching for the hilts of their scimitars, poised for any sudden threat that might emerge from the shroud of darkness. As several tense minutes slipped by, a sharp metallic echo pierced the air—a swift whoosh followed by a stifled, ominous gurgle, shattering the stillness of the night.

The guards looked around, each of them withdrawing their scimitars while their wide eyes searched among themselves, ten of them in count.

“Where’s Malek?” a guard asked.

The guards looked to where the missing guard had been standing among them when the metallic swipe of the blade sounded from behind them.

“Tevo?”

Nine remained. Their hands trembled. Beads of sweat formed on their face. They swiveled about defensively in half-circles like a flock of flamingos worrisome of predators rather than properly skilled Agrabaian palace guards.

Navid's hand rose, commanding the men to hold their breath and stand motionless, as he glided through them like a coiled asp, poised to strike at the faintest hint of disturbance.

It had been dismembered in a single clean swipe.

Beside the leg, Malek's severed head lay, still blinking, its mouth opening and closing as if warning them of what was to come.

“Sand furies!” cried one of the men.

And then there were eight men remained, facing the looming threat of the sand furies.