I live in deliberate isolation, far from the clamor and complexities of cities, deep within the vast sands that conceal wisdom and secrets. Here, where no sound rises above the whispers of shifting dunes and the sighs of the wind, I have found peace and enlightenment. Over the years, the desert has taught me countless lessons, engraving them into my being, written in the language of stars and sand. Each rock and grain carries the history of this land, guarding its secrets for those who can listen and understand. In this solitude, I have discovered that truth requires stillness of the soul and openness of the spirit to be seen clearly.

On the night when the messenger of Queen Bilqis arrived, the moon was full, illuminating the desert like a silver sea reflecting divine light. His visit did not surprise me; I had sensed the coming of something significant for days. The winds had shifted, and the stars whispered warnings of an impending change. These signs were not cryptic to me; living in the desert for years teaches one to read beyond the surface, to hear the universe speak in the silence of the night. When the messenger knocked on the modest door of my tent, I welcomed him without hesitation. He carried a message from Queen Bilqis, sealed with her royal insignia, requesting my presence at her palace. Her words were not a mere invitation but a call for wisdom, a plea for profound guidance in a time when strength alone could not provide solutions.

At dawn, I set out for Sheba—a long and arduous journey that also became a passage through my own memories. The path to the palace was not just a trail etched in the sand but a corridor of recollection, bringing to mind stories and events I had witnessed at various stages of my life. I traversed valleys and dunes, each bearing the echoes of wars, conflicts, and fleeting moments of peace, like flickers of light in a long, dark night. These lands had seen kings and queens, all of whom believed they were eternal. Yet the sands were always the final arbiter, swallowing their footprints and preserving only the stories told around campfires.

When I arrived at the palace, Queen Bilqis greeted me with a warmth I was unaccustomed to in royal courts. Her eyes sparkled with courage, yet shadows of doubt and questions lingered, as though she sought answers beyond the bounds of logic and politics. She asked me about the "Guardian of the Sun," the ancient scrolls she had read in the temple, and the trials she must face to be worthy of protecting her kingdom. I replied, "My queen, the desert teaches us that everything has a price, and light only emerges after facing darkness with courage and patience."

As she spoke of the Guardian of the Sun, I understood her need for a deeper understanding of this ancient symbol—this sentinel that, in legends, was a beacon of protection and wisdom. I began recounting the history of the Guardian, whose origins predated recorded time when tribes lived in harmony with the forces of nature, and the sun was the ultimate ruler, the symbol of life and illumination.

In the ancient lore, the Guardian of the Sun was said to appear only when a kingdom truly deserved its protection. The Guardian was not merely a mythical being but a spiritual embodiment of balance—between strength and wisdom, courage and humility. I told her about the kings who sought its favor without readiness. These rulers possessed power but lacked inner purity, leading to their tragic ends, for they failed to grasp that the Guardian of the Sun could not be summoned through ambition or might alone.

I explained that the Guardian appears only to those with a pure heart, one that beats with justice and is willing to sacrifice for its people without hesitation. "Queen Bilqis," I said, "the Guardian of the Sun is not merely a protector in the physical sense. It is a light that guides a ruler’s decisions, enabling them to see what others cannot. It represents the wisdom gained through trials and the enlightenment that follows patience and confrontation." The Guardian tests rulers in three ways: the purity of their heart, their readiness to sacrifice, and their perseverance in upholding the truth, even in the face of darkness.

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I recounted the story of King Awsan, who, in ancient times, attempted to summon the Guardian of the Sun. King Awsan was a formidable ruler with an invincible army, but his heart was closed to the suffering of his people. When he tried to summon the Guardian, he found himself surrounded by unseen shadows—the shadows of his betrayals and neglect of the weak. The Guardian did not appear to him, and he ultimately lost everything he thought he possessed, for he did not understand that light cannot coexist with darkness in the heart.

Conversely, I spoke of Queen Maysan, who successfully summoned the Guardian because she ruled with justice and compassion. Maysan saw herself as a servant of her people before she was their queen. When faced with a great threat, she ascended the Mountain of Secrets, and there, in the silence of the desert, the sun answered her call. The Guardian appeared—not as a physical form but as an overwhelming sense of certainty, a light that illuminated her path and gave her the strength to lead her people toward prosperity.

That night, I invited Queen Bilqis to accompany me into the desert, away from the palace’s lights and clamor. I wanted her to feel the true silence, to listen to what cannot be heard in the noise of daily life. Beneath a sky adorned with countless stars, the queen sat beside me, the wind whispering softly as if revealing buried stories. I said to her, "Bilqis, the desert is the nurturing mother who never betrays her children. It reveals their true selves without embellishment, stripping away masks and returning us to our essence. Here, beneath the stars, you can sense the Guardian’s presence and understand that true light does not need force to shine—it needs a heart that believes in its purity."

I noticed a change in her expression as she gazed at the heavens. She breathed deeply, as if beginning to grasp that the desert was speaking to her as it had once spoken to me, revealing its secrets as it had once revealed mine. These moments were a turning point for Bilqis. She was no longer merely a queen on a gilded throne; she had become a leader seeking a deeper understanding of justice and governance. In the vast desert, she realized her journey was not merely an ascent to power but a quest for self-discovery and a greater purpose.

I also told her about the Mountain of Secrets, known to the nomads as the Mountain of Enchantments. I explained that every true leader must ascend its peak, where resilience is tested and patience revealed. The climb is not merely a physical challenge but a trial of the soul, a journey to see who can endure the fiercest winds and continue onward. "The desert and the mountain," I said, "are the soul’s school. Here, you learn that strength lies not in domination but in understanding, forgiveness, and the ability to see the truth without distortion."

As dawn broke, I sensed that Bilqis had changed, as if she had absorbed the desert’s lesson. I looked at her and said, "My queen, the path of light is not easy, but it is the right one. Continue to listen to the desert’s whispers; it will never fail you." With the rising sun, she returned to her palace, carrying a new light in her heart and an unshakable resolve in her spirit. She had become part of the desert, bearing its wisdom and endurance within her.

As for me, Nimran, I returned to my solitude in the heart of the sands, where the dunes always hold new stories and the stars guide me to truths unseen in the noise of the world. Each night, I sit beneath the vast sky, listening to the whispers carried by the wind, and I recall my encounter with Queen Bilqis. I know her journey is far from over—it has only just begun. She will continue her search for light and wisdom, carrying the hopes of her people with her.

The desert does not reveal its secrets to just anyone. It tests those who seek its wisdom—tests their strength, humility, and will to face adversity. With every breeze, I hear the stories the sands tell and learn something new. The desert is not a place of desolation, as some believe, but a realm of renewal, where the soul can be reborn, provided the heart is open and the mind humble.

Awaiting the next call, I remain here, continuing my prayers and reflections, ready to offer my wisdom to those who seek it. For the desert has taught me that every encounter and every experience is part of life’s intricate fabric, weaving stories that never end—stories we pass on to future generations as sources of light and inspiration.