The sand beat down on Ibilsin’s face, his eyes half shut to shield them from the grains. There would be no travel today, not in these conditions. The winds forbade it, though some would say that Saamas dissuaded the travel with his air. Either way, he and the Qafil would not be moving until the sands rested on the ground. Ibilsin mounted his horse, grasping the reins, and rode back to the caravan.

The ride back was short. Upon his return, he saw other Sayf Alrima returning from their scouting missions as well. The camp itself was small in size; they certainly weren’t the largest Qafil that roamed the Diwa. White circular tents housed the families, while square red, green, and gold merchant tents stood in contrast. As he rode through the camp, children playfully followed him, their laughter a welcome relief from the harsh winds. He left his horse outside Sayf Abbas’s tent, trusting the children to take care of it.

Inside Sayf Abbas’s tent, he saw other Sayf Alrima providing their reports. Abbas was the only Sayf allowed to have his face known to the Qafil. Even so, he still wore the sand-colored robes that adorned all Sayf Alrima, distinguished only by a red sash denoting his authority and rank. Ibilsin patiently waited until Abbas asked for his report.

“The sand blows harshly in the east, Sayf Abbas. Travel cannot be advised at this moment, for the safety of the young and ill,” Ibilsin reported.

Abbas stroked his beard, which had begun to show streaks of white in the otherwise oily black hair. His face was worn and tired, the sands and winds having taken their toll. When Abbas spoke, his words were soft and confident, compelling those who heard to listen.

“And of the Aubuk Kafalyir that follow us, what of them, Sayf Ibilsin?”

“I did not see them, Sayf Abbas,” Ibilsin replied. “I dare to say they have returned to their cities and have abandoned their pursuit.”

Abbas nodded, still stroking his beard. “And how can you be sure, Sayf Ibilsin?”

Ibilsin released a quiet sigh. “Because I have not seen them for the last two passes of the moon, Sayf Abbas.”

“And this is where you must continue you to learn, Sayf Ibilsin.” Abbas said, placing his hands onto the table in front of him, “You see I’ve two hands, yes?”

Ibilsin nodded. Abbas then removed on hand, placing it behind his head.

“How many hands do I have now, Sayf Ibilsin?” Abbas questioned.

“Two, Sayf Abbas.” Ibilsin replied.

Abbas shook his head, “And how can, you be sure?”

“I just saw the other hand, Sayf Abbas.” he countered.

“You did, yes.” Abbas said, “But that was in the past, now it is the present, and it will soon be the future. So I ask again, how can you be sure they Aubuk’s do not follow us still?”

“I cannot, Sayf Abbas.” Ibilsin said.

“Do not fret yourself Sayf Ibilsin, you are young, you have much to learn about being a Sayf Alrima. But do not let your youth and confidence pave way for ego and complacency.” Abbas said.

“I understand, Sayf Abbas.”

“Good, do you have anything else to report, Sayf Ibilsin?”

Ibilsin shook his head. Abbas nodded and placed his index finger and thumb to Ibilsin’s forehead, muttering a quiet prayer before allowing him to take his leave. Exiting Abbas’s tent the world around shifted, the hot winds blew and stung his already dry skin. Ibilsin could smell the ginger and date soup that was cooking, along with the lamb and goat that was placed upon the spits.

Ibilsin strolled through the camp, children enamored with his robes and sword, falling in line behind him acting as if they too were Sayf Alrima. It took him only a few minutes to reach his families tent, before he entered, he turned around to see if the children were still following. Thankfully they were not. None but his family could see his face, it was the law of the Sayf Alrima, it protected their families from the jealousy of lesser men.

Ibilsin entered his family's tent and went straight over to his portion of the tent, drawing the curtain. He pulled the gray mask that covered his face down and removed the wrap that protected his head from the sun and sand. He took a few moments to fix his hair and beard as well as change out of his Sayf robes and into a more comfortable set of casual white and green robes.

Ibilsin went into the common area and saw his sister and mother lounging, his father had finished his work and was cleaning his tools, while his brother slept atop a mass of pillows. He sat down next to his mother and sister and stretched out his arms and put his head against a pillow. His sister, not letting him have any rest began to poke at his face. Her fingernail long enough to give slight discomfort.

“Yes, Nefarah?”

“Why didn’t you come with, Pari?” his sister asked quietly.

“Because she is with her family, Nefarah. Just like I am with you.”

Nefarah pouted and crossed her arms, “But I like, Pari.”

Ibilsin chuckled, “I’m sure you do, but her family also likes her.”

“Not more than me!” she exclaimed.

“Nefarah, what did I say about yelling?” their mother said.

Nefarah apologized, and his mother continued to scold her. Ibilsin took the time to return to relaxing and resting. His head swam with the words that Abbas had told him earlier, How am I supposed to know for certain we are not followed if I don’t see them following us? Is there something that I should be looking for? Ibilsin thought. As he lingered on his questions and Abbas’s words he slowly drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke, he found himself in an empty tent, there was a stillness to the air coupled with an eerie silence. There was no chatter outside, no families having late night discussions, or young men and women sneaking around the camp to offer their love to each other. Ibilsin stood slowly, taking in the surroundings of his tent, yet nothing was out of place. Each pillow, each blanket, each tool rack stood in their proper spot.

Ibilsin went to his corner, grabbing is sword belt and putting it on before going outside. The cool desert air made his skin crawl, and the emptiness of the camp made him sweat. The fires had been put out, even their smoke was gone, the animals made no sounds, not even the wind whistled through the tent city.

Ibilsin kept his hand on the handle of his sword as he crept through the silent camp. Everything was where it was supposed to be, every tent, every animal, every nail. Yet, there was something wrong. As he reached the center of town, he saw a figure in dark green robes hunched over a small fire, though this fire emitted no light or smoke. Ibilsin drew his sword and readied himself.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he called out to the figure.

The figure stood, making no noise as it did so.

“Turn around!” he commanded.

The figure did as it was told. When it turned more questions arose, the figure was as pale as the clouds in the sky, there were no features on the figures face, no mouth or eyes or even a nose. The figure put out its pale hand, palm facing the night sky. Ibilsin tightened the grip on his sword as he neared the figure. The figure spoke, but he couldn’t understand the words.

“Who are you?” Ibilsin asked.

“Your future.” the figure said, the voice was cold, “Your hand, please.”

Ibilsin closed the distance between them slowly, each step he took calculated, maintaining his readied stance.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“They are not here, for they have left.”

“How? Everything is still here.”

“This is your future.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Emptiness?”

“No.”

Ibilsin furrowed his brows, “Why are you speaking in riddles, phantom?”

“I’m no phantom.”

“Then what are you?”

“Your future, Ibilsin am Putur. Your hand, please.”

Ibilsin shook his and continued his interrogation, “How do you know my name?”

“I know all of you, I know who you are, I knew who you were, and I know who you will be.” the figure said.

“Why are you here?”

“To prepare you.”

“For what?”

“Your future, Ibilsin am Putur.”

“Stop speaking in riddles, phantom. Tell me what you want!”

“I’m no phantom, Ibilsin am Putur. Your hand, please.”

Ibilsin took a few more steps forward, now standing directly in front of the figure. He took his hand and placed it over the figures. His hand shook as it lay over the figures, yet to grasp it. The figure didn’t move.

“Your hand, please.” it said.

Ibilsin stared at the figure’s featureless face, the blank white canvas, there was nothing he could gather about it. Finally, he lowered his hand to the figures, when he did his hand burned, as if he had stuck it in the coals of a fire.

Ibilsin shook awake grasping his hand, he was back in his family's tent. Great Flame, it was just a dream. Just a dream.

----------------------------------------

The cool water rushed down his face, wetting the mask and head wrap. Ibilsin capped his water skin and placed it back onto his belt, shifting his weight in the saddle to get more comfortable. He looked at his hand, he could still remember the burning sensation from his dream the night before. There should be a mark, a burn, a scar, something. But there wasn’t.

Ibilsin shook his head and looked around. Nothing but sand and the Great Flame’s whips lashing the furthest reaches of the horizon. The sandstorm had not let up, Saamas wouldn’t let them leave the valley just yet. He kept looking for any clues that the Aubuk’s were still trailing the Qafil, and just as the last two days he found nothing. Abbas doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Those Aubuk fools aren’t following us, nobody would be stupid enough to walk headfirst into a sandstorm. Ibilsin thought, as he shielded his eyes from the sun.

He squeezed his legs together and grasped the reigns letting his horse move freely. He guided his steed over the sand dunes, trying to find anything through the blur of sand and wind. As he rode, he came upon another Sayf Alrima, he neared the Sayf and placed his index finger and thumb onto his own forehead.

“Sayf Ibrahim.” Ibilsin greeted.

“Sayf Ibilsin.” the man said, placing his own thumb and finger to his forehead “See anything on your end?”

Ibilsin shook his head, “Seems the winds don’t wish for us to know what’s beyond our camp.”

“Seems so.” Ibrahim agreed.

The two Sayf’s patrolled together, letting their horses rest every half hour. Allowing them to drink water and brush the sand from their horse’s manes.

“Sayf Abbas believes we are still being followed.” Ibrahim said.

“I know, but I can’t see any signs of them tracking us. And surely, they aren’t foolish enough to follow in a storm this bad.” Ibilsin said.

“Well, they are persistent. But I agree, none but a fool would willing walk into a sandstorm.”

Ibilsin continued to brush the grains of sand out of his horse's mane, and while his conversation with Ibrahim was enticing, his mind couldn’t separate from his dream. The empty camp, the green glad figure, the featureless face, the ominous warning of his future. There wasn’t anything about it that seemed out of ordinary as far as dreams are concerned, but the vividness of it, and his remembrance of even the intricate details made him question it.

After cleaning their horses and drinking their water, the two Sayfs returned to their patrol. The tracks they left in the sand swallowed by the winds. Ibilsin kept his eyes trained to find anything out of the ordinary, anything that might hint at an Aubuk band nearby. But as the hours rolled on and the sun began to set, there was nothing for him to see. No scouts, no tracks, no banners, nothing, they couldn’t risk using their hawks to scout or hunt for them as the whirlwind of sand would swallow them the moment they took flight.

He and Ibrahim returned to Maratek from their patrol, greeting Sayf Karim and Sayf Noomza with a finger and thumb to the forehead as they passed on the outskirts of the camp. Their arrival at Sayf Abbas’s tent was later than the other Sayfs, Ibilsin let Ibrahim go and report first, he wished to speak with Abbas about his dream privately. After a few minutes Ibrahim left the tent and greeted him one last time, Ibilsin reciprocated the gesture and went inside. He and Abbas greeted eachother, and Ibilsin provided his lackluster report to the aging man.

“Sayf Abbas, before I take leave I wish to ask a question of you, if you allow.” Ibilsin said.

“Of course, Sayf Ibilsin. Speak your words.”

Ibilsin shifted his weight from one foot to the other for a moment, “I had a strange dream last night, Sayf Abbas. One that I do not understand.”

“Dreams are not for us to understand, Sayf Ibilsin.” Abbas said, “They are cryptic omens of our past and future, sometimes true and sometimes false.”

Ibilsin nodded, “Yes, I agree. But this dream was different, Sayf Abbas.”

Abbas’s aging gray eyes looked up at him, his brows furrowed. “How so?”

“It was, vivid.”

“Some dreams are more vivid than others, that is what makes them special, Sayf Ibilsin.” Abbas said.

“Yes, but I still feel the pain I felt in the dream, Sayf Abbas.”

“Pain?” Abbas said, leaning forward.

“Yes, pain.”

“Where is the pain, Sayf Ibilsin?”

Ibilsin removed his glove, and put his hand out, “In this hand, Sayf Abbas.”

“I see nothing wrong with your hand.” Abbas observed, “What kind of pain did you feel?”

“It felt like it was burning, like I stuck my hand into a fire.” Ibilsin explained.

Abbas stroked his beard and hummed as he looked at Ibilsin’s hand.

“What would this dream mean, Sayf Abbas?”

“I do not know.” Abbas admitted, “I am merely and old Sayf Alrima. I suggest you take your concern to Eraf Samara, her connection to Saamas the Great Flame is greater than mine. She can help you far more than I.”

Ibilsin nodded, “Of course, Sayf Abbas.”

“Good, but do not go to her as Ibilsin am Putur, go as you are now.” Abbas instructed, “Her words for a Sayf Alrima will be truer than her words for her son.”

Ibilsin nodded, he put the glove back on his hand and put his finger and thumb to his forehead, “Thank you for your time, Sayf Abbas.”

Abbas repeated the gesture. Ibilsin left the tent back out in the camp. He took a deep breath and looked up to the darkening sky. The stars began to shine in dark blue canvas, the crescent moon peeking out over the horizon.

He worked his way through the tents and crowds of people. The smells of cumin and turmeric filled the air near his mother's Eraf tent. The interior of her tent was cramped, tapestries depicting Saamas and the Trial of the Sun adorned the tent walls. Ibilsin pulled his mask up higher on his face to ensure it concealed his identity.

He patiently waited for his mother to come out and allow him a seat at the center of the tent, in which sat a scale with lit sticks of incense on either side. A small box of sand sat behind the scale, in front of his mother, a small rake was placed next to it.

“Welcome, Sayf Alrima,” his mother said, her voice calm and welcoming.

Ibilsin greeted her with his thumb and finger.

“Please, come sit,” she said, gesturing to the pillow across from her.

Ibilsin crossed his legs and sat down on the pillow, his back straight and shoulders back.

“What brings you by, Sayf Alrima?” his mother asked as she began to rake the sand in front of her.

“I wish to discuss with you a dream I had, Eraf Samara,” Ibilsin said.

His mother nodded, moving the small rake through the sand in obtuse ways. “Dreams can mean many things, Sayf Alrima. Tell me about this dream you had.”

Ibilsin recounted his dream: the figure in green, the empty camp, and his burning hand. At the mention of the burning hand, he could feel a heat rising on the palm of his right hand.

“This dream, you still remember much of it?” his mother asked.

“Yes, as if it were real,” Ibilsin said.

“Ah, but it is real, Sayf Alrima,” Samara explained. “All dreams are real, but whether or not you experience it as a conscious soul is another question. Saamas knows that we are but one spark of a larger separate flames, our lives are not a linear path. Each decision, each choice you make, is your own.

“And the other choices you could have made, were made. Made by the same spark, but this spark creates a new flame. You, Sayf Alrima, have made many decisions in your life. As have the other flames that share your spark.”

Ibilsin’s mind raced as he tried to grasp his mother’s words. How can I be multiple flames, but only one spark? How can I have made all the decisions offered to me, if I am but one man? The idea of living multiple lives simultaneously felt overwhelming, almost suffocating.

“I do not understand, Eraf.” he admitted.

His mother smiled, continuing to rake the sand. “Life is not meant to be understood, Sayf Alrima, but experienced.”

“But how can I be multiple flames at once?”

“This is where your confusion lies,” she explained. “You are not the flame; you are the spark. The flames are the choices you have made, Sayf Alrima. Each flame represents a different path your life could have taken. The spark is your essence, the core of who you are, which ignites these potential paths. Thus, your essence lives in many flames, each born from a different choice. Each flame burns with the experiences of a different path, but all are connected by the spark that is you. Your dreams may glimpse these other flames, showing you the lives, you might have lived.

“Saamas teaches us that our lives are but one thread in the grand tapestry of existence. Each choice we make, each path we walk, adds a new thread, creating an intricate pattern that extends beyond our understanding.”

Ibilsin nodded, but his mind clouded with the words. He struggled to grasp a solid understanding of what he was being told. What did the dream truly mean?

“What did the figure mean by saying it was my future?” Ibilsin asked.

“I cannot say, Sayf Alrima,” Samara admitted gently. “Dreams are deeply personal, and their meanings often remain elusive, meant for your interpretation alone.”

“What about the empty camp?”

“That much is clear, Sayf Alrima. You will leave Maratek in time. You will leave the Qafil, you will change. You will not be recognized as a Bidualsham, you will be reborn a new soul in the world you find.”

“But I don’t want to leave the Qafil,” Ibilsin said.

“What you want, and what Saamas’s tapestry has in store for you, do not always align, Sayf Alrima.”

Ibilsin sat inspecting the smoke that came off of the incense. His mind swirling with more questions than answers. This has gotten me nowhere; I just want to know what the damn dream means. He thought. Ibilsin massaged the bridge of his nose.

“You are frustrated, Sayf Alrima.”

“Of course I am, Eraf.” Ibilsin said, “None of this makes sense. What does the figure of my dream mean or want? why did it burn my hand? Why am I destined to leave the Qafil?”

His mother nodded solemnly, placing the rake to the side of the box of sand. She rotated the box and pushed it toward him, the image drawn in the sand depicted a fox running alongside a wolf, stag, and cobra.

“You are the only one who can answer those questions, Sayf Alrima.” she said.

“And what of this drawing?” he asked.

“It is what the Great Flame has decided as a depiction of your dream,” Samara explained, “Whether or not it represents your future, the figure, the empty camp, I cannot say.”

Ibilsin nodded, inspecting the grooves in the sand, the intricate details she had put into the work with just a simple wooden sand rake. He gazed at the image for a few moments before standing and taking his leave, making sure to put his thumb and finger to his forehead before leaving the tent.