Chapter 1: The Man Who Never Die
The desert was supposed to kill him. But Tahir Al-Mansur was not ready to die.
The wind cried across the dunes like a ghost, lifting sand into the air and hiding the blood behind him. Bodies lay quiet in the sand, already forgotten by the world. But not by him.
Tahir's robe was torn, and blood stained his sleeve. His black horse, Kasira, walked slowly through the darkness, her ears moving at every sound. She had carried him through many battles. She was not afraid now.
Ahead, he saw lights-the small campfires of the Whispering Oasis, a place where many travelers claimed the water could talk. Some said it told secrets. Others believed it echoed the voices of the dead.
Tahir touched the scroll hidden under his clothes. It was old, wrapped in silk, and strangely warm. Every time he touched it, it felt like it was alive. He didn't know what it said-but others did. And they wanted it.
He walked toward the camp.
A man in white robes stepped out from the shadows. His beard was silver, and his staff was covered with strange marks.
"You walk proudly for someone with death on his back," the old man said.
"I already carry a curse," Tahir answered.
The man looked at him more closely. "Al-Mansur… is it really you?"
"That name is buried."
"But the desert remembers," the old man said, stepping aside. "She waits for you. I hope her judgment is kinder than before."
Tahir entered a quiet tent filled with the smell of herbs and incense. A woman sat at a low table, grinding leaves. Her hood was up, but he knew her face.
Layla Kassem. Once a royal healer. Now, hiding in the sands.
"I heard you died," she said without looking up.
"I did," Tahir said, pulling the scroll from his belt. "But curses don't die easily."
Layla's fingers stopped moving. Her hand hovered over the scroll. "You know what this is?"
"No. But others are chasing it. That's enough."
She looked up, her golden eyes sharp. "Who followed you?"
"Black riders. One wore Zahari's mark."
Her face changed.
Malik Zahari. A cruel warlord who burned libraries to hide prophecies. He feared truth more than swords.
"If Zahari wants this scroll," Layla said quietly, "then he believes it's real."
Tahir nodded. "I don't care about prophecies. I just want to stop him from getting it."
Layla frowned. "Why come to me?"
"Because you still believe. And you still know how to hide things that matter."
Before she could answer, a girl ran into the tent. She was small, barefoot, her face pale with fear.
"They're here," she gasped. "Ashari riders. So many."
Layla stood quickly. "How close?"
"They're at the edge of the camp."
Tahir pulled out his sword. Its curved blade had seen many wars. "Take the girl. Escape through the mountain trail. I'll lead them away."
"You'll be dead in minutes," Layla said.
"Then I'll make those minutes count."
She turned to the girl. "Come, Amira."
But Amira didn't move. Her eyes became distant. Her voice changed—strange, heavy, like a thousand voices speaking at once.
"The sword rises… but the moon will burn before the scroll is read."
Layla froze. "Amira?"
The girl blinked and collapsed.
Outside, the wind stopped.
Then—the attack began.
Arrows flew through the air. Screams filled the night. Fires lit up the sky.
Tahir stepped outside. His sword danced like wind through fire. One rider fell, then another. Still, they came.
A blade cut his side. He kicked another man into the flames. His strength was fading.
Then pain in his back.
He fell.
As he lay in the sand, blood soaking into the earth, he saw Amira through the smoke. Her eyes glowed gold.
She whispered words not meant for this world.