The Throne Buried in Silence
The desert wind moaned like a haunted dirge as night cloaked the Salt Wastes in layers of quiet dread. Their small campfire cracked low beside a wall of ancient stone, half-buried in sand and carved with unreadable symbols that glowed faintly in the dark. Tahir sat apart from the others, his eyes heavy with thought, his hand still tingling with memory of the strange power that had saved them.
He had not spoken much since the encounter.
Layla tended to Amira beside the fire, crushing herbs between her palms and muttering soft prayers. Sabir slept lightly with a breadknife under his pillow, and the camels shifted anxiously, ears twitching.
The desert was too still.
Tahir closed his eyes, hoping to rest. But what came was not peace.
It was a vision.
A dream-but deeper than any dream he had known.
In the Dream
The sky above was black and red, swirled like smoke caught in a jar. Tahir stood barefoot on cracked ground that bled golden light from beneath. The air buzzed-not with heat, but with voice. Whispers. Laughter. Screams. Chants.
Before him, the dunes twisted and rose like breathing beasts, and from their center emerged a figure draped in wind and shadow, wearing a cloak that moved like flame and smoke. Eyes that held galaxies, voice like a forgotten drum.
Om'bara.
He towered like a god and yet stood like a man.
"You retrn," the being said. "Or perhaps... you awaken."
Tahir tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. He felt naked—seen—as if this being could reach into every thought and memory he had ever tried to bury.
"Who… who are you?" he finally managed.
Om'bara stepped closer. "I am wind given memory. Fire that chose to wait. I am older than the throne you do not yet remember, Tahir Al-Mansur."
"The throne…?"
Om'bara nodded. "Buried in silence. Hidden by betrayal. Lost not by fate—but by fear. Your bloodline once sat upon it, uniting the dunes and sky. But power draws envy, and envy drew steel. The throne was broken, scattered, cursed. Forgotten."
Tahir's heart pounded.
"Why are you showing me this?" he asked.
"Because you must remember," Om'bara said, voice now layered with ancient sorrow. "The Ember Throne awaits its rightful heir. It calls for the blood that was cast away. For a king born not in palace but in fire, exile, and purpose."
Tahir shook his head. "I'm no king."
"You are what the sand remembers," Om'bara whispered, eyes glowing brighter. "And what the sky fears."
With a wave of his hand, the ground cracked and opened. Beneath the earth, golden stairs spiraled downward into blackness. Flames lit without fire.
"There lies your path. Not just to power—but to truth. But know this…"
The world trembled.
Om'bara's form shimmered—once a god, now a judge.
"If you misuse the gifts given to you… I will take them back. I give power not to feed pride, but to fulfill destiny. And if you stray, you will face me again. Not as a guide—but as your final test."
The sky split. Thunder rumbled from beneath the sands.
"Go now. Wake. Walk the path. And beware…"
The winds howled around them.
"…you are not the only one seeking the throne."
Waking
Tahir gasped awake.
Sweat poured from his body as if he had run for days. His hands trembled. The wind outside had picked up, swirling the sand in strange circles.
Amira sat nearby, eyes wide.
"You saw him… didn't you?" she said quietly.
Tahir stared at her. "You know?"
She nodded slowly. "I saw him once. As a child. He gave me words I couldn't understand. Visions I couldn't explain. But I think… he chose you."
Tahir stood shakily. "He said there's a throne. An ancestral throne. Mine. But lost."
Layla stirred beside the fire. "What throne?"
He looked at them, each word heavy with awakening.
"He called it the Ember Throne. Said my bloodline once ruled. That it was taken. Hidden. Cursed. And I'm meant to find it. Reclaim it."
Sabir sat up from his bedroll, alarmed. "A throne? You sure this wasn't a heat-fever?"
"No," Tahir said. "It felt more real than anything."
Layla's face paled. "Om'bara appeared to you in a dream? That's not just magic. That's… divine. Sacred."
Amira closed her eyes. "It means the stories are true. The scroll. The symbols. The dream. Everything is connected."
Sabir frowned. "If there's really a throne out there that can make someone ruler of all the tribes… Malik Zahari is not just chasing power. He's trying to erase you."
Silence fell around the fire.
The truth weighed on them all.
Later That Day…
They traveled quietly under a blood-orange dawn. The desert had changed. The silence now held breath—like something was waiting beneath the sand. Even the sky seemed to watch.
Tahir walked ahead, more focused than ever. His fear had not vanished. But now, it was braided with something else:
Purpose.
They passed ruins lost to maps, bones of cities swallowed by time. The scroll seemed warmer with every step—as if drawing closer to its destiny.
Sabir finally spoke. "If this throne exists… then it will be guarded. Cursed, maybe."
"I don't care," Tahir said. "If it's mine by right, I will face whatever waits."
"And if it turns you into something else?" Sabir asked. "Power has a way of rewriting men."
Tahir paused.
"If it does… then I trust Om'bara will stop me."
Amira looked up at him. "You don't understand. This isn't about becoming king of the dunes. It's about restoring a balance the world forgot. The throne is not just power. It's a burden. It was hidden because it was too much for any one man."
Tahir stared ahead, into the shifting horizon.
"Then I will not seek it for myself. I'll find it… because no one else must."
Layla reached out, touching his arm. "We'll help you. Whatever comes."
He nodded.
And as they walked on, the desert seemed to whisper again—but this time, not with threat.
But with memory.