The morning sun poured across the dunes like molten gold, warm and blinding. Tahir stirred beneath his worn desert cloak, the remnants of Om'bara's dream still blazing in his mind. He could feel it-not just in his thoughts, but in his chest, his bones, as if the words of the god had been stitched into his very soul.
"The throne calls to you…"
The words echoed like a desert chant.
He sat upright, breath ragged. The others hadn't noticed. Layla was already sharpening a blade in silence. Amira poured tea over a small fire, eyes half-lost in thought. Sabir leaned against a crumbled pillar, watching the horizon with a scowl.
Tahir stood and walked a few paces away, toward the jagged ridge of rocks that rose like broken fangs from the sand. He needed air. Space. The weight of that dream pressed down heavier than the desert sun.
He had seen it—the Ember Throne, forged of obsidian and flame, veiled in a forgotten hall buried beneath centuries of sand. He didn't know where it was, but he knew one thing for certain.
It belonged to him.
A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You're quiet this morning," said Amira, stepping up behind him. "More than usual."
Tahir hesitated, then looked at her. "Do you believe the past can speak to us?"
Amira narrowed her eyes. "Here? In this land? The past never stopped speaking. It only whispers to the ones who dare to listen."
He nodded slowly. "Then I heard a scream. Not a whisper."
She studied his face, the tension in his jaw. "Dreams?"
"Not just dreams. A god. Om'bara."
Her eyes widened, just slightly. "The forgotten one?"
"I think I carry more than just a curse," Tahir said. "I think I carry a throne. An inheritance stolen… over a thousand years ago."
Amira went still, lips parting in stunned silence.
Tahir glanced back at the group. "We were never just running from Malik Zahari. We're running toward something—toward a throne that was never meant to disappear."
Sabir approached behind them, sword slung over his back.
"If you're talking about ghosts and thrones again," he grunted, "at least let us know if we'll die on the way."
Tahir turned to him. "You might. But if this is true, then I can't stop now. Even if it kills me."
Sabir stared for a moment, then snorted. "Fine. Just make sure whatever god you're dealing with can help you hold a sword."
Layla joined them next, silent but attentive. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her dagger as she listened, always prepared for betrayal. But even she felt it—something in the air had shifted. A heaviness.
"Tahir," she said slowly, "if you believe this… then what do we do now?"
Tahir's gaze hardened. "We find the way. There are signs buried in this desert. Om'bara said the old city holds part of the key—'Azurah,' he called it. Forgotten and swallowed by the sands."
Sabir raised an eyebrow. "You mean the place cursed by the wind spirits? That city doesn't exist anymore."
"Then we find what's left," Tahir said. "Even if it's just bones and shadow."
A sudden gust of wind howled across the ridge. It wasn't natural. The fire died down instantly, and the air grew still—too still.
Then the ground beneath their feet trembled.
"Get back!" Sabir shouted, drawing his blade.
But it wasn't an earthquake. It was something… waking.
Out from the rock emerged a skeletal figure cloaked in rusted armor, eyes hollow with the light of ancient magic. More followed, their steps grinding against the earth. Desert wraiths—guardians of lost things.
Layla cursed under her breath. "You've awakened the old ones!"
Amira's voice shook. "Om'bara said power comes with price. These are the tests, Tahir!"
Tahir clenched his fists. He could feel something burning in his palms—not fire, not light, but a mark. A brand from Om'bara glowing faintly.
He stepped forward.
"I claim no throne by cowardice," he muttered. "If I must earn it, so be it."
The wraiths snarled—dust swirling, blades drawn—but Tahir didn't flinch.
His voice rose in defiance.
"I am Tahir Al-Mansur! Son of the bloodline you tried to erase! If the Ember Throne is mine—then I will rise through fire to take it!"
Suddenly, the mark on his palm flared like a sunburst.
A wave of force exploded from his chest, hurling the wraiths backward. Sand flew in every direction, the air howling with sacred echoes.
When the storm calmed, only silence remained.
Amira stared at him, wide-eyed. Sabir looked shocked for the first time. Layla took a cautious step back.
"You've changed," she whispered.
Tahir turned toward them, chest still heaving.
"No," he said. "I've awakened."
Sands of Memory (Part 2)
The desert wind howled louder as the sun dipped below the horizon. Shadows stretched like fingers across the dunes, and the temperature plummeted with alarming speed. Tahir pulled his scarf tighter around his face, but his eyes remained fixed on the jagged silhouette ahead—Azurah. The ruined city, half-swallowed by time, seemed to pulse with an energy that tugged at something deep within him.
"Keep your eyes open," Sabir muttered beside him, scanning the terrain. "Ruins like these… they never stay abandoned."
Layla, silent and sharp-eyed, led the way, her senses alert. Even Amira seemed unusually quiet, her steps more cautious than before.
They reached the outer walls as the last sliver of daylight vanished. What remained of Azurah's entrance was a crumbled archway, adorned with weather-worn carvings of birds, flames, and twin suns. Tahir paused, tracing one of the symbols with his fingers—it shimmered faintly under his touch.
"Tahir," Layla called, "something's not right."
Before he could respond, a guttural growl echoed from within the ruins.
Then another.
From the darkness emerged creatures—twisted things with elongated limbs and eyes like burning coal. Guardians. Not alive, but not dead either. They moved with the wind, sand trailing from their bodies like tattered cloaks.
Sabir drew his curved blade. "We fight."
Amira raised her staff, chanting in the old tongue, her voice trembling but resolute. Light flickered at the tip.
Tahir reached for his dagger—but before he could lift it, a warmth surged through his chest. His vision blurred. And suddenly, the battlefield disappeared.
He stood in the middle of a starless void.
And from that nothingness, Om'bara emerged—not as a god, but as a storm cloaked in the shape of a man.
"Tahir Al-Mansur," the voice rumbled like thunder, "you have stepped onto ancient ground. Azurah is not a ruin—it is a memory made stone. And it remembers you."
Tahir struggled to speak. "Why… why show me this now?"
Om'bara's form flickered between man and flame. "Because the path to the Ember Throne is awakening. But know this—it is not a crown of comfort. It is fire, forged by betrayal, lost in time, hidden by those who feared your bloodline."
"My ancestors…" Tahir whispered.
"They ruled from that throne a thousand years ago," Om'bara said. "And when it was stolen, so was balance. You are the last who can reclaim it."
"But I don't know where it is."
Om'bara's eyes glowed. "That is because the map is not written in ink—but in blood, in dreams, and in the trials ahead. Azurah holds one piece. Others are buried in places even the gods dare not speak."
He stepped closer, a single ember floating from his hand into Tahir's chest.
"This gift I give—sight beyond the veil. But should you falter, should you stray from purpose… I will take it back."
Tahir gasped as pain lanced through his head.
And he was back—in the sand, with the guardians charging.
But everything looked… different.
The monsters now moved slower, almost like echoes. He could see their weaknesses—cracks in their form, shimmering faults in their movement. Without thinking, he stepped forward and drove his dagger into one.
It exploded into ash.
The others turned toward him, but Amira screamed a spell that cast light like a miniature sun, blinding the rest. Layla leapt into the fray, Sabir at her side.
They fought together, swift and precise.
When the last creature fell, the desert grew still once more.
"You… you changed," Amira said, breathing heavily. "That wasn't just skill."
Tahir looked down at his hands. "I saw… inside them. Their weaknesses. It was like… time slowed."
No one spoke for a long moment.
Finally, Sabir broke the silence. "That power—it's not just magic. It's something older."
"I think," Tahir said slowly, "it's something I was meant to have."
They moved deeper into the ruins.
Inside what once might have been a temple, they found a mural—cracked and faded, but unmistakable. It showed a man wearing a crown of flames, standing atop a throne shaped like an eclipse. Behind him, a host of faceless figures bowed.
And in his hand… was a sword with symbols that matched Tahir's dagger.
Layla stepped back. "That… looks like you."
"No," Tahir replied, his voice quiet but firm. "That is who I must become."
Sands of Memory (Part 3)
The silence that followed Tahir's declaration was heavy—thick with unspoken thoughts and uncertain belief. The torchlight flickered across the mural, making the crown of flames dance above the painted figure's head. Layla stepped closer, brushing off some of the dust near the base of the stone wall.
"There's something under it," she whispered.
With cautious hands, she pushed against a loose stone. It gave way with a soft click.
A section of the wall groaned, then slowly slid open, revealing a narrow tunnel descending into the earth.
They exchanged looks—tense, uncertain—but the decision was already made.
With Sabir leading, torch in hand, they descended.
The stairs seemed endless. The deeper they went, the more the air changed—warmer, heavier, humming faintly like the low breath of a sleeping giant.
Finally, the steps opened into a vast underground chamber.
Ancient columns held up a domed ceiling etched with constellations they didn't recognize. In the center stood a pedestal, and atop it, a flat obsidian disc etched with a glowing red symbol—half sun, half eclipse.
Tahir felt a sharp pull in his chest.
"That symbol," Amira breathed, "it's tied to the throne. I've seen it in forbidden scrolls back in Kalifir."
Tahir stepped toward it. "What is it?"
Layla circled the pedestal warily. "It's a seal. Or a lock."
Sabir nodded grimly. "Whatever it is, it's protected. Look."
Around the chamber, carved into the floor, were warning inscriptions in the old tongue.
Amira knelt to read them. "'Here lies the Key of Ember. Only the one of true blood may claim it. Others shall turn to ash.'"
Tahir swallowed. "That's… comforting."
"You don't have to do this," Layla said quickly. "We can try other ways—"
"I do," Tahir interrupted. "It's part of the dream. Part of who I am. Om'bara made it clear—my blood is the map."
He stepped forward, slowly extending his hand.
The moment his fingers touched the disc, fire erupted from the floor.
Amira screamed. Sabir drew his blade. Layla rushed forward—but none could reach him.
Tahir stood in the flames, unharmed, eyes wide as visions surged into him.
A great hall of obsidian, draped in banners of red and gold.
A voice, whispering: "The Ember Throne was never lost. Only hidden."
He saw men in silver masks kneeling before a dark altar, swearing loyalty to an unseen power.
He saw the fall of his ancestors—the betrayal, the blood spilled in the sand, the throne ripped from their hands and sealed behind ages of silence.
Then a glimpse of a towering structure carved into a mountain—a city forgotten by maps, alive with secrets.
The vision ended.
The flames vanished.
And in his hands now rested the obsidian disc—its center glowing faintly, as if alive.
"What did you see?" Amira asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Tahir's throat was dry. "A piece of the truth. The Ember Throne… it exists. And we just found the first key."
Sabir's expression hardened. "Then we're not just wandering anymore. We're hunting."
Layla stepped beside Tahir. "And others will be hunting you."
He nodded. "Let them. Because now, I know what I'm fighting for."
Suddenly, the chamber began to tremble. Dust fell from the ceiling, and the murals on the walls began to crack.
"We have to go!" Amira yelled.
They turned and ran back up the stairs, just as the tunnel behind them began to collapse. The ruins of Azurah groaned in protest as they emerged into the cold night air, gasping for breath.
Behind them, the city shuddered and crumbled further, as though it had given its final secret and could now return to dust.
Tahir turned to face the stars above, the obsidian disc held tightly in his hand.
He felt it deep inside—this was just the beginning. The road ahead would be long, treacherous, and soaked in blood.
But he would find the Ember Throne.
And when he did… he would reclaim more than a crown.
He would reclaim a destiny.
End of Chapter 8