The throne stood silent behind them, cold and unmoving.
Tahir had not spoken since they left the chamber of stone and broken light. The so-called throne—carved of black rock and inlaid with false gold—had crumbled beneath his touch. There had been no warmth, no power, no whisper of destiny. Only dust.
Now the wind howled low across the dunes as the caravan marched quietly beneath a bruised sky.
Layla rode beside him. "You haven't said a word."
"There's nothing to say," he murmured. "We came seeking a crown. We found a grave."
Sabir, riding just ahead, spat into the sand. "I told you it felt wrong. A throne that easy to find is never the real one."
"No," Tahir said. "It wasn't easy. We bled for it. And for what?"
Amira, bundled in her shawl, stared out at the horizon. "Sometimes the desert tests us with mirages… before it reveals the truth."
Tahir closed his eyes. Her voice was too calm. Too knowing. He wondered what she truly saw in those strange, golden dreams.
That night, they made camp near a dead acacia tree. The flames crackled low. Layla tended her wounds in silence. Sabir sharpened a dagger obsessively. Amira sat apart, her gaze lost in the stars.
Tahir stood watch.
The silence gnawed at him more than words could.
He was the heir to nothing.
Or so he thought.
He dreamed again.
He stood in a desert lit by two moons. The sand was red, the sky deep indigo. And in the distance… a voice hummed—deep, thunderous, ancient.
Om'bara.
The god of memory and consequence stood beneath a veil of stars, robed in dark mist. His eyes burned like twin coals. When he spoke, the dunes around them shivered.
"You touched a throne that was never yours."
Tahir bowed his head. "Was it all a lie?"
Om'bara stepped closer. "No. It was a question. And you answered wrong."
"I thought… it would call to me."
"The true throne does not call," Om'bara said. "It waits. Until you become what it remembers."
Tahir's hands clenched. "Tell me what it is. Where it is. I've followed signs. Fought men. Bled."
Om'bara raised one hand. A gust of wind stirred the dream-sand into a shape—a great throne carved not of stone, but bone and flame, surrounded by serpents and crowned with lightning.
"This was stolen from your bloodline a thousand years ago. Hidden. Buried in shame. The one you saw was a lie planted by those who fear your return."
Tahir stared, trembling. "So… it's real?"
"It is," Om'bara said. "But it is not where you walk. And it will not accept you… unless you choose the path of ash and storm."
Then Om'bara turned.
"When next you dream, you will see the beginning of its trail. Until then, carry your fire in silence. Let no one know it grows."
The dream dissolved.
Tahir woke with his fists clenched around sand.
He looked around.
Everyone still slept.
Only the moon watched.
Morning.
He packed in silence. When Layla asked if he slept, he lied. Sabir muttered about changing routes. Amira offered him water and a glance that said she knew.
But Tahir kept his silence.
The throne was real.
It was waiting.
But he was no longer chasing it blindly.
Now… he was preparing to earn it.