The wind above the Blood Well died down, leaving behind only a ringing in the ears and the heavy aftertaste of a conversation with the Echo of the Void. Salim walked north, toward the place where the jagged mountain peaks stabbed into the belly of the sky. He expected storms, he expected thirst, he expected solitude. But he did not expect ghosts.
On the second day of his journey, among scorching stones where even the shadows looked charred, Salim spotted a figure. A man lay prostrate, his face buried in the sand, his clothes torn to shreds, his skin encrusted with salt and dust. Salim drew his sword, anticipating a trap, but the figure did not move.
He stepped closer.
He rolled the body over. And froze.
It was Bashir.
The very same Bashir who had stayed behind at the Oasis of the Whispering Palms, choosing soft cushions and wine. But this was not the same man. Not a trace of his former pampering remained. His face was gray, his lips black with thirst, and his fingers frantically clutched a handful of sand.
Salim poured a few drops of water into his mouth. Bashir coughed, opened his eyes, and in them Salim saw not his former mockery, but a primal, boundless terror.
“You…” Bashir rasped, grabbing the edge of Salim’s cloak. “You’re here? Does that mean I’m not in hell?”
“How did you get here, Bashir? You were supposed to be at the Oasis, hundreds of miles away.”
Bashir closed his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks and washing away the dust.
“The Oasis… It’s gone. The night after you left, the fire came. Not sand, Salim—fire from the heavens. The earth cracked open. Everyone who was there… they just vanished. I ran. I don’t know how. I ran for three days without water, without a goal. I should have died in the very first hour. But every time I closed my eyes, ready to give up, I felt a warmth. Not the scorching sun, but… a different warmth. It kept pushing me. It whispered that I had no right to close my eyes.”
Bashir raised himself on his elbows, staring at Salim with a feverish gleam in his eyes.
“I saw Him, Salim. Right there, in the very heart of the fire, as the oasis turned to ash. A massive golden shadow. He wasn’t saving the oasis. He was saving… me. Why? Why me? I laughed at you! I believed only in gold and my own strength!”
Salim was silent for a long time, looking at the trembling man. There was no “I told you so” triumph in his eyes. There was only a profound understanding of the mechanics of the world. He sheathed his sword and extended a hand to Bashir.
“You, too, have met the Dawn, Bashir,” Salim said softly. “The Dragon does not choose only saints. He chooses those who can bear witness. Your life was not given back to you so you could remain as you were. It was given to you so you could see how fragile your world of silk is, and how eternal the sand beneath your feet remains.”
Bashir grasped Salim’s hand like a lone lifeline in the ocean. In that exact moment, the hierarchy of the caravan changed forever. The seasoned warrior, the cynic, the athlete—now looked upon a youth ten years his junior as his master and guide.
“Lead me, Salim,” Bashir whispered. “I no longer know the way. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Now we walk together,” Salim replied, helping him to his feet. “But remember: surviving was not a gift. It was an advance payment. And the Dragon will come to collect it when the time comes.”
They walked on—two figures against the backdrop of endless dunes. One who had always known. The other who had only just woken up. Now Salim was no longer alone. He had gained his first true disciple—a man who had seen the underside of paradise and survived to tell the tale.