(Part II)
Salim stared to the east, where the sky was turning from steel-gray into a bleeding orange. His grandfather’s words settled inside him like heavy lead. “A debtor to the future.” It sounded beautiful, but at twelve years old, debts seem like something that only concerns adults. He wanted to believe in the Dragon as a protector, a mighty force that would make his path easy. But the old man had spoken of something else—he had spoken of the price.
“What if I make a mistake?” Salim asked without turning around. “What if I take a step the Dragon doesn’t like? Will he… will he burn me?”
The grandfather was silent for so long that the boy thought the old man had walked away. But when Salim turned, he saw his grandfather looking down at his prayer beads, slowly rolling large amber beads between his fingers.
“The Dragon does not burn you for mistakes, Salim. He simply… steps into the shadows. And a world without his breath becomes very cold and very flat. You won’t die in that exact second, no. You will simply become ordinary. One of the millions who just eat, sleep, and wait for the end, never understanding why they were granted that breath of air in the first place. That is far more terrifying than any fire.”
The old man stood up, adjusted his belt, and nodded toward the caravan, which was already coming to life. The camels grumbled deep in their throats, and men called out to one another as they packed up the tents. The rhythm of daily life returned, displacing the magic of their midnight conversation.
“Today, you will ride in the vanguard with Bashir,” the old man tossed over his shoulder. “The road to the Black Rocks is narrow. Watch your step, but don’t forget to look at the sky.”
Bashir was the exact opposite of Salim’s grandfather. Young, broad-shouldered, with a perpetual half-smirk on his face and eyes that held nothing but cold calculation. He despised legends. To him, the desert was merely a collection of dangers and opportunities to make money.
All day long, Salim walked beside him, listening to his cynical tales.
“Your old man has completely lost his mind, kid,” Bashir laughed, prodding his camel forward. “Dragons? Radiance? Listen to me: in these sands, there is only thirst, snakes, and gold. If you have gold, you are your own dragon. If you don’t, you’re just food for jackals. See that pass up ahead?” He pointed toward the rocks looming ahead, sharp as wolves’ teeth. “There is no magic up there. There’s only the right incline and the endurance of hooves. Remember that.”
Salim kept quiet. He wanted to argue, but Bashir’s words sounded convincing. They were tangible, like the hilt of a knife. Faith in an invisible protector began to melt under the relentless noon sun. “Maybe my grandfather is just an old man who wants to feel important?” a treacherous thought flickered in his mind.
And at that exact moment, the desert decided to test whose side Salim was truly on.
The Black Rocks Pass met them with a ringing silence. The canyon walls closed in, leaving only a narrow strip of sky above. Bashir walked first, confident and arrogant. Salim trailed just a couple of paces behind, examining strange patterns carved into the stone.
Suddenly, the air changed. It became dense, thick as pitch. Salim felt a strange vibration in his chest—not fear, but a low, gut-deep hum that seemed to resonate from the cliffs themselves.
“Bashir, stop!” the boy yelled, his voice cracking into a high pitch.
Bashir turned around, his face contorting into a sneer. “What’s with you, pup? Scared of your own shadow? Get over here and stop wasting time—”
He didn’t get to finish. From the very peak of the cliff, a massive boulder broke loose. It fell soundlessly, as if in slow motion. Bashir froze, paralyzed by surprise. He had no time to leap aside, nor even to scream.
Salim felt the world around him freeze. He didn’t see golden wings. He didn’t see the Dragon. But he felt an invisible, immense hand literally yank him backward behind a stone ledge, while a roar as powerful as thunder whispered in his ears: “NOT YET.”
The boulder crashed down right where Salim had been standing a split second before. Dust filled his eyes, and the deafening roar echoed off the canyon walls, turning into a wild chaos of sound.
When the dust settled, Salim saw Bashir. The man was on his knees just inches from the edge of the rockfall. His face was ash-gray, his hands trembling violently. His arrogance had crumbled right along with the stone.
Salim stepped out from his shelter. He looked up. There, where the sky had been empty just a moment ago, a golden flash flickered for an instant—so bright it made his eyes ache. Or was it merely the glare of the sun catching the scales of the rock?
The boy walked up to Bashir and extended his hand.
“Gold didn’t stop the rock, Bashir,” Salim said, with a calm far beyond his years.
That evening, when the caravan made camp, Salim didn’t ask his grandfather a single question. He simply sat down beside him and stared into the fire for a long time. Now he knew. The Dragon does not come when he is called. He comes when the world tries to shut the door on your tomorrow.
The old man looked at his grandson and offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
“Did you see him?” the old man asked quietly.
“I felt his weight, Grandfather. And his silence.”
“Good,” the old man nodded. “Now you understand. He will not hold your hand. He will simply make sure that hand doesn’t slip before your time. But remember: the stone falls not to kill you, but to wake you up.”