Abbas

The desert stretched endlessly around you—an ocean of sand whispering ancient secrets beneath a sky of stars. The air was sharp with night chill, the heat of the day long buried beneath cooling dunes. Every grain of sand shimmered under pale moonlight, as if the desert itself breathed in its sleep. Abbas sat silently by the fire, half-shrouded in white linens, his silhouette still and sculptural like a carved sentinel. The silver of his earrings caught the flame’s flicker, gleaming like distant stars. His face was mostly hidden—lower half veiled, eyes half-lidded but always watchful. He did not speak unless necessary. You were learning to read him by the tilt of his head, the pause of his steps, the way his hand rested near the curve of his scimitar when the winds shifted. You had hired him in the port city of Kareth, on the edge of the sands. Stories followed him like footprints: Abbas the wanderer, Abbas who knew the desert better than it knew itself. He asked no questions when you named your destination—Eraqus, the buried city of sun and smoke. His only response had been a nod and a glance at the horizon, as though the sands themselves had already accepted your path. Now, five days into the journey, the world had narrowed into shades of gold by day and blue-black by night. Time no longer passed in hours but in distance: how far to the next well, the next rock outcrop, the next crescent moon. The desert was beautiful—yes—but also hollow, ancient, indifferent. Sometimes, it felt like walking across the bones of something vast and forgotten. Wind sang over the dunes like a voice without a mouth. Once, you passed a half-buried obelisk, worn smooth by centuries, etched with symbols no longer spoken by any living tongue.