The Wanderer

I can’t breathe.

The desert sun’s searing glare overwhelms my vision, rendering me momentarily sightless. Swirling crimson sands envelop me, veiling a few objects just a short distance away. Amidst this storm, the distant echo of approaching horse hooves reverberates through the arid expanse.

I make an attempt to raise my arm, intending to shield my eyes from the relentless sun, but an unexpected weight in my hand halts my motion. Glancing downward, I see my hand clutching a familiar dagger. Its hilt, wrought from the finest materials, gleams with the richness of gold and is encrusted with a dazzling array of precious gemstones, each one meticulously set to create a breathtaking tapestry of color and brilliance.

However, the blade, never intended to see battle, glistens ominously with a sheen of fresh blood.

My family’s treasured heirloom.

The sound of the hooves is growing steadily louder. Within the rhythmic undulations of the swirling sands, the previously concealed shapes gradually emerge into view. Strewn across the desert floor are dismembered bodies, their attire bearing the distinctive colors and insignia of my kingdom—these are my soldiers. My instincts drive me to lurch forward, but I abruptly freeze in place, arrested by the piercing cry of a child that slices through the billowing wind.

“Mama, please!”

Grasping the frayed edge of my own tattered gown, I discover a young boy sobbing by my side, barely more than a toddler in age. Draped across his delicate frame, a small silk robe hangs, as though he had been transported here in the embrace of slumber. Despite the bloodstains marring the fabric, an air of innate royalty is apparent. I reel away from him, bewildered at this child I had never seen in my life addressing me as his mother.

The thunderous clatter of hooves abruptly ceases beyond my line of sight, and I pry my eyes away from the boy to see the shadowy silhouette of a horse rearing up on its hind legs, bearing its rider. Though the blowing red sand continues to obscure my sight, my arm acts independently, lifting and positioning the dagger in a defensive stance.

The rider points a spear in my direction, the wooden staff as dark as a moonless night, while the tip is as glaring as the sun. He slowly raises his other hand high, fingers entwined in the dark locks of a severed head.

I scream with rage as he charges towards me.

---

I can’t breathe.

Suddenly, I jolt awake, dread still clutching at my heart, and I sit up abruptly, my forehead bathed in a coat of cold sweat. Was it just a dream? I ponder, skepticism clinging to my thoughts. But deep within, an unsettling certainty gnaws at me—no, it felt far too vivid, too hauntingly tangible to be relegated to the realm of dreams. A warning.

Why can I still not breathe?

Smoke. In a haze, I rise from my bed and make my way towards the balcony of my chambers. A harrowing sight unfolds before me – towering infernos engulfing homes and buildings, and the anguished cries of my people split the air. The war has finally come to our doorstep.

The doors to my chambers swing open violently, and a surge of my servants and the King’s guards flood in. My handmaiden, Farah, appears visibly pale, but she swiftly pivots toward the soldiers and hisses, “Avert your eyes! The princess requires her privacy to dress.”

Once the soldiers obediently avert their eyes, Farah retrieves my gown. As she assists me, I implore her, “Please, tell me what is going on.” Without raising her gaze, Farah whispers, “It’s dire, Your Highness. The Clan… they ambushed us. The attacks on the eastern front were a diversion. They’re advancing onto the palace. We’re holding the walls for now, but time is running short.”

“What about the commoners?” I can see the tears well up in her eyes. Farah’s family lives in a small home just beyond the palace walls. “I don’t know,” she manages.

With the final pin securely in place on my dress, she turns me around and looks directly into my eyes. With a newfound sense of authority that contradicts her usual timidness, she says, “Your father still will not see. Sahra, you must help him see.”

I nod, but my mind is already elsewhere. I can feel a tightness closing in around my heart as the realization that there can only be one person capable of leading our defensive efforts dawns on me. Azad.

“I know who you’re thinking of, princess.”

A familiar and repulsive voice sends shivers coursing down my spine. I snap in its direction, my eyes drawn to a figure emerging from the shadows cloaked by the entryway. His hair clings to his scalp in an unattractive, greasy manner, and the brilliance of his silver chainmail gleams almost blindingly in the ascending sun. “Your lover is out there, and he won’t return,” he snarls.

Farah intervenes, “How dare—”

“Do NOT speak to me, slave, or I’ll have your tongue ripped out.” With Farah now cowering behind me, Ramin advances, his demeanor akin to a beast closing in on its quarry. Despite his exalted role as the Commander of the King’s Guard, he shamelessly exploited his authority, earning a reputation for his womanizing tendencies and overbearing arrogance. Moreover, his burning desire was to take me as his wife, securing his status as the heir apparent, and ultimately, to bed me. I highly doubt the sequence concerned him at all.

Ramin finally stopped, his chest inches away from my face. I tilt my head upward, meeting his eyes with a steely determination. “Don’t you dare speak of Azad,” I seethe, my teeth clenched in anger. He sharply turns away from me, his blood-red cape batting roughly against my face.

“Of course, I would never speak ill of your whore, princess,” he sneers. “The Sultan orders you to be ushered to throne room. The ministers and their families are already present. But for some reason, your father waits for… a girl’s input.”

“Maybe that’s why he wears the crown, and you’ll forever kneel at our feet,” I retort boldly, not giving him a chance to respond. I seize Farah’s hand and stride out of the chamber, the soldiers falling into formation behind us, while Ramin trails at the rear.

As I make my way down the hallway, my heart races. Azad, please survive. Please come back to me.

---

The guards swing open the imposing doors to the throne room, and as we step inside, my accompanying soldiers fan out, forming two neat columns that encircle the vast chamber. The advisors and their kin part to clear a path for me as I make my way toward the foot of the stairway ascending to the throne.

Ramin is heaving as he finally catches up to me, his face red from the effort of running with his heavy armor. “You’re last, boy,” booms my father’s voice above me. I look back at Ramin mockingly, and he glowers back, but says nothing and bows his head.

Looking up, I find my father seated atop the grand staircase, his dark throne contrasting the well-worn steps. Time had taken its toll on him, hunching his frame under the burdens of decades spent ruling the kingdom. Despite the physical frailty of age, his brown eyes showed kindness towards me, while the sun-kissed wrinkles on his face added a touch of grace. He was a benevolent father, yet such benevolence did not define his rule. His reign bore the scars of controversy, marked by an insatiable hunger for conquest despite the pleas of his ministers.

Beside him stands a pedestal upon which rests the crown, gently cradled by a plush pillow. Unintentionally, I recoil at the mere sight of it. The crown is a breathtaking work of art, sculpted from the rarest obsidian and adorned with an array of exquisite gemstones. Yet, it exudes an aura of ancient, commanding power. Since my earliest childhood, I’ve found it difficult to fix my gaze upon it for too long, and I rarely witness my father wearing it. Today, it might be a play of light, but it almost seems as though the crown is drawing all the surrounding shadows towards itself.

My father raises his hand in a beckoning motion, and the throne room is filled with the outcry of overlapping voices pleading their case. Some call for a truce, some call for retaliation. Ramin leads the ones that call for a strategic escape and to cut our losses with those that are fighting at the walls.

My father remained steadfast, his weary form slumped in his seat, his gaze fixed downward at his feet. He was not registering anything that was being said, almost as if the decision had already been made and he was helpless to change it. Now it is my turn to raise my hand, and subsequently the chatter dies down.

“Father.” His eyes flutter up, as if it pains him to do so. “Call for a truce. Let the fighting end. Our people, our dynasty will die today if you refuse.”

However, his penetrating stare isn’t directed at me; it’s fixed on something far behind me. I turn to see what has captured his attention, but the sight that greets my eyes is nothing short of horrifying, and I must summon every ounce of self-control to stifle the scream threatening to escape my throat.

There, in the doorway, stands Azad, his once-vibrant armor now decorated in a grotesque mosaic of blood. His eyes, which were once familiar and full of warmth, now gleam with a wild, unsettling intensity. His voice, strained and hoarse, cuts through the silence as he croaks, “Listen to her. Free us from this hell.”

The atmosphere in the chamber grows heavy and Azad’s sudden appearance perplexes everyone in the court, leaving me to grapple with a barrage of questions.

“I will no longer fight for you. I have cut down hundreds of men and have seen hundreds of mine die. End this.” He points his blade at my father. I am paralyzed.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my father stirring. The exertion seems to weigh heavily upon him, almost causing him to limp as he makes his way toward the grand pedestal. Time itself appears to slow, as the Sultan places the crown upon his head, and I observe a transformation unfold before my eyes. His once warm, brown eyes turn eerie white. The sun-kissed wrinkles on his face, elegant a moment ago, now contort into grotesque scars. The hunch in his back straightens, and the frailty that marked his form gives way to an inexplicable surge of power, as shadows seem to materialize beneath his feet, creeping outward like tendrils of darkness.

As if entranced, he utters a single, haunting word, “No.”

My response is agonizingly delayed. Azad unleashes a primal, guttural scream and springs forward. Chaos erupts as the King’s Guard collapses upon him, a frantic scramble of soldiers surging toward the throne’s staircase in a desperate attempt to shield the Sultan. Ramin, sluggish in his movements, tries to confront Azad, but he is swiftly disarmed and knocked unconscious with a resounding thud.

Azad, an unrelenting force of destruction, proceeds to methodically carve his way through the soldiers, his eyes unwaveringly fixed upon my father. Each decisive strike cleaves through the ranks of the King’s Guard as he ascends the staircase, his progress marked by a grim trail of fallen men. The room bears witness to the horrifying aftermath, with the remnants of the Sultan’s protectors strewn about in macabre disarray, their blood pooling beneath them, a stark testament to the savagery that has transpired.

Frantically I race up the steps in Azad’s wake, begging him to stop. I can hear my father’s hushed whisper to Azad, a cryptic plea, “Free me.”

In a blur, Azad’s sword slices through the air in a swift, horizontal arc. The Sultan’s eyes dim, and his head begins its slow descent, cut cleanly from his shoulders. Azad discards his weapon, its task complete, and with a grace that defies the grimness of the moment, he snatches the crown from the air before the severed head hits the ground.

Turning to face the room, Azad’s demeanor takes a disturbing turn. His attention seems inexplicably riveted to the crown cradled in his hands. To the astonishment of all present, he raises the crown and places it upon his own head.

His once-beautiful eyes transform into an eerie, otherworldly white. Scars appear like cracks of glass onto his face in a grotesque pattern. The room grows dimmer, the shadows deepening as if in response to his newfound power. Azad’s unsettling smile emerges, casting a sinister aura as he gazes upwards, his arms outstretched. He never turns to look at me, but with a bone-chilling determination, he declares, “He was right. The war should not end.”

He shifts his attention towards the inferno consuming our kingdom, and in that moment, I make a startling realization—I now know the identity of the rider from my vision.

“You don’t understand,” Azad murmurs, as he grows increasingly distant. “Heavy lies the crown.”