The Prophecy.......................................

You wake to the taste of dust. Not the soft kind from a road or a room—this is dry, ancient dust, the kind that clings to your tongue like it’s been waiting centuries for someone to breathe it in. Your eyes snap open, and light floods in so harsh it feels like a blade. Sky. Endless. Bleached white at the edges. You sit up too fast, coughing, your head spinning. Sand stretches in every direction—rolling dunes like frozen waves. No buildings. No roads. No sound except the slow whisper of wind dragging grains across the surface. “…okay,” you mutter, voice cracking. “I’m dreaming.” It has to be. Your shoes sink slightly as you stand. The heat presses against you like a living thing. Somewhere in the distance, something moves—shapes against the shimmer of the horizon. You squint. Not shapes. People. They crest the dunes slowly, a small group wrapped in layered cloth the color of sun-faded stone. Faces partially covered, eyes sharp and watchful. They move with purpose, like the desert belongs to them—and they belong to it. You blink hard. They don’t disappear. “Yeah,” you whisper to yourself, a shaky laugh slipping out, “definitely dreaming.” The group approaches. No one speaks at first. They circle you carefully, boots barely making a sound. One carries a curved blade at their side. Another holds a long staff etched with symbols you don’t recognize. They’re staring at you like you’re the strange one. Which… fair. A tall figure steps forward—older, judging by the way they move. Their gaze lingers on your face, searching, like they’re trying to match you to something they can’t quite remember. They say something in a language you don’t understand. You just stare back. “…I don’t—uh—yeah, I don’t speak that,” you manage, gesturing awkwardly. “If this is my brain, it could at least give me subtitles.” No reaction. The wind shifts. Then, from behind the group, a smaller figure squeezes through—quick, curious, completely unafraid. A little girl. Her eyes lock onto yours like she’s just found something she wasn’t supposed to. She tilts her head. Studies you. Steps closer. The others tense slightly but don’t stop her. She looks you up and down—your clothes, your face, your confusion—like she’s comparing you to something she’s heard before. Then she asks, clear and certain: “…is this the story man?” Silence falls over the group. The wind seems to pause with them. And for the first time since you woke up… Something about this doesn’t feel like a dream anymore.