The Mirage
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The sky has taken a dark hue of grey. The sun is lost behind the clouds, leaving Zahara amidst a sandy wasteland. The mirage has completely misled her sense of direction and distance.
Without warning, her legs give way and Zahara tumbles over onto the sand with a thud. Her ears fill with the thumping of her heartbeat. The last shapes her eyes settle on are comfortingly humanoid, rushing towards her, as the darkness takes her.
A sharp sizzle jolts Zahara from her dream, and her groggy eyes stare directly at tiny luminescent dots scattered haphazardly, which appear quite distant. For an instant, the thought of them being the twinkling eyes of the dead queen from the City of Brass make her ball up in fear.
It’s the damned sky you were staring at, you idiot.
“Dark soon go, sun come up,” a strange voice croaks from behind, the human voice sounding almost alien after hours of solitude. Propping herself up, she faces a heavily clothed woman, probably in her sixties, her dusky, wrinkled face illuminated by the fire that she seemed to have been sleeping around.
“Oh, hello, err… ma’am,” she greets warily.
“Food cooks fast, we will eat well! There is water, go and wash.” the lady urges, completely ignoring Zahara’s words.
“Thank you ma’am,” she says gratefully. Her legs refuse to obey as she gets up, but she manages to wobble in the direction pointed out by the lady. By the time Zahara returns, a crowd has gathered around the fire, murmuring in a tongue foreign to her.
“Ah, girl! Come, come! Food is good, we will all feast!” she beckons to her earnestly.
The crowd parts, leaving a path for her towards the fire pit. She treads along with a guarded gait, the friendly stares from everyone unnaturally flustering. Her eyes land on the course laid out; mounds of bright, green vegetable salad form a ring around slabs and strips of roasted, succulent meat, topped with flavored rice like snow-caps. In the center lies mouth-watering desserts made from mashed dry fruits, flanked by urns of boiling water with what seems to be tea leaves dipped in them.
“H-how, wh-what?” Zahara gestures dumb-founded at the old lady, who replies with a warm smile.
“Sit, sit, we will all eat now!”
The grand feast begins; Zahara grabs, chews and gulps down anything she can get her hands on. After a heavy meal, she rests with her back on the sand, strangely cold and tired, her eyes start to droop…
She dreams of a Utopian world, where she rules a vast empire as a benevolent Queen, oddly, with a lamp on her lap. Her musings are interrupted by the sudden appearance of the same old lady.
“Hope you felt good with stay and rest. Your fate will change the world. ‘Ana Alshar!’. When you are in trouble, say that aloud. Help will come to you. You will be safe…”
“Wake, girl. Wake! It’s time!”
“My fate? I don’t want any trouble. In fact, I was just about to lea — ”
“I say, WAKE.”
Zahara bolts upright at the sudden command. Rubbing the grogginess away, she discerns her surroundings, and finds herself in a soft, comfortable bed in a luxurious room.
Statues, almost lifelike in their intricacy, catch her attention. A dashing man in a leather coat lined with steel plates was engaged in a battle against a three headed dragon, with only a spear to protect him from its deadly clutches. As she goes closer to take a look, she realises that the spear, made of brass with a steel tip, isn’t a duplicate, and decides that it might serve a better purpose in her hands till she determines the hostility of her environment, leaving the man to fend for himself.
A voice deep within her whispers to her heart.
There is evil nearby.
Two doors greet her on the opposite wall: the one to the left is worn, dirty and tattered with the passage of time, while the other shines with imperial craftsmanship; spotless and untouched.
