Moonlight
streamed through the giant open windows of the palatial chamber - a vast room
that was enveloped in darkness. A cool breeze flowed in, gently toying with the
thin, transparent curtains that made lazy attempts to touch the royal sized bed.
The man
awoke with a gasp.
Strongly
built and bearing intricate tattoos across his broad shoulders, the bearded man
stared outside his window while trying to make sense of his dream. What he saw was
nothing like the desert lands he was presently in, or the ones he had previously
conquered.
His
dream spoke of kingdoms built upon lush green mountains, rivers that carried clear
blue water, mines that held sparkling stones, and a throne made of a strange
shine that was inviting him to occupy. On its reflection he saw himself, but
wearing a mask that depicted diabolical authority.
He wiped
the sweat off his forehead.
‘I am the true blood child of the
golden sands. Mere visions do not provoke me.’ he assured himself. ‘It will take more than that to rattle Shcyba-the-conqueror.’
“…Bharata…”
whispered a voice in the wind.
Shcyba
reached for the dagger under his pillow. “Who goes there!” he commanded to the
darkness.
“…ready
your men…”
