The Sand Prophet bowed once more, then gestured for his apprentices. At once, the youths hurried forward with his bulging leather divination bag.
He sifted through its contents, pulling out carved stones, bone fragments, tiny vials of glittering dust, and a rolled-up carpet embroidered with ancient sigils.
The throne room quieted—at least on the surface.
Tension simmered beneath every breath.
Kulibad's mother, the 12th wife, sat rigid, fury still smouldering behind her eyes. Her son, the 7th prince, glared daggers at anyone who dared look at him. Several other wives whispered among themselves, still irritated by the earlier commotion.
But all of them, even the enemies across the room, were bound by curiosity.
The Sand Prophet unfurled the carpet onto the polished sandstone floor. He placed each graven image precisely, forming a circle—a map of fate, the old sages called it.
Then he kneeled.
He inhaled deeply, pressed his palms to the symbols, and began to chant.
The language he spoke was not spoken by mortals anymore.
The words slithered, spiraled, and hummed—ancient syllables that made hairs rise and skin prickle.
A sudden brilliance burst from the graven images, casting ghostly light across the hall before fading as swiftly as it appeared. Gasps rippled through the court. Even the jesters, the murmurers, and the whispering wives fell silent.
Now, everyone watched him.
The Sand Prophet lifted his head slowly. His eyes glowed faintly—as if reflecting things only he could see. The king shifted in his massive throne, visibly uncomfortable.
"My King…" the seer began, voice low and grave,
"…a child has been born to your kingdom."
He did not even finish the sentence before chaos erupted.
Someone in the hall shouted,
"Gasp! A calamity has been born! I knew it!"
Another voice followed immediately, trembling with fear.
"Calamity children bring ruin—we won't survive this!"
"Kill it now before it grows!"
"My King, what must we do?!"
Panic swept the room like wildfire. The princes rose from their seats, wives began crying out to their guards, and courtiers scrambled like frightened birds. Nobody paid the seer any attention now.
King Sinnabad slammed his staff on the ground.
"Silence!" he roared. "Soldiers! Spread through the land. Any woman who gave birth last night—bring the child to me immediately!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Armored boots thundered as the soldiers rushed out.
The Sand Prophet closed his eyes, rubbing his temples hard.
Idiots.
He had dealt with impulsive kings and paranoid nobles before, but Sanaria's court took foolishness to divine levels.
Then two calm voices broke through the noise.
"Father," Prince Chalibad said firmly,
"I believe you should let the seer finish."
Prince Comibad nodded. "There is more to this than a simple calamity. The heavens do not speak in half-messages. Let him continue."
The hall quieted again—not because of fear of the king, but because when Chalibad and Comibad agreed on something, only fools dared oppose them.
King Sinnabad frowned, perplexed. Then he looked at the Sand Prophet.
That was when he noticed the seer's hands—raised patiently the entire time, waiting for permission to speak again.
The king choked on his embarrassment.
"Ah… yes… Seer. Proceed."
The Sand Prophet lowered his hands slowly, the faint glow fading from his fingertips. His eyes, however, still shimmered with the weight of the heavens' message.
The throne room—packed with princes, wives, officials, guards, and trembling servants—fell into a silence so thick it seemed to muffle even the torches.
Everyone waited.
Finally, the seer spoke.
---
"I believe," he began, his voice heavy with gravity, "that no matter how far your soldiers search, Your Majesty… they will never find the child."
The declaration rippled through the hall like a cold wind. Several wives clasped their scarves tighter around their shoulders. A few princes stiffened.
The Sand Prophet continued:
"And this child… do not be deceived by the trembling of fools. He is not merely a child of calamity."
He raised one finger.
"He may be your salvation…"
Then another.
"…or your undoing."
Murmurs intensified. The king's face darkened.
"It depends entirely," the prophet said, "on your first approach. Any attempt—no matter how slight—to harm this child will bring ruin upon Sanaria itself. Not a single soul will survive."
Gasps filled the room.
"Behind the child," the prophet went on, "stands thirteen generals—warriors so mighty that the gods themselves speak of them with caution. A single one of them could erase a city from the map. They are bound to the child—mind, body, and oath."
Even the boldest princes swallowed hard. Stories of the foreign generals had circulated for years, but hearing the seer confirm their existence chilled the air.
"Furthermore," the prophet added, "the child has a mother. And kings rise or fall depending on how they treat the mothers of such destined sons. The surest way to win the child is through her."
Before he could continue, Prince Kulibad snorted loudly.
"That's easy then. Father already has experience with that—just for him to woo her, and poke her with his 'instrument' like he does every week. That fixes everything."
Stifled laughter burst around the hall—muffled behind sleeves, hidden behind hands. No one dared laugh freely, but the tremors of amusement ran wild.
Kulibad basked in the attention, his chin lifted with pride at his own insolence.
The king turned slowly toward him.
Everyone expected fury—shouting, threats, maybe even an execution.
But instead…
They saw thoughtfulness settle on the king's face.
Thoughtfulness.
And worse…
Interest.
A collective groan passed through the wives' section. Several covered their faces in embarrassment. Some muttered prayers. Others shook their heads in resignation.
The king's lust was legendary—and tragically predictable.
He leaned forward slightly.
"So…" Sinnabad said, his voice low with curiosity, "how do I meet this mother?"
The Sand Prophet let out a tired sigh, already regretting every decision that brought him into this room tonight.
"You will not find her," he said bluntly. "No soldier of yours, no prince of yours, not even you, O King, will be able to locate her."
He rolled up his carpet slowly, deliberately.
"But when the time is right…"
He tied the rope around the rolled mat.
"…she will come to you."
The seer rose fully to his feet and gestured for his apprentices to gather the remaining tools.
"That is all I have to say, Your Majesty. Now—there remains the small matter of my payment."
"Of course," the king replied with grandiosity he had not earned. "The King of Sanaria never breaks a promise. Chalibad—ensure the Sand Prophet is paid generously."
Prince Chalibad stood with a crisp nod.
"Yes, my king."
The seer bowed once, then followed Chalibad out of the hall, his apprentices trailing behind him like shadows.
His departure left the throne room buzzing—fragmented conversations, fearful whispers, jealous wives, restless princes, and a king whose mind drifted shamelessly into forbidden fantasies instead of strategy.
King Sinnabad, still wearing that disturbingly thoughtful expression, rose from his throne.
"Comibad," he commanded, his voice echoing through the chamber, "order the soldiers to stand down. And hear me well—everyone is dismissed for the night. No one is to speak a word of what happened here. Let every tongue be sealed."
"Yes, my king…" the reply rolled across the hall as nobles and servants bowed and began to disperse.
But even before they cleared the palace doors, the truth was already spilling from trembling lips.
By the time the torches outside were lit, the rumor had mutated—twisting from a whisper into a wildfire.
Across Sanaria, people murmured of a child of calamity, born upon their soil.
A child who could either restore the land…
or bring its destruction.
Fear thickened the air like dust.
Unrest crawled into the alleyways and marketplaces.
Each retelling added new horrors, new exaggerations, new imagined omens.
And far, far away…
Under the protective dome that the Archmage had left behind, a newborn prince slept soundly in his mother's weary arms—tiny fingers curled, breath soft and warm.
Peacefully unaware that an entire kingdom of sand…
had already begun plotting around his very first heartbeat.