Everything was in order around him. King Khalid sat in the main hall of his palace, reviewing texts sent to him by distant governors. A quartet of musicians played nearby, their soft, cheerful melody weaving through the air. Incense burned in a dish of perfumed oil, its smoke curling and filling the chamber with sweetness. The scent pleased him, as did the light breeze drifting from the balcony.
From that wide balcony he could see far: the city stretched below, mountains rising in the distance, valleys cutting into the earth, and—beyond imagination—the direction of the Red Sea. Khalid often stood there, gazing eastward, wondering what moved beyond his reach.
He looked the part of an ancient sultan: heavyset, a great black beard streaked with silver, long hair draping his shoulders, his round face softened by dimples. His robes were pale and fine, silk fit for a sheikh.
The balcony doors remained open. Sunlight poured into the room, warm and golden—until the wind shifted. Stronger now, it stirred the curtains, ruffled his papers. Khalid did not notice at first, but everything began to change.
The musicians' melody bent into something strange—no longer simple, but sublime, too beautiful for mortal hands to conjure. The incense burned hotter; its smoke thickened, layered with scents of oil, resin, and strange herbs. Light grew sharper, richer, until the room glowed as though cast in gold. Warmth rose, seeping into his skin.
Without realizing, Khalid let the texts slip from his hands. He leaned back, surrendering to the music and perfume. His office melted away, replaced by a paradise of light and sound. His breath deepened, his concentration dissolved.
Still he sat in his chair, but his senses belonged to another world.
A hand touched his shoulder. A voice whispered close to his ear.
"I need to show you something."
Khalid froze. He did not know the voice. He turned—but before his eyes could find a face, the hand pointed across the room. He followed the gesture, and there, where no such thing should be, stood a gate.
It was massive, old, and ruined: a warped wooden door, rotting on its hinges, rust bleeding from its bolts. Oily handprints stained the surface, dark and wet.
Khalid assumed it must be some trick of one of his advisors. And yet—compelled by incense and music—he rose and approached. The door shuddered, then creaked open just enough to admit him. Without hesitation, he stepped through.
On the other side was a cave. Damp stone walls pressed close around him. The smell of incense clung faintly, but the sweetness gave way to moss and oil. The music faded into distance, like a festival far away. In its place, voices echoed—strange voices, rising within the cave.
He pressed deeper. Dust and ash clung to his silk robes, blackening them. The voices grew louder, beckoning.
Then he saw it.
A child lay ahead on the stone floor, no more than four years old, her body ravaged by burns. Blood streaked her limbs, her skin torn and blistered as if seared away by fire. Her eyes were shut tight, her mouth working as if to scream—but no sound came. She staggered toward him, weak and broken, then collapsed, lifeless.
Khalid stumbled forward, horror seizing his chest. He knelt, but there was nothing to be done. She was ruined beyond saving.
Driven by panic, he ran toward the voices. The tunnel opened into a great cavern hall. In the center roared a vast fire, and around it shapes moved—figures chanting in harsh tones.
Khalid edged closer, and his breath caught in his throat.
Children.
Dozens of them, cast into the fire. Their faces twisted, eyes burned out, mouths locked in animal grunts. They clawed at their own skin, tearing it from their bones in agony. The screams were endless, filling the cavern, rattling the stone itself. The stench of burning flesh drowned him.
It filled his lungs, his blood, his very soul. The images seared themselves into his sight. His skin prickled with phantom heat. He was the children, he was the fire, he was the cavern itself. He felt everything—their screams, their burning, their despair. The world swelled and crushed him.
He cried out—
—and woke in his bed.
Sweat poured down his body. His chest heaved, breath failing him. One of his wives stirred beside him, alarm flashing across her face.
"What is it? What troubles you?" she asked, fear in her voice.
Khalid's eyes darted, still seeing flames in the corners of the room. "A dream," he rasped. "A horrible dream. I must call my advisors. The meaning must be known."
At once he summoned the guards. The order spread, and soon his council assembled: astrologers, temple priests, magicians, physicians—twenty in all, from many tribes and cultures. His children gathered as well. Eight wives had borne him twenty-five heirs, and several of the eldest came to witness.
Khalid prepared himself, as always: he bathed, anointed his beard and long hair with oil, dressed in garments perfumed with spice. His presence was never less than regal. Yet when he entered the chamber, all saw a change. His face, once always smiling, now held a bitter shadow. Even his voice carried weight, unbalanced, as if joy had been left behind.
The advisors watched him with unease. His eldest son was the first to speak.
"My father, my king," the prince said, "you, who are ever joyful—how can a dream disturb you so? Tell us what you saw, for even I now feel worry."
Khalid recounted everything: the music, the gate, the cave, the burned child, the fire of screaming children. He spoke not as though it were a vision, but as though he had lived it. And when he finished, silence fell heavy.
The council whispered among themselves, debating, afraid. At last Adegueb-manak, chief of the astrologers, stepped forward.
"My king, sovereign," he said, bowing low, "this dream is no simple fancy. It must be an omen. Perhaps of the eastern campaign. Our troops march far beyond safe borders. Not even the Egyptians hold those lands with ease. Ethiopia presses its armies on the Red Sea. It may be a warning of disaster to come."
Khalid's gaze was steady, but his voice was dark. "As I feared. Yet I do not believe it speaks of war. We have never dealt such cruelty to conquered lands, nor did I see battle in the dream. This is… something else. Consider it further. Bring me answers worthy of truth."
He turned then to the flames burning in the braziers. For a moment, the fire deceived his sight—within it he saw children, writhing, mouths open in silent cries. His heart lurched. He stood suddenly.
"All death by fire is forbidden," Khalid declared. His voice cut like a blade through the chamber. "Tell General Hanna Wannous: no fire for killing. Spare as many as can be spared from sword and arrow alike."
The council was stunned. Never before had such an order been given, with war looming so close. Yet none dared oppose him. Khalid dismissed them, leaving only his eldest son behind.
The advisors filed out in silence. Among them lingered Sennir, the youngest son.
Sennir was slight among his brothers—short, delicate in frame, his dark eyes carrying something more fragile and searching than the hardened gazes of soldiers. His mother, a dancer and singer, had died in childbirth, and the king's love for her had poured into the son she left behind. For that reason alone, envy dogged Sennir's steps among his siblings. While they sought glory in battle and on the training fields, Sennir studied the arts. And in music, he was unmatched.
When the council dispersed, he pulled Sahir, one of the astrologers, aside. Sahir was thirty-five, long-haired, his beard cropped short, his robes the deep blue of midnight. He had known Sennir since the boy's birth and treated him as his own son.
"Sahir," Sennir whispered as they walked together, "I wrote a hymn last night. The words came as though given to me. I could not sleep until it was finished."
He led the older man into the music room. There, with a lyre in his hands and three young musicians joining with flute, drums, and tambourines, Sennir began to play. The melody swelled, strange and new, weaving beauty none in the palace had heard before. Sahir was moved almost to tears.
When the others left, Sennir turned serious.
"My father's dream… you heard it. What did the council truly think?"
Sahir sighed. "Dreams of death are never simple. This one was filled with pain, with children. We fear it may mean a great loss for the kingdom. But what can we do? We counsel peace, reassurance. Nothing more."
Sennir frowned. "I think it was no omen, Sahir. I think my father saw something real. Somewhere nearby, there is a place like that cave—a temple, perhaps. And children burn even now."
Sahir shook his head. "Such things are only desert myths. Savage rites of forgotten tribes. It is not possible." He paused, troubled. "Perhaps soldiers clash with something unholy even now. Spirits of the sands twist visions. They prey on kings and common men alike."
Sennir said nothing, though unease tugged at him. At last, Sahir tried to soothe him. "The stars are in our favor. Do not burden yourself. The kingdom will stand."
Sennir nodded, though doubt lingered in his chest. "Then I'll walk in the city. I need air—and perhaps music will come to me."
He disguised himself, as he often did, in the rags of a palace servant. Wrapping his head in cloth, he slipped into the streets unnoticed. Few would recognize the king's son beneath sweat-stained garb. To those who knew him at all, he gave a false name: Fahit.
The city sweltered in heat. People crowded the wells and baths, dousing themselves in water, laughing despite the suffocating air. Sennir joined them at a well, pouring a jug over his head, grinning as cool relief washed down his neck.
Then music rose.
A traveling troupe entered the square, singing and playing, their drums and tambourines ringing through the marketplace. They fetched water and laughed among the crowd, their joy infectious. Their harmonies carried something strange—notes unlike those of his own land. Sennir felt a pull. He stepped into their rhythm, singing with them. His voice joined theirs seamlessly, as though he had known their songs all his life.
Afterward, they spoke, still smiling, though unease flickered when he shared the dream—disguised as a tale of "a friend." At the mention of caves, fire, children, their mirth dimmed. No one spoke further.
Weary, Sennir returned to the palace by a side entrance. Guards, familiar with his wanderings, let him pass with relief that he had returned safely. Too often they feared the wrath of the king should harm come to his favored son.
But the palace was not as he had left it. The corridors lay quiet. He searched until he found the royal garden, where wives and children were gathered in tense discussion. At his arrival, one of Khalid's wives rushed to him, eyes wet.
"Where have you been? We were terrified."
Sennir frowned. "Why such fear? I have gone walking before."
"It is not that," she whispered. Her voice broke. "It is your father."
Sennir's stomach tightened.
"After the council left, he changed. He ordered incense burned until the air choked. Then he began screaming—cursing, raving. Servants fled. At supper, when he tried to eat, he spat the food out, clawing at his tongue, and drank wine until he vomited. Now he locks himself away."
Cold dread filled Sennir. Madness in kings was no legend—it was a fear every court knew too well. For a moment, he felt himself falter. Then he remembered the song he had shown Sahir, the one that had filled him with strange fire. Perhaps music could steady his father where words failed.
He took his lyre and went to Khalid's chamber. Guards relayed the request. After a long pause, the door creaked open.
Sennir entered quietly. His father sat on the bed, his face pale, his beard damp with sweat. His eyes carried illness, yet also something deeper, a shadow that clung to his soul.
"My father," Sennir said softly, "you should summon a physician."
Khalid looked up, his voice tired but gentle. "Do not worry, my son. I need only rest. Soon I will be well."
And though sickness weighed him, there was still warmth in his eyes, that same spark of joy that had always set him apart. Sennir saw it and clung to it.
"Then let me play for you," he said. "I made this song last night. Tell me what you think."
Khalid's lips twitched into a faint smile. He had always cherished Sennir's music, more than gold or conquest. He leaned back, listening.
The lyre's notes rose into the chamber. The melody unfurled, winding higher and higher, filling every corner like incense smoke. Sennir closed his eyes, his voice carrying the hymn with a beauty both fragile and unearthly.
And then—suddenly—Khalid rose, crossing the space in a rush. He gathered his son into his arms, pressing his face into his shoulder, and wept.