The Whispering Dunes had always been a place of secrets, but on this particular morning in late March 2036, they seemed to hold their breath.
Ahmed Khan (Aelar Thorne to the council, Abba to his children) led the small procession across the shifting golden waves on foot. The Eternal Bridge portal had been left open behind them in the orchard, a soft golden arch that now served as a casual doorway between worlds. Today, however, the family had chosen the old-fashioned way: walking from Kot Addu's edge through the stabilized leyline path that connected the Punjab plains to Elandria's eastern desert fringe.
Ammar strode beside him, ten years old and already matching his father's stride when excited. His silver-streaked hair was tied back with a leather cord; wolf-scales along his forearms caught the sun like polished coins. Zara skipped ahead, russet tail swishing, illusion patterns flickering across her arms like living henna. Liyana rode on Ahmed's shoulders, tiny wings fluttering occasionally for balance, pale blue scales shimmering with every breath of cool mist she exhaled to keep the group comfortable in the rising heat.
Behind them walked the grandparents—Ahmed's mother and father from Kot Addu, and the three Elandrian bonds: Vixen (tail tucked discreetly under a phulkari shawl), Kira (silver hair braided with jasmine from the orchard), and Sylara (wings folded, frost-kissed sari fluttering). No guards, no grand entourage—just family.
The dunes rose and fell in gentle swells, whispering as they walked: faint echoes of ancient High Human chants, snippets of Saraiki kafis, fragments of elven wind-songs. The children had grown used to the sound—it was like background music to their lives now—but today the whispers felt purposeful, almost expectant.
Ammar tilted his head. "Abba, the dunes are talking louder today."
Ahmed nodded. "They're remembering. We're close to the old sanctum—the one we found ten years ago. The Veil fragments there have been quiet for a decade. But something's stirring."
Zara spun in a circle, arms wide. "Maybe they missed us! Or maybe they want poetry again. Last time you read Farid and the sand listened."
Liyana leaned down from Ahmed's shoulders, whispering in his ear. "I brought my snow-mango. For offering."
Ahmed smiled. "Good thinking, beti."
They reached the crest of a particularly high dune just as the sun hit its zenith. Below lay the hidden valley they had discovered years earlier: wind-carved obelisks half-buried in sand, a crystal-clear spring at the center surrounded by palm-like trees that had no business growing in such a place. The air here was cooler, scented with faint jasmine and something older—aged parchment and starlight.
The family descended carefully. The children ran ahead, Ammar leading with confident strides, Zara conjuring tiny illusion butterflies to guide the way, Liyana frosting footprints so they wouldn't sink too deep.
Ahmed's mother paused at the valley rim, hand over her heart.
"Allah… yeh jagah dil nu chhu jandi ae." (This place touches the heart.)
His father nodded slowly. "Like the old shrines near Chachran Sharif. Quiet, but full."
They reached the spring. The central crystal orb—still floating above the water, unchanged after ten years—pulsed softly when the children approached.
Ammar stared up at it. "It's like a mango made of light."
Zara giggled. "A very fancy mango."
Liyana placed her frosted snow-mango at the water's edge. "For you," she said politely to the orb. "So you don't get thirsty."
The crystal brightened—once, twice—like a nod of thanks.
Ahmed knelt beside them. "This place is special. Ten years ago, it showed me visions of High Human poets—people like us, but older. They wrote verses to keep the Veil stable. Today, I think it wants to show you."
He pulled out the leather-bound book—Khawaja Ghulam Farid's Diwan—and the newer one with Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai's Shah Jo Risalo. Both volumes now had Elandrian additions: pages where elven scribes had transcribed matching verses from the ancient High Human runes.
"Poetry isn't just words here," Ahmed explained. "It's power. When we speak truth, the Veil listens."
Ammar sat cross-legged on the sand. "Like my howl?"
"Exactly. But controlled. Intentional."
Zara plopped down beside him. "Can I make illusion poetry? Like words that dance?"
Liyana nestled against Ahmed's side. "I want frost poetry. Cool and quiet."
Ahmed opened Farid first.
"Listen to this—Kafi 18. It's about wasting time on empty things."
He recited slowly in Saraiki:
"Musag malyndi da guzar gaya dinh sara
Misri khandi da vi gaya waqt guzar
Sajji kharji da vi gaya din guzar
Koi na aaya sajjan yar…"
Then translated, voice soft:
"The day passed rubbing teeth with miswak…
Time passed eating sweets like misri…
The day passed surviving on desert plants…
But the true beloved never came."
The children listened, still for once.
Ammar frowned. "So… don't waste time on fake things?"
Ahmed nodded. "Exactly. Your illusions, Zara—they're beautiful, but if they're just tricks, they're like eating misri all day. Sweet, but empty. Use them to show truth, not hide it."
Zara looked thoughtful. "Like… making an illusion of a real feeling? So people understand?"
"Precisely."
Liyana touched the snow-mango she'd offered. "And my frost? It's not empty. It helps."
Ahmed kissed her forehead. "Never empty, beti. Your frost cools anger, preserves beauty. It's mercy—like Sassui enduring the desert without freezing her heart."
He opened Bhitai's Risalo to Sassui Punnhun.
"Sassui crosses mountains for love. Thirst, thorns, heat—but she keeps going. Listen to this line:
'Sassui di awaz—Kohyari te chadhdi ae
Punnu di talash vich dil jalda ae…'
(Sassui's voice ascends the mountains
Heart burns in search of Punnu…)"
Ammar leaned forward. "She didn't give up. Like when I practice howl and it hurts my throat—I keep going."
Ahmed ruffled his hair. "That's it. Endurance. Your wolf strength isn't just muscle—it's heart that doesn't quit."
Zara tilted her head. "But she died in the end. Is that happy?"
Ahmed's voice softened. "In Sufi tales, death isn't the end—it's union. She became one with the desert, with Punnun, with God. Like Bulleh saying, 'Let ego die so love can live.'"
Liyana whispered, "So… our powers die a little too? To become bigger?"
Ahmed hugged her close. "Not die—transform. Like a mango seed buried to grow a tree."
The crystal orb pulsed brighter—once, twice, three times.
Visions rose from its surface: gentle, like memories playing on water.
Ancient High Human children—scaled like Ammar, tailed like Zara, winged like Liyana—stood in this same valley, reciting verses under starry dunes. Their words wove light bridges between floating islands. One child, wolf-scaled, howled a controlled note that calmed a sandstorm. Another, fox-tailed, created illusions that revealed hidden springs. A third, frost-winged, cooled a burning leyline rift.
The visions faded.
The children stared, wide-eyed.
Ammar whispered, "They were like us."
Zara's voice was hushed. "They used poetry to fix things."
Liyana touched the orb. "They loved their families too."
Ahmed's mother stepped forward, eyes shining. "Beta… yeh bachche vi unhi di tarah ne." (These children are just like them.)
His father nodded. "Legacy nahi—responsibility ae." (Not just legacy—responsibility.)
Ahmed stood, heart full.
"Then we'll train them right. Starting now."
The rest of the day became a gentle masterclass under the desert sun.
Ammar practiced howls—soft, controlled, reciting Bulleh Shah to keep ego in check. Each howl stirred wind but no chaos.
Zara wove illusions—truthful ones: projecting memories of Kot Addu streets, Elandrian spires, showing siblings what home felt like on the other side.
Liyana frosted the spring's edge—gentle mist that preserved a cluster of desert flowers, reciting Sassui's endurance lines.
Grandparents watched, offered stories:
Ahmed's grandmother hummed Pathanay Khan: "Eh awaz te powers nu calm kardi ae." (This voice calms the powers.)
Thalira shared dragonkin lore: "Our elders sang frost-wings across fire-veils—much like your Sassi."
By sunset, the valley felt alive—leylines humming softly, orb glowing steady.
Ahmed gathered the children close.
"You're not just powerful—you're the next verse in an old song. Sing it true."
Ammar nodded solemnly. "We will, Abba."
Zara grinned. "With style."
Liyana whispered, "With love."
They walked back toward the portal as the first stars appeared—two skies, one family, one endless story.
The dunes whispered approval.