—Wise choice,— he says, tucking the pouch into his robe. With a gesture, he signals his men. They melt back into the dunes without another word. The guide exhales quietly and returns to stoking the fire. You sit down beside it, staring into the flames, feeling the loss settle in your gut. The diamonds are gone—but the road to Zalenica remains open.
You stay by the fire, letting the warmth seep into your bones as the desert night settles like a shroud. The wind shifts, whispering across the dunes in long sighs. Your guide tosses another stick into the flames, watching the sparks rise. Then, without turning, he speaks.
—Look up.
You follow his gaze. The sky stretches endlessly above, a canvas of stars pricked into darkness. He begins to point them out—one by one.
—That cluster there is The Watcher. And to the east, The Chalice. And there, just above the crescent moon… The Harbinger.
You squint at the twinkling constellation.
—They say the stars don’t lie,— he says softly. —Tonight, they’re grim. Ominous.
You shift, uncomfortable. The fire crackles.
—I don’t put much stock in astrology,— you mutter.
He glances at you, the flicker of flames dancing in his dark eyes.
—I can tell.— Then he turns back to the sky.
—But the Magi have spoken. In three nights, the constellations will align. It will mark the beginning of something immense. A catastrophic event.
You raise an eyebrow.
—Catastrophic?
—For some,— he says. —The Magi are neutral. To them, catastrophe is just a shift. An opportunity. With proper knowledge, you can always wield disaster to your benefit. Put an enemy army on the path of a tsunami. Turn chaos into strategy.
You blink, unsure whether to laugh or frown. He notices your confusion.
—There are things that escape our reason,— he says. —Not everything must be believed. But it’s wise to consult those who read the patterns. The Magi see what we do not.
—I don’t believe in that kind of thing,— you say, brushing sand off your sleeve.
He doesn’t react right away. Then his eyes lock onto yours, steady and unblinking.
—I have been initiated in the art. I can read the current of time. And I can prove it.
You exhale, unimpressed.
—Go on, then.
He leans forward slightly.
—Tonight, you’ll dream of a massive crow, black as the void, gouging out your eyes with its beak.
You stare at him.
—That’s not much of a lullaby.
But he says nothing more. You lie down under your tent, letting the fire die behind you. Sleep takes a while, then finally drags you under.
And in the dream, it’s there.
A vast, shadowed crow descends from a sky thick with smoke. Its wings beat like war drums. It lands before you, tilts its head—and lunges. Pain. Screaming. Feathers. Blood. Darkness.
You wake up with a gasp. The fire is embers. Your clothes are damp with sweat. You look around wildly until you see your guide sitting cross-legged, watching you calmly.
—You saw it,— he says.
—The crow,— you whisper. — How did you know about this dream?— you ask, your voice hoarse, still shaking from the remnants of sleep.
The guide stands still, the early light casting long shadows across his face. His expression is unreadable, carved from silence and dust.
—Because I had the same premonition a few days ago,— he says at last. —It came to me unbidden, like a vision carved into the dark. A crow, enormous, with eyes like burning coals and wings that blotted out the sun.
You swallow hard, the image fresh in your own mind.
—And because of your skepticism,— he continues, —I knew you hadn’t seen it yet. Your mind was closed. The dream couldn’t reach you. But now…
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a murmur.
—Now we share the same dream. The same future.
You feel something tighten in your chest. A weight. Cold. Heavy. A presence.
—You’re afraid,— he says, not accusingly, but as a statement of fact. As if observing the weather.
And you are. Not just of the dream, but of the implication—of paths laid out before you by forces you don’t understand. Of a future already written in the sky, waiting to unfold.
You look away, out toward the horizon. The desert stretches endlessly, golden and cruel. Somewhere beyond those dunes lies Zalenica—civilization, safety, certainty.
But in another direction lies the unknown. The Magi. The stars. The meaning behind the crow.
Your guide watches you, his gaze calm, almost pitying.
—This is not the first time a dream like this has marked a turning,— he says. —And it won’t be the last. I don’t know how to predict what will happen, but the Magi might.
You say nothing.
You don’t speak. Just stare at the ashes. Then slowly, silently, you rise and begin packing the tent. The sun begins to rise, smearing gold across the sands. The wind picks up, and with it, the sense of urgency.
As you tie the last knot, he stands beside you.
—So… which way, traveler?
The silence that follows is yours to break.
Two paths unfurl before you like the desert itself:
—Let’s seek the Magi and listen to what the stars are trying to tell us.
—Let’s go straight to Zalenica. There’s no time for nonsense right now.
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