You traverse long distances that day, until the sand begins to shimmer in waves around you. Mirages bloom on the horizon—shifting cities of glass, rivers that vanish when approached, and long lines of travelers that disappear into heat. The guide narrows his eyes and gestures toward the wavering illusions.
—To follow those visions would mean death,— he says plainly.
You nod, silently grateful for his presence in these lands that seem shaped by no hand, governed by no rules. The silence stretches, until he speaks again, almost absently.
—When one travels these lands long enough, one starts wondering about the meaning of life. What the Bedouins like to call Asha—the immanent truth of all things.
—I’d be happy just to learn the truth surrounding me at this moment,— you say. —I feel blind and deaf right now. I don’t know what to believe anymore.
—To find your individual truth, you must first find universal truths. The Magi can help with that.
You ruminate on this. It settles in you like a seed planted in dry ground.
By dusk, you reach a wide clearing—a barren basin of sand with no stones, no shrubs. Just open space, desolate as a thought unspoken. The guide pulls the dromedary to a stop and nods.
—This is the campsite.
You hesitate, looking around. —There’s nothing here.
He dismounts smoothly and hands you a bundle: dry dung, a flint stone, and a striking iron.
—Start a fire. I’ll look for wood.
You frown. —There’s no wood anywhere.
—This is the way of things,— he replies, already walking away. —Trust the journey.
You’re angry. The words feel like riddles, masks behind which truth hides—or worse, lies. He walks farther and farther from view, and a prickling sense of abandonment crawls across your skin. You recall your friends who left you behind. Desperation blooms.
But you comply. You strike the flint, catch a spark on the manure, and build the fire. It burns pale and low, nearly invisible in the brutal sun. Its warmth is meaningless. Only the thin trail of smoke proves it exists at all.
“Just like me,” you think. “My body is the only sign of my existence. Am I really here? Am I dead already, betrayed by those I trusted? Am I who I think I am? Or am I just… a thought, like Hamlet? A being without being. What’s my duty to myself?”
You don’t know why the thoughts come so sharply now. You feel hollowed out, your mind too clear. The fire crackles faintly. The colors around you begin to shift. The golden sand loses its uniformity—now it’s transparent, a billion suns sparkling in every grain.
“Whoever said there are more stars than grains of sand has never stood here,” you think. “If our sun is precious, then every one of those stars must matter to someone. Somewhere. Only arrogance could convince us that our world is the only one to bear witness to life.”
You’re certain of it now: infinite suns, infinite lives. But in this world, under this sun, you stand helpless and undecided. Until—
An old man approaches.
He walks upside down—on the sky. The clouds beneath his feet, the suns below him. Therefore, it is you who is upside down. It is you who has misunderstood everything.
You think: The dung… maybe it contained something—some hallucinogen. But even as you reason, your conviction deepens.
The old man draws near. And then, as if showing respect, he rights himself so that you both stand on the same plane.
—Hello, wanderer. Are you lost?
—No,— you say. —But I’m looking for directions.
He smiles kindly.
—As everyone in this world is. But what if there are no directions to be given?
—Then I am lost.
—You’re wrong,— he says. —If there are no directions, there are no wrong paths. Only paths of conviction… or despondency. Which will you walk?
—I choose conviction. But honestly, I’m not convinced by your empty words.
He laughs gently.
—All words are empty vessels. You decide whether to leave them hollow or fill them with meaning.
—Fill them with what?
—With your experience. Your frustration. Your sense of duty.
—Fine. I’ll do that.
—Or… fill them with Asha.
That word again. That cursed, elusive word.
—Repeat after me, if you wish,— he says.
And he begins a mantra, slowly, reverently:
—All mirrors are broken.
—I’m looking at myself,— you echo, voice low, trembling.
—Reflected on the sand.
—On every grain of sand.
—Reflected on people.
—On every pair of eyes looking at me.
—I am with others and in others.
—And there I remain eternal.
—Alone I’m not, and I never was.
You repeat the mantra, word by word. Each line stirs something inside you, like a wind over buried embers.
The final words hang in the air like incense, curling upward toward the cloudless sky. The old man closes his eyes. You do the same.
The old man nods once, and begins to fade—not vanishing, just… becoming part of the horizon. A mirage that no longer needs to be questioned.
Silence returns—rich, not empty. A silence that seems to hum, as if the universe itself were holding its breath.
You open your eyes and he’s gone.
Not a footprint, not a ripple in the mirage-clouds above. Just the fire’s faint smoke trailing upward, and the shifting sands beneath your feet. You glance around. You are alone again.
But not truly alone.
The mantra still resonates within you, circling like wind in a canyon. The emptiness no longer claws at your ribs—it waits, pregnant with possibility.
You sit beside the fire again. The heat is no more intense than the fire inside you now—smoldering, growing, ready to consume.
You hear hoofbeats. Your guide returns, balancing a bundle of dry, splintered wood over one shoulder. His expression doesn’t betray surprise. He sees you, sees the change in your eyes, and nods.
—You’ve had a vision,— he says.
—Yes.—
—You understand a little more now.—
—A little,— you admit.
He drops the wood near your feet and crouches to feed the fire. The new flames catch quickly, burning blue at the base.
—You’re starting to see the mirage for what it is,— he says, watching the blaze. —Not falsehood. Not truth. Just reflection. Echo. The world’s own language.
You don’t reply. You’re afraid to break the spell.
You’ve changed. And he sees it.
Night falls.
Far above, the stars align.
And deep inside, you feel the crow again—not to gouge, but to guide.
The path ahead is open.
And you are no longer blind.
You ride in silence the next day, through dunes that no longer feel like a barrier but a threshold, only stopping at noon to have lunch and let the dromedaries rest. By dusk, the sky is darkening to violet, and distant lightning veins the horizon—not thunder, not yet, just a warning.
When you arrive, there’s no grand temple, no crowd of acolytes waiting. Just three figures seated around a flat stone altar, their robes indistinct, the sand swirling around them like living mist.
The guide dismounts first. You follow, legs stiff. The Magi do not rise to greet you.
One of them speaks.
—You are late,— the voice says. Neither male nor female. Ageless.
—The sky is not waiting. The Harbinger nears its apex.—
You glance upward. And there it is: three stars aligned in a perfect spearhead just above the horizon, like a wound in the heavens. Your chest tightens again, but differently now—not with fear, but with awe.
—You’ve had the dream,— another Magus says, standing. The face beneath the hood is shadowed. —The crow. The pain. The darkness.
You nod.
—Then you are ready. But before you ask your question, we must ask one of you.
The third Magus leans forward.
—What do you believe this omen means?
You hesitate. A breeze lifts your cloak. The fire crackles behind you. You think of your friends who abandoned you. Of the diamonds. Of your guide. Of the old man walking on the sky.
You close your eyes. And answer.
—I think it means change. Not salvation, not doom. A tearing open. A wound. But wounds can heal. Or they can fester. It depends on what we do next.
A pause.
Then the standing Magus removes their hood. It’s a woman, her eyes lined with silver pigment, reflecting firelight like tiny mirrors.
—Asha lives in you,— she says. —Not because you understand it. But because you’ve begun to seek it.
The other Magi nod.
—The crow is not death,— she continues. —It is revelation. A harbinger of your true path.
She places a small stone in your hand—warm, though it had not touched the fire.
—But not all revelations are meant to be interpreted by others. Some must be lived. You carry questions no star can answer—yet still, they shine.
You look down at the stone. Its warmth pulses faintly against your skin, steady as a heartbeat.
—If you wish to understand the vision, you may stay and begin the rite of Asha. The Magi can show you the deeper patterns. But not all wisdom lies in the stars. Some lies buried beneath your own feet. Even the desert does not speak to those who do not walk it.
She steps back, robes whispering against the sand.
—Choose your listener—sky, or silence.
Your guide watches you quietly. The fire flickers low. Above, the three stars of the Harbinger pulse, silent and cold.
You feel the weight of the moment pressing in.
You will walk into the desert alone, trusting neither city nor Magi, but your own growing awareness.
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