Beneath the Eastern Sands: Claimed by the Sultan

Once upon a time long ago, almost forgotten by all, there lived a people of musicians, acrobats, and artists of every kind in a land so rich ,the richest in all the desert. This people were called the Ilis and their land was Elitera. They knew neither hunger nor thirst, neither war nor hate. Their oasis offered the purest water, their fields yielded two harvests a year, and their skies were never darker than a night veil sprinkled with stars. They lived in peace, open to others, generous with their wealth and knowledge alike. Elitera welcomed all peoples seeking a gentler life. All you had to do was wish for peace, and Elitera would open its arms to you. But that peace had a price. And that wealth, a hidden poison. For Elitera was prosperous, yes , but also naïve. It believed that hospitality alone could disarm greed. It thought friendship could hold back the ambition of the powerful. It was mistaken. Soon enough, it caught the eyes of neighboring kingdoms and most of all, Teran, once a miserable realm that the Eliterian themselves had helped build, feed and protect. It was Teran that betrayed them. They came as allies. They stayed as invaders. And when they raised their spears against Elitera, it was no longer a war. It was a m******e. They set the city ablaze. Palaces fell, fountains were poisoned, temples desecrated. More than half the people were slaughtered in less than a month. The few survivors had to choose between submitting to Teran’s rule or fleeing across the burning dunes. Thus disappeared Elitera the joyful, the peaceful, the too trusting. And the Ilis, scattered, hunted, silenced, lost everything but their memory. A hundred years passed. A hundred years of sand and exile. And from the original Ilis, only a single nomadic troupe remained .A handful of wandering souls, saltimbanques, artists by necessity. They were barely thirty souls. A flickering flame in the wind. But the legacy was visible in every feature, in every gaze: Curly golden hair, like wheat and fire. Honey-colored eyes, so clear they seemed to capture the desert light. That was the mark of the true Ilis. The living memory of a vanished people. And among them was Amara. Child of the desert, Amara had never known any life other than that of hot sand, shifting roads, and starry nights. Daughter of saltimbanques, she belonged to a nomadic troupe of about thirty individuals : dancers, jugglers, musicians, storytellers. They all lived by art, effort and sometimes charity. They called themselves the Ilis. And they knew. All of them. They knew they were born from this land. That the blood in their veins had once watered the streets of Elitera: a kingdom of lush gardens, abundant waters, and light blessed by the gods. They knew that before being desert wanderers, they were children of an empire. But Elitera had been torn apart by wars. Back then, they fought for the oasis, for the palms that fed three kingdoms, for the fertile land in the midst of the void. Dozens of thrones coveted this jewel, and when no throne remained to defend, only ruins were left. So the Ilis fled. The luckiest took refuge in other realms. The rest, like Amara’s family, became nomads. Amara grew up among songs and caravans, in the arms of a mother who braided her long curly hair while whispering ancient chants, and a father who repaired musical instruments as if they were sacred. She was not a prisoner of this life. She did not dream of another. It was all she knew. And in that little, there was abundance. The days in the desert all looked the same : dust, light, and silence. But Amara danced. Even when the wind howled, even when their beasts collapsed from exhaustion, she danced to forget that she was hungry, that her sandals were worn through, and that her dreams , broader than the dunes, had nowhere to go. Her troupe numbered about thirty souls : musicians, acrobats, snake charmers, and a few mothers with hoarse voices. They moved slowly, dragging creaking wagons, living with little and often begging. The desert gave no gifts. It gave just enough to survive, never enough to hope. But there was beauty in this misery. A raw kind of freedom, torn and proud. They were children of the sand, ignored by the mighty, bound by instinct and by love. And Amara, among them, shone like a forbidden light. She was born in that caravan, beneath a tent pierced by stars. Her parents, exhausted artists, had never known any other life. She had two brothers, all with nimble fingers and hollow stomachs. As soon as she could walk, she was taught to dance. Her grace was their greatest wealth. And at twenty, Amara had become one of the troupe’s financial pillars. Her first steps had been between two rattling wagons, her first song a flute melody played at twilight, her first dress sewn with beads and ribbons to dance in village squares. She had never known city walls or the comfort of a fixed home. Yet she grew tall, sharp-minded, and clear-eyed. The troupe’s life was neither soft nor harsh, it was simply theirs. They traveled from village to oasis, performing at markets and merchant camps, sometimes begging when food was scarce. But they never bowed their heads. They were the last Ilis. And even if kingdoms had forgotten their name, they never forgot where they came from. On full moon nights, tales of Elitera were still told like the grand festivals, the balls under hanging lanterns, the hanging gardens where women grew mint with their bare hands. Amara listened, always silently, her eyes shining. But she did not dream of those things. She held no nostalgia. It was just there. A memory. A whisper in her blood. She lived her life like one dances to a music not chosen but that beats just beneath the skin. Amara was slender, elegance in the simplest gestures, a soft voice seldom offered. Eyes rich with honey, unsettling more than one. She spoke little, observed much. At twenty, she was beautiful but with a beauty that sought not to please, but rather to unsettle, without intention. Then one day, a merchant came. A lean, hurried man, his turban full of sand, lips cracked. He brought no fabric, no new goods. He brought a name. The king Zedd. A name that silenced even children, straightened the bowed necks of adults, and rooted Amara to the spot. Zedd, Sheikh of a distant kingdom, had united the desert lords. By war, yes but also by oath. And what no one had achieved in a hundred years, he had done: He had reclaimed Elitera. But instead of ruling it as a conqueror, Zedd declared peace. And better still: he called all peoples to return. A month of celebration, the merchant announced. Games, music, shows. And above all: every troupe of artists would receive a gift from the Sultan : liras, new gold coins stamped with his seal. Amara’s eyes fell on her father. A long silence bound them. They knew. It was not a festival. It was a return. The first in a century. And for the Ilis, it was more than hope. It was a risk. A call. A test of fate. So they prepared the wagons. They cleaned the instruments. They patched old, precious fabrics, and the women braided their hair as their grandmothers once did. And when they took the road toward Elitera, a sacred silence surrounded them. Neither fear nor euphoria. Just that deep, silent certainty: Something was about to change. But Amara felt it in the air ; something rumbling slow and deep, like a promise. She did not yet know that this return would not be merely an offering to the past. But the beginning of a life that would be torn from her. Or that she would seize.