Beneath the Eastern Sands: Claimed by the Sultan

Elitera

The journey to Elitera took them no more than ten days.

They had crossed the vast desert plains with only Elitera and the promise of a new home on their minds.

No one truly believed it. Not in this glorious return, not in the peace heralded as miraculous. But they did believe in the promised money, that much was certain. For many merchant troupes, artists, beggars, and adventurers were rushing toward the reclaimed kingdom as well.

The liras were enough to silence all doubts.

Still, the troupe of performers remained cautious.

Along the way, they encountered all kinds of caravans: armed groups, travelers dressed in silks, snake charmers, men with masked faces, and a few figures who inspired nothing but suspicion.

The Ilis were not warriors. But they were of the desert.

And the desert spares only those who know how to avoid trouble.

They traveled light: a few musical instruments, patched costumes, three rolled tents, some flour, dried dates, and the four camels they all share , their only visible wealth.

Yet, no one ever attacked them.

Maybe because of their numbers.

Maybe simply because they knew how to haggle even with the sand bandits.

At night, around the fire, the children all slept together in a single tent. The elders smoked silently or sang old songs. Amara, meanwhile, danced or watched over the children.

She was one of the few young adults; most of her peers were either about ten years older or younger than her.

The sand slowly changed color as they neared Elitera.

It grew more golden, denser, warmer.

And then, at last, they saw it.

Elitera.

Its copper- red domes, its slender towers, its gates so large they could swallow the stars.

Amara’s heart tightened; not with joy, but with a dizzying mixture of emotions.

She did not feel at home. She had never been here.

But a part of her recognized the city’s lines, its contours, its scents carried by the wind, so often told in stories.

She noticed her mother and other adults rubbing their eyes.

They passed through the great gates without difficulty.

Their golden, curly hair stood out among the crowd, who stared as they walked through the city. The Ilis had always left a mark wherever they passed, and seeing them in such numbers was a spectacle in itself.

Even the guards, who no longer paid attention to faces due to the crowds, openly stared at the Ilis.

They were led to the artists’ quarter, situated at the edge of the city center: a field of tents, trestles, and hastily thrown silks to accommodate the colorful chaos of troupes from all the kingdoms.

There, life exploded.

Drums, cries, songs, caged beasts, scents of food and sweat. It was a giant circus, a lawless market, a battlefield of egos and talents.

But the Ilis did not mingle.

They set up their camp a little apart, under a large twisted fig tree, far from the most luxurious pavilions.

Not out of fear.

Out of dignity.

They were not here to beg.

They were here to dance, to sing. To remind who they were.

They were told from the start they would be the first to entertain the Sultan that evening, as their arrival had turned many heads in the city. Merchants offered them better clothes than the ones they had, but they humbly refused.

“We only need palm leaves, if you will allow it.”

Arias, the Ilis’ leader and Amara’s father, requested.

Surprised by the request, the officer eventually agreed.

They busied themselves preparing their show; the women and children braided as many leaves as they could, while the men cared for the camels and replenished water and dried food supplies.

When evening fell, the first lanterns were lit in the paved streets.

The grand spectacle square had been decorated with every imaginable color; the air carried the finest scents, and the stands were packed with spectators.

Rumor had spread that a troupe of performers unlike any other had arrived that morning, and everyone seemed eager to see them perform.

The Sultan appeared atop the highest stand, where golden seats were draped with white silks and flowers, and the crowd cheered joyfully until he sat down. Silence fell.

The sound of a horn echoed. The festivities were about to begin.

It was the Ilis’ turn. Carefully hidden in a tent outside the arena, they stepped inside.

Amara’s heart and likely everyone else’s beat with excitement as they stepped one by one into the arena, amid murmurs of curiosity.

The children entered first, followed by the women and men carrying musical instruments. They were all dressed in palm leaves, their bodies painted with different patterns of white clay. Their golden, curly hair fluttered in the wind, and admiration seemed to strike every person in the arena, leaving them silent.

They formed a circle of men, then in the middle a circle of women, and in the very center , a circle of children.

Amara heard her father’s strong palms clap the air.

The show began.