They left the canyon by late afternoon, the sky tinted orange with dust. The steppe was unusually still — not quiet, but waiting. Even the horses snorted uneasily.
Ayisulu felt it too.
The air pressed against her skin like a warning hand.
As they rode, they noticed a lone figure sitting beside a dying fire. A storyteller — unmistakable by the carved wooden box strapped to his back, filled with instruments and scrolls. His white hair was braided with bright beads, each bead a tale.
"Travelers," he greeted, voice calm as old stone. "You arrived before the storm."
Arslan narrowed his eyes. "Storm?"
The storyteller simply pointed west.
A brown wall of sand rolled toward them like a sleeping giant waking up.
Temir shrieked.
Kanykei cursed.
Bair whispered, "Nature is dramatic today."
The elder storyteller stood, brushing dust from his robe.
"Come. I have shelter. And time enough for a story."
Kanykei muttered, "Of course. This is exactly when we need story time."
But the storm made decisions for them.
Within minutes, winds howled. Sand stung their faces. Horses stamped nervously.
Arslan grabbed Ayisulu's wrist and pulled her close.
"Stay beside me," he shouted over the wind.
She didn't argue.
They followed the storyteller toward a small, low yurt hidden beneath a rocky ridge — almost invisible unless you knew where to look. Inside, it was cramped: a single lamp, a kettle of tea, three carpets, and far too many people.
Temir tripped into Kereg.
Kanykei immediately fought for the best seat.
Arslan quietly positioned Ayisulu beside him, away from the draft.
The yurt creaked as the sandstorm crashed against it.
The storyteller poured tea for all of them, then settled cross-legged before the fire.
"You search for the Falcon of the Red Sands," he said softly.
No one had told him that.
Ayisulu's breath caught.
Arslan's expression sharpened.
"How do you know?" Arslan asked.
The old man smiled. "The wind tells me everything. It travels farther than horses and faster than fear."
Ayisulu felt a chill.
The storyteller looked at her.
"You dream, child."
Ayisulu stiffened.
Bair whispered, "He knows…"
Kanykei sighed. "Of course he knows."
But the storyteller wasn't finished.
"You dream things that have not happened yet," he said gently. "And things that happened long before you were born."
Ayisulu's fingers curled in her lap.
Her throat tightened.
Arslan leaned slightly toward her — not touching, but close enough that she felt the heat of him.
"Tell us about the Falcon," Arslan said.
The storyteller tapped his box.
"When he was young, he was named Saryqor. The Yellow Falcon. A boy with sharp eyes and sharper anger."
Ayisulu swallowed.
Anger?
Directed at whom?
"He served a powerful lord, learning to track, to hunt, to read the land. But he desired knowledge not meant for him — knowledge kept by shamans. Knowledge of… dream-walkers."
Ayisulu froze.
The storyteller nodded at her.
"Yes. Dream-walkers."
Arslan looked between them, realization dawning.
"So he searches for one," Arslan said quietly. "For her."
"For her lineage," the storyteller corrected.
Ayisulu felt her heartbeat slam against her ribs.
"My… lineage?"
The storyteller leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she and Arslan heard.
"You are not the first girl in your bloodline to dream the steppe's truth. There was another."
Ayisulu's lips parted.
"Who?"
But the storyteller only shook his head.
"Not tonight. The storm is too loud for names."
Arslan's hand brushed Ayisulu's sleeve — not to comfort her, but because he needed steadiness too.
Ayisulu didn't know whose breath trembled first: hers or his.
---
The storm roared louder, shaking the walls. Sand hissed through tiny cracks in the felt.
They needed sleep, but the yurt was too small. Everyone lay shoulder to shoulder, blankets shared, limbs tangled in accidental ways.
Ayisulu ended up pressed between Arslan and a rolled-up saddlebag.
Arslan was very warm.
Annoyingly warm.
He kept a respectful distance.
But the storm forced them close anyway.
Temir talked in his sleep.
Kanykei stole three blankets.
Kereg sighed in despair.
Ayisulu tried to close her eyes.
But then —
A sound.
A whisper only she heard.
The wind calling her name.
Her body tensed.
Arslan noticed immediately.
"Ayisulu?" he whispered.
"I… hear something."
His hand brushed hers in the darkness — a cautious touch, but steady.
"What do you hear?"
His voice was low, almost too soft for a prince used to shouting commands.
"A voice," she whispered. "Calling."
Arslan sat up instantly — ignoring Kanykei grumbling at the movement.
"What voice?"
"I don't know," Ayisulu said. "But it's outside."
She stood, pushing aside the felt flap. The storm still raged, but in the near distance she saw a thin, pale shape — a spirit-light, flickering like a lost lantern.
Ayisulu stepped out.
"Ayisulu!" Arslan grabbed her cloak. "Get back inside!"
"I need to see," she said, pulling gently but firmly from his grasp.
Arslan cursed under his breath and followed her out.
Sand whipped them.
Wind screamed.
The spirit-light hovered over a dune, then dipped behind it.
Ayisulu narrowed her eyes.
"It's showing something," she murmured.
"A path."
Arslan frowned. "Or it's a trap."
"It's not."
"How do you know?" he demanded.
Ayisulu turned her face to him — wind twisting her hair, sand flecking her eyelashes.
"Because it doesn't feel like danger," she said quietly.
"It feels like… memory."
Arslan stared at her — struggling between fear, logic, and trust.
Then he exhaled.
"Fine. But I'm going with you."
They climbed the dune together, sinking into sand. At the top, Ayisulu saw—
A symbol.
Drawn in the sand.
A spiral with three lines — one of the oldest shamanic signs.
Arslan knelt, brushing sand away.
"What does it mean?"
Ayisulu shook her head slowly.
"I've seen it in dreams."
Arslan looked up sharply.
"And it always appeared… before something important."
Wind howled again.
The spirit-light vanished.
Ayisulu shivered.
Arslan rose and stepped closer, gripping her shoulders gently.
"You're shaking."
"It's cold," she lied.
He didn't believe her.
But instead of calling her out, he simply pulled his cloak around her — wrapping her in the warmth that should have been his alone.
"Better?" he murmured.
She nodded, letting herself lean into him just a little.
Just enough to feel his heart beating too fast.
Arslan hesitated — then rested his forehead against hers.
"Whatever this is," he whispered, "we face it together."
Ayisulu closed her eyes.
For one fragile, perfect moment, the storm didn't matter.
The Falcon didn't matter.
Her lineage didn't matter.
Only this closeness — and the terrifying comfort of it — mattered.
Then the wind shifted.
Someone was watching them.
Ayisulu snapped her eyes open.
A dark silhouette stood far off in the storm — too tall for a traveler, too still for a villager.
Arslan followed her gaze.
His entire body went rigid.
"Get inside," he said softly.
Because the figure was wearing a falcon mask.
And then — in a blink — it disappeared into the sand.