Moonlight streamed through the giant open windows of the palatial chamber – a vast room that was enveloped in darkness. A cool breeze flowed in, gently toying with the thin, transparent curtains that made lazy attempts to touch the royal sized bed.
The man awoke with a gasp.
Strongly built and bearing intricate tattoos across his broad shoulders, the bearded man stared outside his window while trying to make sense of his dream. What he saw was nothing like the desert lands he was presently in, or the ones he had previously conquered.
His dream spoke of kingdoms built upon lush green mountains, rivers that carried clear blue water, mines that held sparkling stones, and a throne made of a strange shine that was inviting him to occupy. On its reflection he saw himself, but wearing a mask that depicted diabolical authority.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead.
‘I am the true blood child of the golden sands. Mere visions do not provoke me.’ he assured himself. ‘It will take more than that to rattle Shcyba-the-conqueror.’
“…Bharata…” whispered a voice in the wind.
Shcyba reached for the dagger under his pillow. “Who goes there!” he commanded to the darkness.
“…ready your men…”