The youth staggered across the burning sands, his breath ragged, his blood seeping from a wound at his side—drying into the dust that clung to his skin. Behind him, death itself trailed in silence, like a shadow that would claim him at the slightest falter.
Yet he did not yield.
Every step was a wager between life and the abyss. His body trembled beneath the merciless sun, his spirit hollowed by grief. The Euphrates had claimed his brother, dragged away before his eyes, and the cries still echoed in his soul. Now he walked alone, a fugitive of fate.
When hope was nearly extinguished, a mirage flickered on the horizon—a village, faint against the desert haze. His heartbeat thundered, louder than the wind. He managed a faint smile, a final stride not toward death, but toward the fragile spark of life.
And then his legs gave way. He collapsed into the sand, surrendering at last—not to despair, but to the balm of rest. For the first time since the hunt began, he closed his eyes, not in fear of the end, but in yearning for solace.
…And in sleep, the past returned.
He was a child again, running through the marble courtyards of Damascus. The song of fountains filled the air, mingling with the fragrance of roses from his grandmother's garden. His small cloak fluttered as he laughed beneath the arches, until a familiar voice called:
"Abdurrahman!"
His mother, Zahra bint Hisham, her face radiant as the moonlit nights of Syria. Her touch was gentle, her prayers constant, guiding him toward the veranda where his grandfather, Caliph Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik, awaited with a smile of wisdom.
"My grandson," the old man said, resting a hand upon his lap, "strength flows through your veins, for you bear the blood of Umayyah. But remember—true strength lies not in the sword, but in a heart steadfast and pure."
Around them stood his uncles, his brothers laughing with wooden spears in hand. It was a season of joy, eternal as spring… until the skies darkened.
The gardens faded into shadows of betrayal. The palace grew cold, filled with whispers of treachery. Faces once kind turned grim. And soon, the banners of Abbasid vengeance swept across Damascus. The house of Umayyah was marked for death.
Damascus was no longer home. Youth was torn from him, replaced by exile and blood. He remembered the screams along the Euphrates, his mother's face fading in smoke, the betrayal that clawed at his every step.
"Ya Rabb… why must it be so?" his soul whispered into the void.
And then—darkness.
He woke with a start, gasping beneath the stars. The desert sky was vast, its silence cruel, the sands cold against his skin. His body trembled, but his heart was steady. That dream was no dream—it was memory. A memory unfinished.
He rose slowly, wiping the dust from his face. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps approached—not the tread of death, but of one who would alter the course of his fate.