The Roads to Zahari

I’ve crossed the Veil of Zahari more times than I care to count.

Most folk imagine an endless sea of sand where every dune looks the same. They couldn’t be more wrong.

The desert remembers.

It remembers every caravan that found its way home… and every one that didn’t.

There are stretches where the wind sings through broken stone, ruins that only seem to exist when you’re not looking straight at them, and old markers half-buried beneath the dunes. Every trader has a story about seeing a city shimmering on the horizon, only to find nothing but sand when they arrived.

Mirages, they call them.

Maybe.

The old desert folk simply smile and say, “The Veil only shows you what you’re searching for.”

Now, I’ll admit something.

There’s one tradition I’ve always admired.

Every summer, the people of Zahari celebrate the Festival of the Glittering Winds. While merchants haggle, children laugh, and musicians fill the streets, nearly every home hangs long ribbons from poles, rooftops, and doorways.

Each ribbon carries a story.

Some are written for those who’ve passed beyond the horizon.

Some remember victories.

Others confess mistakes no one else will ever read.

When the Glittering Winds arrive, they’re meant to carry those stories away, making room for new ones.

I’ve watched it happen.

Thousands of ribbons dancing at once…

Then, as if answering some unseen call, lifting into the night sky together.

Even an old wanderer like me has to admit…

It’s a sight worth crossing the desert to witness.

Still…

The caravans coming north this season have been quieter than usual.

One merchant swore the ribbons never left their poles.

Another claimed they all pointed toward the western dunes at the same time, though the wind blew from the east.

A camel master I trust—one who doesn’t frighten easily—said the glittering sands have begun to gather around the old ruins of Al’Kareth before sunset.

Now, I don’t put much stock in rumors.

But I do pay attention when the desert starts changing its habits.

Because deserts are patient.

They don’t rush.

If something ancient has begun to stir beneath those sands…

It’s been waiting a very long time.

And I’d wager it’ll still be there when the Chosen arrive.

—

Travel well, friends.

— Old Garrick