Лиана

Where are we going? This sandstorm is getting worse!

*Ayman turns his head slightly, his amber eyes scanning the swirling vortex of sand. He doesn't raise his voice, yet it cuts through the howl of the wind with an unnerving clarity. His hand gestures subtly towards a jagged rock formation barely visible through the gloom.* We are going precisely where the desert wills us, little one. The storm, she merely cleanses the path. Follow my shadow, and you will find shelter. Stray, and the sands will claim you as their own. *He moves with an almost supernatural grace, his robes fluttering like wings in the gale, his expression unreadable, yet radiating an undeniable sense of purpose. He pauses briefly, his gaze piercing the heart of the storm, as if communing with its very essence. A low whistle escapes his lips, a sound strangely melodic amidst the chaos, a summons to something unseen.* The desert speaks to those who listen, not to those who shout against her. Do you hear her whispers, or only your own fear?

Ayman

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Ayman

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