The Sands of What Will Be
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 900
In 1000 BC, a prophetess revered for her visions stands before her people, opening a device from a future unimaginable—a device that offers the power to rewrite destiny but at an unspeakable cost.
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The desert sun was merciless, a hammer beating down on Nira’s kingdom. The drought had stretched into its third year, and whispers of desperation swirled through the village. Laborers digging for a new well had found something strange beneath the sands: a smooth, glowing slab unlike anything her people had ever seen.
It lay now on the altar before her, cradled in Rahi’s trembling hands. Her attendant’s dark eyes darted between the artifact and her face, silently pleading for her wisdom.
“Oracle,” Rahi whispered, “what is this thing?”
Nira reached out, her fingers grazing its cool surface. The moment she touched it, her vision warped. Colors sharpened, then split apart like broken glass.
She gasped. The altar vanished, replaced by images: her people wandering across barren lands, raiders descending like vultures, rivers running red under a blood-drenched sky. Then, suddenly, the desert bloomed. She saw grass-covered valleys, full bellies, children laughing. But the faces were different—distant echoes of her people, yet changed.
When the vision faded, she staggered. Rahi caught her by the arm. “Oracle, what did you see?”
Nira steadied herself and lifted her chin. “Bring the elders. Now.”
The elders assembled, their faces lined with worry and mistrust. They eyed the glowing slab as though it might leap from the altar and devour them.
“This is no gift of the gods,” one elder muttered.
“Be silent,” Nira snapped. Her voice carried authority, but inside, doubt gnawed at her. “The artifact offers... knowledge. A map of what is to come.”
“And what does it say?” another elder demanded.
Nira hesitated. “It shows that our choices today will shape the survival of our people tomorrow.”
Her words stirred a murmur among them, but she didn’t explain further. She couldn’t. The truth was more complicated, more dangerous. Each time she touched the device, it revealed more paths, more futures, but also the cost of tampering. In one vision, she saw herself striking an alliance with the northern raiders; in another, she led her people into battle. Each path led to ruin in its own way.
Her people had entrusted her with their lives, and yet she felt powerless. Was this what the gods intended? Or was the device mocking her faith, dangling impossible choices before her?
Late one night, as the village slept, Nira studied the device alone. Rahi found her sitting cross-legged in the sand, the glowing slab illuminating her face.
“You haven’t eaten all day,” he said, kneeling beside her. “You look like a ghost.”
Nira barely glanced at him. “This device—it doesn’t show one future. It shows many. And each time I choose, the sands shift beneath my feet.”
Rahi frowned. “You always find the right path. You always have.”
“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Not this time. If I save us now, I doom us later. If I let us suffer now, the future may flourish. How do I decide who deserves to live? Who deserves to die?”
He placed a hand on hers. “You cannot carry this alone, Nira. Let us help.”
She looked at him then, tears streaming silently down her face. “No one can help me. Not with this.”
The visions intensified as the drought worsened. Her people grew restless, their faith in her slipping. The elders whispered among themselves, their doubts spreading like poison.
One day, the device presented a clear vision: her people, abandoning the desert for the fertile valley she had seen. But to force their migration, she had to do nothing as disaster unfolded—the rivers drying, the raiders attacking. If she intervened to save them now, they would never leave, and their descendants would wither in an unyielding land.
At dawn, she summoned the village to the altar.
“The gods have spoken,” she declared, her voice unwavering despite the storm inside her. “We must leave this place. The rivers will not return. The sands are no longer our home.”
An elder stepped forward, his face twisted with fury. “You would lead us to our deaths? Abandon all we have built?”
“I would lead us to life,” she answered, her gaze piercing.
The crowd roared with protest, but she raised a hand, silencing them. “I have seen what lies ahead. Trust me as you always have. Trust that I will guide us to salvation.”
As the villagers prepared for the evacuation, Nira stood alone by the altar. The device flickered, displaying an image that made her heart stop.
It was a woman, older but unmistakably her, standing in a lush valley surrounded by her people. The woman mouthed silent words: It must be done.
Understanding flooded Nira. The device was not only a map of futures but a loop. She was both the guide and the guided, the one who would plant the seeds for her people’s salvation centuries from now.
With trembling hands, she deactivated the device and buried it where it had been found. Its glow faded beneath the sand, waiting for another time, another choice.
As she turned toward her people, already marching toward the horizon, she felt a strange sense of peace. She would lead them forward, knowing that her sacrifice would one day bloom into their salvation.
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