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— Sire, I beg you, — priestess Latifa stretched out her palms, blocking the path to the emerald ark. — We all beg you, — the elder, the caravan master, the interpreter, even her own student, slightly raised their bowed heads. — Do not do this. These are not stones, they are vows, a sacred gift to the Keeper, Ashra.
— Enough, — waved off the boy, Prince Darion, son of Girad the Conqueror. He smiled shamelessly, staring at the emeralds and imagining how many more were inside if there were so many at the entrance. — The vows of those who have no sword are worth nothing. Open it.
— Sire… — the elder shook his gray head. — Your father, King Girad, defeated us, but not the desert. The desert does not tolerate arrogance.
— The desert does not tolerate arrogance? — Darion snorted, snapping his fingers. — One more word, and I’ll take your very presence here as arrogance.
The captain of the guard nodded to two soldiers, and they gripped the lid of the ark. The sand around them seemed to sigh, springing upward and settling again, as if it had been waiting for this moment.
— Sire, — Latifa clenched the necklace on her breasts, terror flashing in her eyes. — Do not touch…
The lid shifted. A dry heat burst out from inside, as if the desert itself had exhaled its first breath. The stones did not shine as Darion expected. They pulsed like a heart, beating in rhythm with the wind.
— My God… — the young prince stepped forward in awe. — These treasures will make Marida the greatest country.
He took another step, and then another, until finally he was inside. The boy’s hand touched the nearest stone, and at that very moment the air in the sanctuary seemed to tear apart.
The emerald was not cold, as Darion had expected. It was warm, almost hot, like living flesh. The stone shuddered under his fingers, like a heart beneath skin, and struck back with a jolt straight into the youth’s chest.
— Milord, no! — shouted the interpreter, grabbing the captain’s sleeve.
But it was too late.
A whirlwind of sand shot upward, a rumble spread under the arches, and in the heart of the ark a figure rose. She looked as if she had stepped out of the frescoes: tall, with long blond hair cascading like a waterfall down to her feet. She was clad in a translucent fabric that seemed endless, flowing somewhere into the cave behind her.
— Ashra… — the elder croaked, falling prostrate. Everyone else, except the prince and his guards, followed his example.
— Stand up, — Darion said with a cold smirk, though his throat already trembled. — This is nothing but a trick. A mirage of the desert.
But the words froze when the goddess raised her hand, and even the wind fell silent in the sanctuary. Only her translucent garment swayed, as if the song of the dunes lived within it.
— You dared to touch what binds my people, — her voice spread as a soundless echo, as though the very air spoke. — A vow is a duty. Duty is destiny. You wanted to take a vow? Then take it to the end.
Darion staggered back, but the necklace hanging on Latifa’s breasts suddenly tore free and in an instant clasped itself around his neck. Ice pierced his skin, spreading through his body. He tugged at it, but the links had fused into his collarbones.
— What… what are you doing?! — he exhaled, and his voice no longer sounded like before.
— The guards rushed forward, but the goddess did not even look at them. A whirlwind of sand rose like a wall and hurled them against the sanctuary walls.
— You desired a vow? — Ashra stepped closer. Her bare feet did not touch the floor. — Now you will carry it forever!
And pain crashed down on Darion’s shoulders. He screamed, doubling over, feeling his fingers go numb as if they had turned into molten metal. Bones cracked, and his hands twisted, stretched, until instead of fingers there grew dark, gleaming feathers. He tried to clench his fists, but the feathers only whipped the air, like the wings of a bird.
— No! — Darion rasped, stumbling back. — This… this is impossible!
His body bent backward, his chest pulled tight by an unseen force. He choked for breath, feeling it tear from his lungs together with a new heaviness. His ribs compressed, his ribcage reshaping from within. Suddenly a sharp thrust ran through him, as if his heart had leapt forward, and the fabric of his tunic split open, baring swelling female breasts. They swung heavily, the necklace settling coldly into the valley between them, and every drop of air now sent a sweet, torturous shiver through his body.
— Milord! — Captain Brenn shouted, but the whirlwind slammed him against the wall, choking off his cry.