The Battle of Bun’ei. Epilogue

There is a stretch of wild, wind-swept coast somewhere in Saudi Arabia, where the desert meets the restless blue of the sea.

The waves roll in, ancient and tireless, and the sun sets in a blaze of gold and crimson, painting the sand with fleeting fire.

And there, every evening, a solitary figure walks the shore. She is tall, graceful, and unmistakably not a local — her hair dark as midnight, her eyes distant as the horizon, her steps light as if she carries no weight at all. She never speaks, never lingers, never joins the laughter of the fishermen or the songs of the children. She is always alone, a shadow moving between the tides and the twilight.

The men watch her from afar, their conversations falling silent as she passes. Fishermen mending nets, merchants haggling over spices, even the silent, ancient camel drivers — their eyes follow her, a flicker of bewildered wonder in their gaze. Who is she, this silent, beautiful phantom? Where does she gather her thoughts? What stories are lie hidden behind those placid, unreadable eyes? Some say she is a lost princess, others a spirit of the sea. No one knows her name, and no one dares to ask.

But sometimes, when the wind is just right, and the moon is high, the old men swear they hear her humming a tune — something foreign, something sad, something that speaks of snow and distant mountains, of battles fought and fortunes lost, of secrets carried far from home.

And so, she walks, night after night, a legend in a land of sand and silence…

Prologue