1 PROLOGUE.

SPECKS OF CONDENSATION dripped down the prince's windows—lined on the glass from the frost outside. Head leaning on the golden hems, bright green eyes stare at the deserted wasteland outside.

A boy of mere ten, Ghazi marvelled at the duality of sand. It was so odd, how during the day it would scorch, causing the men to hide away in their shelters and not be able to touch her. And as soon as the night dawned—crisp as ever—it would turn just as cold, causing the insects and various other critters to fear the sand just as men did.

EITHER WAY—he muses—its dichotomy made it untouchable, and thus, invincible. Such thoughts were a tad too profound for the child of men ten years that was Prince Ghazi, however, children often grew faster in royal palaces. Especially the children with no destiny (masir, as called in their native language) fixed for them.

'ONCE AGAIN! Will, you ever make me proud?! Ever give me a reason to stand in front of the ' the shrill voice of his mother was still clear in the boy's mind, causing tears to well up within big eyes—too big for his bony little face—once again.

There had been a swordsmanship test today, and his father had been the one to attend it upon his mother's request to make him see how far her son had come. But poor Ghazi couldn't even stand a chance against the bigger, older and much sharper Qadir.

Minutes into the test and he'd defeated Ghazi, leaving the child to bite the dust and towards his commoner mother who stood away from the Sultan with a proud grin on her face and open arms. His own mother looked furious, the sultan disappointed.

The only semblance of sympathy he saw directed at himself was on the Sultan's wife's face, who looked down at him with pity, but was far too dignified to come forward and help a concubine's son.

The pain of humiliation that'd followed falling face down on the ground in front of the court was far lesser than the sting that the slap his mother had administered on his face left. He'd cried for the entire day, cooped up in his chambers and staring outside his window.

It was always like this, those ministers that'd smirked and sniggered at him today were the same ones that praised his eloquence whenever he greeted or flattered them.

And once had they seen him fall, how their faces had changed! Similarly, his mother, who'd gush about her son as soon as someone praised him even a tad, had thrown a vase at him when he dared to 'talk back'.

They were like the fauna that wandered in these barren lands—he noted. If you give them what they want, they'd be good to you. But the moment you aren't suiting their convenience they wouldn't waste a second biting you back.

They aren't worth being regarded—or any benevolence at all—Ghazi concluded. In his ten-year-old brain, caring for what they think brought nothing but pain and grievances.

So why not stop listening to them altogether? What if he would shut down all that noise, and become like sand? Changing colours as fitting his own benefit? What if he was unpredictable just as the sand was?

That way, maybe he too could be untouchable as the sand was. Qadir or his commoner mother wouldn't be able to humiliate him anymore; the young prince promised himself that night, he will become like the desert.

For, in the end, the desert didn't care what the critters and men thought of her before she changed her colours to fit herself, she was far above mere men to do so. And so will Ghazi.