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He closed his eyes.
“I see my grandfather, leading caravans across the Tanezrouft. I see my mother singing as she ground millet. I see our people, free before the coming of slavers and sultans.”
Anna touched his cheek with trembling fingers.
“Do you think we can ever return to that freedom?”
Amastan turned to her, his gaze fierce and tender.
“We will not return to it,” he whispered. “We will create it.”
> Dreams are not memories of the past. They are seeds of the future.
That night, as wind hissed through the date palms, Amastan lay awake beside Anna, staring at the shifting shadows on the tent walls.
“What do you see in them?” Anna asked softly, Azul sleeping between them.
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