Future Past of Tomorrow: The Moor Prince

By Adam Simeer

Long before the Prince drew his first breath, before the palace walls of Meknes rose from stone and story, the desert kept a secret buried beneath its shifting skin. In the dead of night, when even the stars leaned low to listen, a hooded figure walked alone across the dunes. His steps were slow, deliberate, as though he knew the sands by memory. The wind curled around him in soft spirals, whispering warnings that no mortal ear could hear.

Baba Omar — the wanderer, the keeper of half-truths and hidden knowledge — paused at the edge of a moonlit hollow. There, half-buried in the sand, lay a simple bronze ring etched with patterns older than any kingdom. A faint green light pulsed within its gem, like the last ember of a dying fire… or the first spark of a waking dream.

He did not touch it. Not yet.

Instead, he raised his old wooden staff, tracing a circle above the ring as though addressing an unseen presence.

"It begins again," he murmured.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a whisper so soft it could have been imagined — or remembered.

"Time is a river… and rivers return."

Baba Omar's eyes narrowed. "He will come for you. The boy born of two dawns. The heart split between duty and destiny."

The ring pulsed brighter, recognising the name not yet spoken — Mohammed Dehhbbi, the Prince who would one day walk unknowingly toward this hollow, drawn by a dream he did not understand.

Baba Omar exhaled, equal parts sorrow and hope.

"May your path be guided," he whispered to the night. "For shadows are already stirring."

He lowered his staff. The dune-shadows lengthened unnaturally, curling like smoke around the ring — not in threat, but in anticipation.

For fate had awakened.

And the desert, ancient and patient, prepared to test the boy who would become more than a prince.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Simeer
• Release date: Nov 18, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231644476

Book preview

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction by Adam Simeer, the author. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright notice© 2025 Adam Simeer (ME). All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author Adam Simeer.

Chapters:

Prologue - p5

Chapter 1 – The Ride into Silence - p7

Chapter 2 – The Ring of Future Light - p16

Chapter 3 – Shadows over Meknes – p30

Chapter 4 – The Sultan’s Ultimatum – p45

Chapter 5 – The Picnic of Dreams – p59

Chapter 6 – Vanish – p73

Chapter 7 – The Time Rift – p86

Chapter 8 – The City of Ghosts – p99

Chapter 9 – The Return to the Gate – p113

Chapter 10 – The War of Whispers – p127

Chapter 11 – Fatima’s Captivity – p141

Chapter 12 – The Mirror of Souls – p155

Chapter 13 – The Battle of Breath and Shadow 167

Chapter 14 – The Return of Dawn - p179

Chapter 15 – The Whisper Continues - p190

Epilogue  - p201

PROLOGUE – The Whisper Before Time

Long before the Prince drew his first breath, before the palace walls of Meknes rose from stone and story, the desert kept a secret buried beneath its shifting skin.

In the dead of night, when even the stars leaned low to listen, a hooded figure walked alone across the dunes. His steps were slow, deliberate, as though he knew the sands by memory. The wind curled around him in soft spirals, whispering warnings that no mortal ear could hear.

Baba Omar — the wanderer, the keeper of half-truths and hidden knowledge — paused at the edge of a moonlit hollow. There, half-buried in the sand, lay a simple bronze ring etched with patterns older than any kingdom. A faint green light pulsed within its gem, like the last ember of a dying fire... or the first spark of a waking dream.

He did not touch it. Not yet.

Instead, he raised his old wooden staff, tracing a circle above the ring as though addressing an unseen presence.

It begins again, he murmured.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a whisper so soft it could have been imagined — or remembered.

Time is a river... and rivers return.

Baba Omar’s eyes narrowed. He will come for you. The boy born of two dawns. The heart split between duty and destiny.

The ring pulsed brighter, recognising the name not yet spoken — Mohammed Dehhbbi, the Prince who would one day walk unknowingly toward this hollow, drawn by a dream he did not understand.

Baba Omar exhaled, equal parts sorrow and hope.

May your path be guided, he whispered to the night. For shadows are already stirring.

He lowered his staff. The dune-shadows lengthened unnaturally, curling like smoke around the ring — not in threat, but in anticipation.

For fate had awakened.

And the desert, ancient and patient, prepared to test the boy who would become more than a prince.

Chapter 1 – The Ride into Silence

The wind over Meknes was restless that morning, neither warm nor cold, as though it carried questions from an age before men built walls. The palace courtyard lay washed in amber light; the muezzin’s call faded into the hum of awakening streets. Within the stables the Prince stood alone, hand upon the mane of his chestnut stallion, listening to the silence that hides beneath every sound.

Prince Mohammed Dehhbbi had slept little. The night had brought dreams that were not dreams—whispers in a tongue older than his lineage, a pulse that beat within the sand itself. When he woke, the feeling had remained: that something unseen waited for him beyond the city’s edge. He saddled the horse himself, refusing the help of grooms. A prince who cannot ready his own mount, Baba Omar but known to others as The Old Man once told him, rides only on pride.

He looked back toward the palace roofs, where banners lifted lazily against the pale sky. Somewhere within those walls his father, the Sultan, discussed taxes and treaties. Somewhere Fatima bint Fillah moved among the poor of the souk, her laughter the kind that made even despair look away. He should have been content; yet the weight of destiny pressed on him like a second cloak.

He mounted, gave a light command, and rode through the northern gate before the guards could ask his destination. The road curved through olive groves, then slipped into dunes that rolled like sleeping beasts. Here the air changed: thinner, purer, edged with that stillness which humbles even kings.

By midday the sun reigned without mercy. The stallion’s hooves sank into soft gold, and the city had become a mirage behind him. Mohammed dismounted and walked beside the horse, feeling the rhythm of breath and step. He had come seeking silence, but silence in the desert was never empty. It breathed, it waited, it listened.

He remembered the words of Baba Omar, that old keeper of the souk gate, whose sightless eyes had seen too much.

The desert speaks in stillness, my son. Listen long enough and it will tell you who you are.

At the time he had smiled at the riddle. Now, beneath the unbroken sky, he began to understand. The desert was a mirror without frame, and what it showed was not always kind.

A falcon wheeled high above. Its cry echoed once, twice, then vanished. Mohammed’s stallion twitched its ears and stopped. The Prince rested his palm on the animal’s neck.

What is it, old friend?

No answer but the faint tremor that ran through muscle and bone. Then the wind shifted, carrying with it a scent he could not name—neither spice nor smoke, but something metallic, faintly sweet, as though a storm were forming under the sand.

He scanned the horizon. Nothing moved except heat. Yet his pulse quickened. The whisper from his dream returned, coiling through thought like silk: Find the silence, and it will find you.

He pressed on. The dunes rose higher now, sculpted by centuries into curves that invited awe and caution alike. The horse’s hooves found hidden stones; the air thickened. Sweat stung his eyes, but he did not turn back. He had ridden here for reasons he could scarcely explain—to test the edge of his courage, to escape the cage of palace expectation, perhaps even to seek whatever voice had called him through sleep.

By late afternoon the horizon darkened to copper. Mohammed found a patch of shade beneath a bent acacia and let the horse drink from his waterskin. He drank last, the water tasting of leather and distance. The silence deepened until even his heartbeat seemed an intrusion.

A memory rose unbidden: Baba Omar sitting at the souk gate, fingers tracing invisible signs in the dust.

When you can hear the sand breathe, Prince, know that you are standing at the threshold of the unseen.

He had thought it poetry. Now, in the gathering stillness, he heard it—the faintest hiss, rhythmic, alive. The dune itself exhaled, as though some vast creature slept beneath.

The stallion jerked its head, nostrils flaring. A second later it reared, screaming—a sound that split the sky. Mohammed leapt aside, grasping the reins, but the horse wrenched free. Hooves flashed; then the animal fled into the blazing horizon, a plume of gold dust in its wake.

Wait! His voice was swallowed instantly. The desert gave back no echo.

He ran a few paces, then stopped. The stallion was gone. Around him the world lay empty save for the wind. Alone now, truly alone, he stood while the sun bled toward the west. For the first time since childhood, the Prince felt fear—not of death, but of being forgotten by sound itself.

He began to walk, carrying only his waterskin and the dagger at his belt. Each step sank deeper into memory and myth. The dunes changed hue with every breath of light—gold to rose, rose to violet, violet to ash. He thought he saw figures in the distance: travellers, perhaps spirits, gliding just beyond reach. When he called out, they melted into haze.

Night came without warning. The air cooled swiftly, stars appearing like lanterns hung by unseen hands. He drew his cloak tighter, listening. Somewhere far off, a low hum trembled through the ground, steady as a heartbeat.

He followed it.

The hum grew stronger, rising and falling with a cadence too measured to be wind. It drew him toward a line of black rock jutting from the sand like broken teeth. Between those stones shimmered a faint green glow, pulsing in time with the sound. He hesitated—then stepped forward.

As he approached, the glow dimmed, as if aware of his presence. The hum subsided into silence so perfect it pressed against his skin. He knelt, brushing sand away. Beneath his fingers the rock was warm. A fissure opened—no wider than a hand—and a breath of cool air escaped, scented with minerals and ancient water.

A cave. The desert hid many things, but caves that breathed were rare. He widened the gap carefully until he could squeeze through. Inside, darkness folded around him like a living thing. His eyes adjusted slowly; walls gleamed with crystals, their edges catching starlight filtering from above. Drops of water fell with the precision of time itself.

He moved deeper, one hand against the stone. The floor sloped downward to a small chamber where the air glowed faintly green. At its centre lay a shallow basin carved by nature—or by something patient enough to imitate it. In that basin pooled water clear as glass, and within it pulsed a single mote of light.

Mohammed knelt. The light was not reflection; it came from within the water, alive, responsive. He extended a finger, hesitated, and whispered the only prayer that came to mind. The surface quivered. The glow brightened.

Outside, the wind rose in sudden fury, howling through the entrance. Sand cascaded down like a curtain. The Prince looked up, startled—and saw, in that instant, the shape of a horse outlined against the cave mouth. Tall, silent, blacker than night, its eyes burning like twin stars.

The stallion did not breathe. It simply was, as if carved from shadow and starlight. Its mane drifted though no wind touched it. When it moved, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Mohammed’s heart pounded. He should have been afraid, yet awe swallowed fear. The creature stepped forward, hooves making no sound, and the green glow within the basin pulsed in answer. Light and shadow danced across the cavern walls, weaving shapes that might have been symbols, might have been memories.

The Prince rose slowly. Who are you? he whispered. The horse tilted its head, and within its eyes he glimpsed flashes—visions of stars collapsing, cities of glass, men in strange armour walking under metal suns. Then, as swiftly, the visions vanished.

He understood nothing except that the creature was calling him.

The desert was vast and wordless, yet somehow full of whispers.

Prince Mohammed rode on, his robe billowing behind him like a sail against the golden waves of sand. The air shimmered with heat, and the stallion—coal-black, muscle like liquid iron—moved as if it had always known the way. Its hooves left no mark.

At first, Mohammed thought it was the exhaustion that made the world blur at the edges. But then, he noticed something strange. The horizon itself began to bend, as if folding inward—sand dunes turning to pale light, the air heavy with invisible voices.

He slowed the horse. Easy now...

The stallion tossed its mane, eyes glinting with a metallic sheen.

A tremor passed through the ground. The desert fell quiet. Even the wind stopped.

And then, ahead of him, the earth split open—not violently, but gracefully, like a curtain being drawn aside. Beneath the shifting dunes, a dark hollow appeared. The entrance to a cave.

The stallion neighed softly, lowering its head toward the chasm as if in reverence.

Mohammed dismounted, every instinct warring within him—fear, curiosity, awe. He walked forward, the dry air cooling as he neared the shadow.

Inside, faint blue light