The sands shifted restlessly in the lavender sunset. Dust danced upwards and formed intricate patterns before falling down once more. Through the eyes of those ignorant, it was a regular spectacle - seeing the wind pick up dust and then throwing it back down again as if on a whim. The oracle that stood here though was not ignorant.
She gazed with half-lidded eyes, as if in a dream. She saw the patterns made from the golden grains. She knew the signs. It was inevitable after all. The boy was still alive. The game was still alive. That did not stop her from worrying.
The breeze carved a story in the glorified dirt. Not a story of golden light as if from the sun, but a story as tragic as the setting sun. Blood baths, rising kings, falling kings, chaos, anarchy, dragons, Gods, heroes, monsters, wars, battles, time.
No one cared much anymore. Her brother placed a sturdy hand on her shoulder.
She bit her lip silently.
The sand heard anyway. The sand always heard.
He was always too powerful to stay dead.