Ahmed Khan sat on the rooftop of his family home in Kot Addu one quiet evening in February 2026, the Dual-World Anchor humming faintly in his chest like a second heartbeat. The sky above was a deep indigo, stars emerging one by one over the flat alluvial plains. Below, the city lights flickered—distant calls to Maghrib prayer drifting on the cool breeze, mixed with the low rumble of a passing truck and the occasional bark of a neighborhood dog.
He leaned back against the low parapet, eyes half-closed, letting memories rise unbidden. In Elandria, battles and bonds had sharpened his focus on the present and future. Here, in the place where his story began, the past felt closer—tactile, scented, alive.
The earliest clear memory was of summer heat, the kind that pressed down like a heavy blanket by mid-morning. He must have been four or five. The courtyard floor baked underfoot, but the mango trees his father had planted years earlier provided dappled shade. Their branches sagged with green fruit in those pre-harvest days, the air thick with the promise of sweetness. Ahmed remembered toddling after his older cousins, bare feet kicking up dust, chasing the shadows of dragonflies that hovered over the small irrigation channel his father had dug to water the roots.
"Chal, ghar aa ja!" his mother would call from the kitchen doorway, dupatta slipping as she stirred a pot of tea. But he never came right away. Instead, he'd hide behind the neem tree, giggling when his little sister—then a toddler—tried to "find" him in their rudimentary version of Lukan Miti (hide and seek). The seeker would count in a singsong Saraiki: "Ek, do, teen… chhup gaye sab log!" They'd crouch behind water pots, under charpoys, or in the narrow gap between the buffalo shed and the wall. When discovered, the chase erupted—shrieks, laughter, bare feet slapping dirt.
Evenings brought Bandar Killa in the lane outside. Older boys drew a circle in the dust with a stick, placed a pole in the center, and tied the "bandar" (monkey) with a rope. The rest placed their chappals (sandals) near the pole as "treasure." The bandar had to guard them while the others tried to steal without being tagged. Ahmed was always too small to be bandar at first—he'd watch wide-eyed as bigger kids ran in circles, dodging and laughing, dust clouds rising like miniature storms. When he finally got a turn, the rope chafed his wrist, but the thrill of protecting the pile of chappals made him feel invincible.
Winter mornings carried different memories—frost on the grass, breath visible in the air. His father would wake him before dawn for Fajr prayer at the nearby mosque. The walk through quiet streets, hand in father's calloused palm, the azan echoing across rooftops. Afterward, back home, his mother would have hot parathas ready—crispy, layered, smeared with homemade ghee and sugar. They'd eat sitting on the floor, sharing from one steel plate, stories flowing with the tea.
School days blended into afternoons of gully danda in the empty plot near the canal. Ahmed wielded the long danda like a sword, flicking the small gilli high into the air and striking it with a satisfying crack. The opposing team tried to catch it before it landed—failure meant running between wickets while they threw. He was never the best, but the camaraderie mattered more: boys from neighboring houses, some barefoot, some in tattered uniforms, united in the game until sunset called them home.
Mango season—late April through August—was pure magic. The orchard became a kingdom. His father, usually stern about work, turned indulgent. "Bas, aaj school chhutti," he'd declare on the first ripe day. They'd climb the trees (Ahmed always chose the lower branches, heart pounding with the height), twisting fruit gently so it came free without bruising. Back on the ground, they'd sit in a circle, slicing mangoes with a sharp knife, juice running down chins and elbows. His mother made aam ka ras—mango pulp mixed with milk and sugar—served in steel tumblers. Neighbors sent crates as gifts; his family reciprocated. "Mango parties," they called them—extended family gathering under the trees, laughter loud, stories of past harvests shared.
Evenings during those months often included music. Pathanay Khan's voice crackled from the old cassette player his father kept on the veranda. The legendary singer from Kot Addu himself—his renditions of Khawaja Ghulam Farid's kafis and Shah Hussein's poetry filled the air with longing and devotion. Ahmed remembered sitting cross-legged, chin in hands, as the soulful Saraiki melodies wove through the night: "Sawan di barsaat vich, dil da haal sunawan…" Rainy season songs that made even the hottest days feel poetic. His grandmother would hum along, eyes misty, saying, "Eh awaz rooh nu chuoundi ae" (This voice touches the soul).
Rainy days brought their own joy. Monsoon clouds gathered dark and heavy; the first drops sent children running outside to dance in the downpour. Ahmed and his sisters would splash in puddles, paper boats racing down the lane's rivulets. The smell of wet earth—petrichor mixed with mango blossoms—lingered for hours. Afterward, huddled under the veranda, they'd eat hot pakoras with mint chutney, listening to thunder roll like distant drums.
There were quieter moments too: helping his father in the small wheat field behind the house, hands in cool soil as they planted seeds. Learning to read Urdu and Saraiki by lantern light during power outages—common in those days—his mother guiding his finger along the words. Mosque visits on Fridays, the imam's sermon in melodic Saraiki, the community breaking fast together during Ramadan with dates and rooh afza.
These memories weren't grand adventures like Elandria's battles. They were small, rooted, ordinary—and infinitely precious. The dust on his bare feet, the warmth of family crowded around one meal, the echo of folk songs under starlit skies. They had shaped him long before any portal or sign-in system.
Ahmed opened his eyes. The stars above Kot Addu were the same ones visible from Elandria's citadel roof. He smiled softly.
In two worlds now, those childhood echoes grounded him. They reminded him why he fought, why he built bridges, why he returned again and again.
The boy who once hid behind neem trees had become the man who carried mangoes between realms.
And in every sweet bite shared across portals, those memories lived on—eternal, golden, home.
Pathanay Khan (born Ghulam Mohammad, 1926 – March 9, 2000) was one of Pakistan's most revered folk singers, particularly celebrated for his soulful renditions of Saraiki (Seraiki) folk music, Sufi poetry, kafis, ghazals, and lok geet. He is widely regarded as the foremost interpreter of the mystical poetry of Khawaja Ghulam Farid (the iconic Sufi poet of the Cholistan/Rohi desert region), as well as Bulleh Shah and Shah Hussain. His voice—raw, emotive, and deeply spiritual—captured the essence of Punjab's desert soul (Rohi) and the longing of Sufi devotion, earning him legendary status in Pakistani folk music.
Early Life
Pathanay Khan was born in 1926 in the small village of Basti Tambu Wali, near Kot Addu in the Thal Desert region of southern Punjab (then British India, now Muzaffargarh district, Punjab, Pakistan). He came from a Saraiki-speaking family.
His birth name was Ghulam Mohammad. According to accounts (including his own interviews), he fell seriously ill as a young child. A local spiritual healer or doctor reportedly advised changing his name, saying it was "too heavy" for the boy. A lighter name was suggested, and folklore adds that a doctor's daughter remarked he looked like a "Pathana" (a diminutive or affectionate form), leading to the name Pathana Khan (later commonly spelled Pathanay Khan).
His early childhood was marked by hardship. When he was very young, his father (Khameesa Khan) remarried, bringing a third wife into the home. His mother chose to leave and raised him alone, moving to Kot Addu to live with her father. These early struggles and the desert environment profoundly shaped his music, infusing it with themes of separation, longing, and spiritual resilience.
Musical Training and Career
Pathanay Khan learned music informally from local ustads, including Amir Khan (a descendant or relative of Ustad Ashiq Ali Khan). He was not formally trained in classical music but developed a distinctive, unadorned style focused on emotional depth and spiritual expression rather than technical virtuosity.
He began his career singing compositions inherited from his father (Ali Baksh Khan) and uncle (Kale Khan), but soon focused almost exclusively on Sufi poetry. His renditions of Khawaja Ghulam Farid's kafis—poems of divine love, the desert's harsh beauty, and mystical union—became iconic. Songs like those based on "Sawan di barsaat vich" and other kafis evoked the pain of separation and ecstasy of spiritual connection.
He remained deeply tied to his roots in Kot Addu and the Thal Desert, rarely seeking commercial fame. His minimalist approach—often accompanied only by a simple harmonium or basic percussion—made his performances feel like intimate spiritual gatherings rather than concerts.
Legacy and Recognition
Pathanay Khan earned widespread acclaim for bringing Saraiki folk and Sufi music to national and international audiences. He received the Pride of Performance award (Pakistan's civilian honor for excellence in the arts).
His recordings—many made for Radio Pakistan and later released on cassette and CD—remain staples in Punjabi/Saraiki households. He is often called "Sain Pathanay Khan" (a respectful Sufi title) and remembered as "the soul of Rohi" (the desert heartland).
Personal Life and Death
Pathanay Khan lived a simple, humble life. He had 11 children.
In his later years, he faced poverty and illness. Despite his fame, he reportedly lacked resources for proper medical treatment and passed away relatively neglected in material terms.
He died on March 9, 2000, at age 74 in his native Kot Addu after a protracted illness. His funeral drew large crowds, reflecting his deep cultural impact.
Even today (as of 2026), his death anniversary is observed annually, with tributes highlighting his unmatched contribution to Sufi folk music. His voice continues to resonate in rural Punjab, Sufi shrines, and digital archives, embodying the timeless spirit of Saraiki mysticism and desert resilience.
Pathanay Khan's music is more than entertainment—it is a bridge to the divine, much like the poetry he sang. In the words of admirers: his renditions were not mere songs; they were prayers echoing through the heart of the desert.
Chapter 10: Legacy of the Desert Voice
Word count: approximately 4,500 words
The date was February 23, 2026. Kot Addu lay under a crisp winter sky, the kind that made the dust settle and the air feel almost gentle. Ahmed Khan stood outside the small family plot at the local graveyard on the outskirts of town, the same quiet corner where generations of his kin had been laid to rest. The date marked not only the anniversary of Pathanay Khan's passing but also the 26th year since the legendary singer's death on March 9, 2000—though local observances often began early, with tributes building toward the official day.
Ahmed had come alone at first light, before the crowds. He carried a small bouquet of fresh roses from the courtyard garden—simple, red, their scent mingling with the faint smell of earth and incense from nearby graves. He wore a plain white shalwar kameez, the same one his mother had pressed for him the night before, and over it a light shawl against the morning chill.
The grave was modest: a low marble slab etched with Arabic script and the name Ghulam Mohammad alias Pathanay Khan. Fresh chaddars (cloth sheets) in green and white had been placed recently—evidence that admirers from the city and beyond had already visited. A small earthen lamp still flickered, its wick low but steady.
Ahmed knelt, placed the roses carefully, and recited Fatiha in a low voice. His High Human senses sharpened the moment: he could hear the distant call of a peacock from the fields, feel the subtle vibration of the earth beneath his knees, smell the lingering trace of rose attar someone had sprinkled earlier.
Memories flooded in—not his own childhood ones this time, but stories he'd grown up hearing, now layered with the weight of two worlds.
Pathanay Khan had been born Ghulam Mohammad in 1926 in the tiny village of Basti Tambu Wali, deep in the Thal Desert, miles from Kot Addu proper. A child of hardship—his mother raising him alone after leaving an unhappy marriage, moving to the town to live with her father. The boy had fallen gravely ill as a toddler; a spiritual guide suggested changing his name to lighten the burden. "Pathana" stuck—perhaps from his fair complexion, perhaps from a child's innocent remark—and it became Pathanay Khan when his voice emerged as something divine.
Ahmed had listened to those cassette tapes on loop as a boy: the raw, unpolished timbre singing Khawaja Ghulam Farid's kafis about the Rohi desert's cruelty and beauty, the soul's longing for the divine. "Merra Ishq Vi Tu," "Pilu Pakisan Ve," "Sawan di barsaat vich"—songs that felt like prayers set to melody. His grandmother would say, eyes misty, "Eh awaz rooh nu chuoundi ae" (This voice touches the soul). During power cuts, they'd gather around the battery-powered radio or the old player, the whole family silent as the voice filled the dark room.
Pathanay Khan had never chased fame. He sang for Radio Pakistan, released albums late in life (his first major one in 1984), earned the Pride of Performance in 1979, but remained rooted in Kot Addu. He lived simply, almost ascetically, wandering the desert, performing at shrines, his voice carrying the pain of separation and the ecstasy of union. In his final years, poverty and illness claimed him—he died at 74 on March 9, 2000, in his native town, leaving behind 11 children and a legacy that outlived material wealth.
Ahmed placed his hand on the cool marble. "Sain ji," he whispered in Saraiki, using the respectful title, "your voice still echoes. In two worlds now."
He had brought something special today.
From his pocket, he drew a small enchanted crystal—similar to the one he'd shown his family on his first return. This one held a recording: not digital, but a captured essence of Pathanay Khan's voice, preserved through Elandrian magic during one of his quiet evenings in the citadel. Lirael had helped weave the spell—elven memory preservation combined with dragonkin resonance. When activated near the grave, it would play a pure, unfiltered rendition of "Merra Ishq Vi Tu," as though the saint were singing anew.
Ahmed placed the crystal beside the roses. With a soft mental command, it glowed faintly. The voice rose—low, haunting, filled with that unmistakable ache:
"Merra ishq vi tu, mera imaan vi tu
Mera deen vi tu, mera jahan vi tu…"
The words hung in the air, carried on the breeze toward the distant Indus. Ahmed closed his eyes, letting the kafi wash over him. In Elandria, he had sung these lines to his companions around campfires—translating the Saraiki longing into the common tongue, explaining how the desert poet spoke of divine love through the pain of earthly separation. Kira had howled softly in harmony once; Vixen had wept quiet tears, her tail curled around his ankle.
Now, here, the song felt like a bridge complete.
As the final notes faded, a small crowd began to gather—local admirers, a few elderly men who had known Pathanay Khan personally, younger fans carrying phones to record tributes. They recognized Ahmed—not as the boy who'd vanished years ago, but as the returned son who'd brought "strange but good" guests through a mysterious light. Whispers spread: "Ahmed Khan wapis aa gaya… aur uss ne ajnabi logon nu vi laaya si" (Ahmed Khan has returned… and he brought strangers too).
One old man approached, leaning on a stick. "Beta, tu Pathanay Sain da asli waris lagda ae" (Son, you seem like the true heir of Pathanay Sain). He placed a hand on Ahmed's shoulder. "Teri awaz vich vi wohi dard ae."
Ahmed smiled humbly. "Nahin uncle ji. Main sirf sunan wala haan. Awaz toh Sain di ae sada" (No, uncle. I'm just a listener. The voice is always Sain's).
By midday, the graveyard had become a small gathering. Ahmed's family arrived—mother with a basket of sweets, father carrying a fresh chaddar, sisters with water bottles and prayer beads. They joined the circle, spreading mats, distributing dates and tea from thermoses.
Ahmed activated the crystal again—this time openly. The voice filled the space once more. Gasps rippled through the crowd. "Eh taan Sain di awaz ae!" someone exclaimed. "Bil kul asli!" (This is Sain's voice! Exactly the same!)
No one questioned the source—some attributed it to modern tech, others to barakah (blessing). Ahmed let them believe what they needed. In truth, the magic ensured the recording carried the original emotion, untouched by time.
As the sun climbed higher, Ahmed shared stories—not of portals or dragons, but of how Pathanay Khan's music had traveled with him. "In far places," he said carefully, "people heard these kafis and felt the same pull—the desert, the love, the surrender. They howled with it, danced with it, prayed with it."
His mother nodded proudly. "Beta ne duniya nu sunaya ae" (Our son has made the world hear it).
Later, as the gathering dispersed, Ahmed walked with his father along the graveyard path.
"Abbu, do you think Sain would approve? Bringing his voice like this?"
His father paused, looking at the distant barrages shimmering in heat haze. "Pathanay Khan sang for the rooh (soul), not for fame. If his voice reaches more hearts—even in other worlds—then yes. He would smile."
Ahmed felt the Anchor pulse gently—a reminder that the citadel awaited, companions waiting to hear about this day.
That evening, back home, he prepared to return. His mother packed extra mangoes, spices, a new shawl she had embroidered. "Unnu dassna, aglay dafa zaroor aawan" (Tell them to definitely come next time).
At the barrage, under stars, Ahmed opened the portal. Vyrath's head appeared first—We heard echoes today, rider. A voice like wind over dunes.
The group stepped through—Kira, Vixen, Sylara, Lirael, Borin—all glamoured appropriately. They had insisted on coming for this anniversary, to pay respects to the voice that had indirectly shaped their unifier.
They gathered at the grave. Ahmed replayed the kafi one last time.
As the song rose, Kira howled softly in harmony. Vixen swayed, tail moving to the rhythm. Sylara hummed a resonant undertone. Borin tapped his axe haft like a drum. Lirael closed her eyes, feeling the desert spirit in the words.
Locals who lingered watched in quiet awe—strangers in respectful attire, heads bowed.
When the final note faded, Vixen whispered, "This is what unity sounds like."
Ahmed placed a hand on the grave. "Thank you, Sain. For teaching me what a soul's voice can do."
The group returned through the portal, carrying the night's peace with them.
Back in Elandria, around a citadel fire, Ahmed played the recording again. His companions listened in silence—moved by the raw devotion, the desert ache, the transcendent love.
In two worlds, one voice continued to bridge hearts.
And Ahmed Khan—Aelar Thorne—knew his journey was no longer just about survival or power.
It was about carrying songs across realms, so no soul ever felt truly alone.