To the cross, to the prison, to the sky, to the grave. In your arms, my love, is where Iʼll die. When Sultan wakes up in the heart of the desert with nothing but a pen in his hand, a curse on his back, and a name he canʼt remember, the only thing he knows is her -- the veiled woman who haunts his dreams. In a storytelling realm, where history is fiction, currency is literature, and stories make up the world we live in, Sultan seeks to understand his dreams: A warlord with blood on his hands. A slave mongerʼs daughter, desperate to feel something. Thatʼs what made their affair so whispered about. And thatʼs what would bring the world to its knees. In his dreams, the veiled womanʼs whispers are a prophecy - to the cross, to the prison, to the sky, to the grave: There will be killing in Scotland, Sultan. There will be killing ʼtill the score is paid.