He asked a grave for revenge. Then someone called to say the request had been accepted.

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Story Chapter Name: Beneath Sand and Gold
Book name : Silence Called Me
Series name: Sigil of Silence
Sequence : Book 1 of the series
Author: Zyphar Animas
Editor: Nimo Verin
Publisher: Print & Digital
Published: 2026
ISBN Ebook: 9789843588944
ISBN paper back: 9789843588470

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Sheikh Jawad Al Awadi came to Phuket carrying a private blood debt—but a message from the desert suggests someone, or something, already knows how it ends.

This five-star playground is carved into Kathu’s forested hills—marketed as eco-friendly, as if steel and glass could ever leave a jungle untouched.

One narrow road snakes past the gates—Patong Beach is close enough to walk, if you don’t get run down by scooters or lost chasing cheap thrills.

Every room here sells a split world—mountains lush and green on one side, the Andaman Sea’s perfect crescent on the other.

But that view? Costs four figures just to wake up and see it.

Out on the wooden deck off the restaurant, chairs line up over blue water—soft cushions for anyone who can pay the toll.

Sheikh Jawad bin Abdel al-Awadi leans back, eyes tracing the scatter of islands floating on glass. But his head’s however, remained fixed on a more practical matter—expenses.

He hates when courtesy gets mistaken for weakness.

That’s why the booking process stung—he’d left it to his trusted secretary, only to show up and find his friend Payman Habib booked the same suite for half price, just by clicking an app.

Money isn’t the actual issue.

Lord Almighty gave him more than enough.

What flowed from Kuwait’s oil fields could purchase this whole resort, empty it out, and let him live alone if he wanted.

But that small moment stuck with him.

Every time he lets someone else handle the details, disappointment creeps in.

The cash means nothing, but the lesson hit: trust is a currency, and it keeps losing value.

He silently thanked the Almighty for sending the reminder, small as it was.

The meeting ahead? It’ll take sharp judgment—he’s here for the family,and nothing about it will be clean or easy.Then there’s another job, a private one—he’d meant to lean on Habib for both.Now, he’ll handle it himself.

His father, Marḥūm Sheikh Abdel al-Awadi,left more than oil—he left duty.

Spend for the Ummah, not just for pride.

That’s why Awadi’s here, not for leisure, but to hold the line.

This group collects donations and turns them into weapons—funds bombings, trains mujahideen, launches attacks against American and Israeli targets in half a dozen countries.

They say it’s all for the Ummah, the righteous struggle.

But Awadi’s never sure—does any of it really serve the people, or just feed the war machine, one bloodstained slogan at a time?

Their whole funding system? Designed to leave no trail for any law on earth.

Each family got their own donation quota. No one wired cash. Instead, the chosen member flew out to playgrounds like Phuket and dropped the exact sum in Chinese-run casinos.

On paper, it was gambling—haram, sure—but they called it a necessary sin,something owed for the greater cause.

Legally, there was zero trace.

No one could tie a single dollar to any militant funding.

And for men with Awadi’s bank, bleeding out millions at a casino just looked like a perfect weekend.

The operation was ruthless.

Brilliant, even.

For a moment Awadi thought, If that brilliance turned toward building schools, creating jobs, actually lifting up the Muslims—maybe the world would look different. Maybe they’d have done more for their people than all the bombs and ambushes put together.

But Awadi’s own feelings didn’t matter.

His father’s last order stood.

His old man had been tight with Hamas’s political chief, IsrafelHaniyah.

Some whispered that’s what got him killed—slow poison, secret and quiet.

Maybe so.

Even though his Marḥūm father lived apart with the youngest wife, the blood tie never broke.

Jawad never set foot in his own door without first greeting his father. 

That bond was real.And that was why his last order—to continue supporting the organization—could not be ignored.

Awadi had thought about sending Habib in to carry on with the organization’s procedures.

Now he would handle it himself—thoroughly.

Then he had another job to settle.

A killing.

Not for any holy cause.

This one was personal.

Sgt. Luther King was in Phuket now—the same man who killed his cousin, Fahad Al Awadi.

As family head, it was on Awadi to avenge him.

Anything less, and he’d look weak.

And this wasn’t just about image.

He’d loved Fahad—closer than blood.

He could have handed the job to the organization—but trusting them with something this close? Stupid move.

They’d use it as leverage, hold it over him for future favors.

Even if they took the job, he’d still be paying the price.

Better to get it done himself, clean and quiet.

Habib was the one who’d set up the deal—he’d even found the right tool for the job. But the first time Awadi mentioned the hit, Habib suggested something so insane it almost made him hang up.

It sounded like one of those wild desert legends.

Habib was only on the job because he’d found the right tool to do it.

First time Awadi mentioned the issue, Habib pitched a fix so off-the-wall Awadi nearly killed the call right there.

Desert bullshit—one of those stories men pass around to scare the sleep out of each other.

He talked about Al Madam. Sharjah desert.

A mound covered in scrub,a grave left to rot for three centuries.

The legend ran like this:

Anyone seeking payback—murder, betrayal, some wound that never closed—writes it out, wraps it with blood orchids, lays it on that grave.

If the pain’s real, if the plea is true, an ancient being named Darius drags itself out of the dirt to cash the check.

Awadi laughed, almost hung up—

But Al Madam was real, and the place was bent.

Daytime—houses, mosque, empty lanes, looks normal.

Night falls and the village just vanishes.

Gone.

People blamed sandstorms, said the wind swallowed the whole place, spit it back by dawn.

But it was too neat. Too exact.

Night after night—same trick.

Fog, heat, shifting air—everyone had a theory.

But no one could explain why the whole village disappeared after dark.

And business boomed on the lie.

Tourists came from everywhere, chasing ghosts with cameras.

YouTubers tripped over each other trying to make it viral.

Emiratis made a fortune just letting idiots wander the dunes.

But Awadi wasn’t buying the ghost story.

After years tangled up with shadow networks, he’d learned to spot setups, masks, manufactured magic.

To him, the legend was just camouflage for something running in the dark, using stories to keep people stupid.

He assumed, Hoax or not, real people might be behind it.

He followed Habib’s instructions.

Did the ritual, step by step.

Wrote the plea, gathered the flowers, went to the grave.

A month crawled by. Nothing happened.

Awadi started thinking he’d been played for a fool,just another mark suckered by local myth.

Few days later, when he received notice about his organization’s meeting in Phuket, he thought of calling Habib in a few days to discuss the whole matter.

Before he could make that call, his phone buzzed—Habib’s number.

Voice came through muffled, barely above a whisper,like it was crawling out from the bottom of a well.

The caller informed him that his request had been accepted.

The revenge would be carried out on his behalf.

The time and location of the execution would be provided soon.

Then the call ended.

The fact that anyone could joke about something this serious made it hard for Awadi to keep calling Habib a friend.Emiratis loved their bravado, sure—but mocking a brother’s murder wasn’t just reckless, it was a break with every bond that mattered.

Disappointment curdled into anger, slow and sharp.

He remembered the old rule—if anger rises while standing, sit down; if sitting, lie down.

That night, he went home and lay flat.

Sleep came easy.

Until Habib’s number flashed on the screen, shattering the quiet.

This time, the voice was different:

—Soon, you will be sent to the Andaman coast.

The task will be completed there.

Head will be hunted.

They will face the same fire you feel in your heart.

You must carry gratitude for this service.

Keep the plea and the Orchids to yourself.

A worthy soul will be sent to carry out the work.

Answer…

when silence calls your name.

It could have been a prank, another sick flex—except for two things.

Nobody, not even Habib, knew about the issue with ‘head’.

And nobody had a clue about his Phuket plan.

His cousin, Fahad Al Awadi, had joined Afghan Mujahedeen.

Could have died like many others—shot in battle.

The family would have accepted it as the fate of a martyr.

But instead of being killed in combat, Fahad had been burned alive.

And along with his charred body, his perfectly intact severed head had been sent back—wrapped like a final insult.

Americans didn’t usually pull that kind of brutality.

Maybe they wanted to send a harsh message to the families of Mujahideen.

But instead of fear, it only pushed the families toward total resistance.

So far, Awadi hadn’t told Habib about these specific details of Fahad’s murder.

Which means—whoever called knew more than secrets.

Awadi called back.

Habib answered in his usual jokes and sunlight, swearing he’d made no calls, nothing in his logs.

Awadi didn’t push.

He needed to see him anyway.

The caller’s last instruction was to recover the orchids and the plea—meant a return to Al Madam.

Even if only a fraction of it was true—he had to know.

For the first time in years, a faint light cut through—hope for vengeance, sharp enough to chase ghost stories.

The next day, Awadi met Habib—laid it all out.

The organization. The cousin burned and beheaded.

They went back to the old grave, picked up the orchids and the note.

But the air had changed.

Last time, the orchids barely held a scent—just a memory of something sweet.

Now, the fragrance punched out, heavy and fresh, as if the flowers had just been cut. Maybe someone tampered with them. Maybe the whole thing was a trick.

In a world wired for surveillance, any smart crew could hack calls, scrape private histories, turn ghost stories into leverage.

Spirits or not, but Awadi could feel there was clearly a real hand behind the curtain.That’s why Awadi brought Habib for backup—to help run the game, and to introduce him tonight to the inner circle of the organization.

But now, it seemed the Almighty had shifted his heart.

Habib’s presence gave him courage, sure.

Yet from this point forward, Sheikh Awadi would handle everything directly.

Personally.

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Revenge rarely arrives alone.

“Beneath Sand and Gold” is a Revenge Mystery Thriller from Silence Called Me by Zyphar Animas, where Phuket’s luxury coastline and an old desert mystery become connected by a private blood debt.

If the story draws you in, explore more chapters from Silence Called Me and the wider world of Zyphar Animas.

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Story Summary

“Beneath Sand and Gold” begins in Phuket, where Sheikh Jawad bin Abdel al-Awadi sits inside the luxury of Aamari Resort carrying responsibilities that have nothing to do with leisure.

He is there for a meeting connected to an organization his family has supported for years. The network collects donations through a system designed to leave no legal trail, using wealthy families, foreign travel, and casino losses to move money toward militant operations. Awadi inherited the obligation from his father, who left him not only wealth from Kuwait’s oil fields but a duty he can no longer easily separate from family loyalty.

Yet Awadi’s doubts are growing.

He sees the intelligence behind the funding operation and cannot stop wondering what that same intelligence might have built if it had been directed toward schools, jobs, and the lives of ordinary Muslims instead of bombs and war. But his private doubts do not free him from his father’s final instruction.

Then there is another reason Awadi is in Phuket.

Revenge.

His cousin, Fahad Al Awadi, was not killed in ordinary combat. He was burned alive, and his severed head was sent back to the family as a final insult. Awadi loved him deeply. As the head of the family, he believes the blood debt now belongs to him.

He wants Sgt. Luther King dead.

At first, Awadi considers handling the killing through his trusted friend, Payman Habib. Habib instead suggests something that sounds like madness: an old revenge ritual connected to Al Madam in the Sharjah desert.

The legend speaks of a grave hidden beneath scrub and sand.

Anyone carrying an unbearable wound can write down their plea, wrap it with blood orchids, and leave it at the grave. If the pain is real and the request worthy, an ancient being named Darius may rise from beneath the earth and carry out the revenge.

Awadi does not believe in the story.

Al Madam is real, but he assumes the legend is another manufactured mystery built around the strange reputation of the desert settlement. At night, the village is said to disappear beneath the sand. Tourists come looking for ghosts. Online personalities chase viral footage. Awadi has spent too many years around intelligence networks and deception to mistake every strange story for the supernatural.

He performs the ritual anyway.

Then nothing happens.

A month passes. Awadi begins to believe Habib has made him a fool.

Then Habib’s number appears on his phone.

The voice on the other end is muffled and unfamiliar.

It tells him that his request has been accepted.

The revenge will be carried out on his behalf.

The call ends.

Awadi assumes Habib is behind the joke until another call arrives with information no one should possess. The caller knows details about Fahad’s death that Awadi never shared. It knows about the severed head. It knows Awadi is about to travel to Phuket. And it gives him a final instruction:

“Answer… when silence calls your name.”

Awadi calls Habib, who denies making either call.

Now the story has changed.

The desert legend may still be a hoax. Someone may be manipulating Awadi through surveillance, private information, and carefully staged fear. But someone—or something—has stepped beyond coincidence.

Awadi returns to Al Madam with Habib to recover the orchids and the written plea.

The flowers have changed.

What had once carried only the faint memory of a fragrance now smells freshly cut, heavy and alive.

Awadi cannot explain it.

He does not need to believe in spirits to understand that there is a hand behind the curtain.

By the time he returns to Phuket, Sheikh Awadi is no longer willing to leave the important decisions to other people. He will attend the meeting. He will handle the organization himself. He will pursue the revenge personally.

And somewhere between the luxury of the Andaman coast and the silence of an old Arabian grave, his private blood debt is already moving toward an answer.