"That day, I was nearly twenty. I lived with my father the baker, my mother, my younger sister, and my grandmother — my grandmother was the closest person to me. She would always sit me beside her, run her hand over my head, and tell me about the legends of the ancients, about her ancestors from the old line of Hursu. Those were remarkable days — until he came.
"One morning, enormous fireballs dropped from the sky. I didn't know what they were, of course. But the adults around me were screaming — 'the invaders have come.' It was the first time in my life I lived through something I had only heard about in my grandmother's stories.
"The fireballs kept falling. Buildings collapsed, people burned in front of me. I remember a man crawling toward me on fire, reaching out, asking me to help him — and I couldn't. What can a young man do in a moment of terror like that? What froze me completely was the sight of a large number of soldiers vaulting over the city walls, strangling our guards with that ability you people of the desert call the Sand Gift. They brought down the gate guards, opened the gate, and let the rest of the army through.
"And from behind the gate, an older man rode forward on a black horse with a white marking. I won't deny that his bearing was imposing — but his face was the most hateful thing I had ever seen, and I still feel that way now. He rode with his sword resting on his shoulder, and like any butcher, he ordered his soldiers to take the city. They seized children, assaulted women, killed men and broke them. That is the great leader you followed, Amro. That is the one you called — Qaydar the Conqueror."
Sarem stopped.
Amro sat in silence, his eyes trembling. This was the first time Sarem had ever broken open and told his story — and the problem wasn't simply that a person had been holding wounds for years. The problem was that Amro had not known his childhood friend at all, not the way he'd believed.
He wanted to speak. The words stuck in his throat and refused to come. And in that moment he felt the weight lift from his body — Sarem had cancelled the force that had been holding him down.
Then Sarem narrowed his eyes and said, with an edge sharpening in his voice:
"Don't think the story is over. This is where it begins."
Amro stared at him, shaken. It isn't over? After everything he'd just heard, he no longer knew where to stand — whether to believe Sarem, or to go on defending the man he had served.
"After they raided the city, they took all the women as spoils and seized all the children as I said. My family survived — my father was a baker, not a soldier, so they spared him. We ended up as servants and slaves in your army's keeping. They used me to clean the horses. My sister — they made her a pleasure servant."
Amro's eyes widened with an emotion he couldn't name — something between being moved and being lost.
"How is he saying this without his eyes changing? He tells it as though it means nothing to him."
And indeed — throughout the telling, Sarem's face had not moved. The same dark, piercing eyes, the same imposing features, entirely still, entirely disengaged from what came out of his mouth. If anything, it was Amro who looked affected.
Sarem allowed a cold smile and said:
"I see you're moved. It's too early to be moved — there's much more. I'll tell you everything, until you know the truth about your master."
Amro's brow pulled together. He wanted to push back — but something inside him was already saying: "His story sounds real. Is it possible that — no. That's impossible."
Then he said, with a voice that was slightly unsteady:
"The leader was never what you describe. He was an honourable man — warm. He always treated me with care and respect, and I was a servant in his house..."
"You say 'treated you,'" Sarem cut in. "You — not us. And you only ever saw one face of him. The fact that he treated you well doesn't make him honourable. Do you know why he treated you with respect, even as a servant?"
"Why?"
"Because you are of his blood. You too come from a distinguished line. All of you who bear the Sand Gift descend from the same ancestor — and you were a respected servant because you belong to the same origin as your great leader. Whereas I — I am a lowly slave from a lowly origin, whose land was seized and destroyed. And by whom?"
Sarem brought his face close to Amro's.
"By a group of herdsmen who came out of the deep desert."
Amro felt the anger surge and yanked against the chains:
"Take that back. Who do you think—"
Sarem placed his hand on Amro's shoulder.
"Calm yourself, old friend. We are only talking. Whatever the case, I'm giving you my opinion. And I think I now understand the root of our difference — it was always the difference in how we were treated. You saw his warm face and his warmth. I saw his ugly one. You formed a good impression of him. I hated him — despised him — and wanted to kill him."
He paused to let Amro absorb it.
But Amro resisted.
"I think you've only confused things, Sarem. The leader was a noble man — he saved many people, even from other peoples and races. And yet you say he—"
Sarem raised his hand.
"Allow me. Your master did not show mercy because he was merciful. He was not even merciful with his own son — so how could he be merciful with strangers?"
Amro's brow drew together.
"What are you pointing at?"
"We've arrived at the heart of it. The truth you didn't know, Amro — Qaydar the Conqueror was not merciful then, and you know very well the story of the fortress and the people being subjected to experiments inside it. Everyone said the leader Qaydar saved a group of people from the mad ruler of the fortress of Nirva — but they don't tell you that he killed an innocent man to obtain the treasure. And you know exactly what I'm referring to."
Sarem went quiet, a slow, unreadable smile on his face.
Amro narrowed his eyes.
"The manuscript."
Sarem clapped three times, slowly.
"Precisely. The manuscript. After Qaydar killed the man — who was in truth a monk belonging to the order of the Red Angels—"
Amro cut him off, his voice quiet and cold this time:
"What is the purpose of all this? You're showing only the dark side — ignoring the good treatment, the honourable acts — and beyond that you're trying to tarnish his victory by claiming he killed an innocent man. I was beginning to feel something close to sympathy for you, Sarem, but you've revealed yourself as someone who tears down what others have built because he can't bear that they succeeded. That is what you've become — a man who failed, and who betrayed the trust placed in him in the end."
Sarem answered without pause:
"Let me be clear. I didn't tell you all of this to earn your sympathy. I don't care about any of it — about what I told you from my past, about everything that came after. Qaydar is history now. And I'm not foolish enough to spend my life chewing on old pain." He paused, adjusted his position, and when he continued his voice had lost some of its edge. "But you, Amro — you were the man I considered reasonable, perceptive. I was wrong. You are simply a man who grew up on obedience and loyalty, and that has made you nothing more than a hollow-headed follower."
Amro smiled with quiet confidence.
"You're still as stubborn as you always were, Sarem. You believe that anything which hurt you must be permanently wrong."
Sarem returned the smile and brought his face close.
"Amro. My old, foolish friend. You are still the same person — moved by everything, changed by nothing. I'm genuinely puzzled that all those years weren't enough to break your loyalty to this."
He stood, took hold of his sword, pushed the chair aside.
"I'll keep you alive out of our old friendship. I won't be the one to kill you — they will decide."
From behind him, four men appeared, surrounding Amro on all sides. All of them armed.
"At first I didn't want to hand you over to them — I thought perhaps I could persuade you. But today I understand that you deserve everything you're in. You brought this suffering on yourself. Good luck with whatever comes next."
As Sarem turned to leave, Amro called after him:
"Why are you doing all this? And what do you want with the boy?"
Sarem turned back.
"No matter what I tell you, you won't understand me. You're too stubborn. But I'll say this much — the boy: I will make from him the very monster you feared."
Amro wrenched the chains behind him with everything he had, his face gone red, the rage in him too large even for words. He nearly pulled the restraints from the wall entirely.
Sarem paid him no attention. He left in the same cold composure he'd arrived in. And the four masked men closed in on Amro from every side.
⁂
V.
The following morning, Kinan opened his eyes to find daylight coming through the small window. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, and made his way to the next room — where Anwar was preparing breakfast himself. The sight confused Kinan entirely.
"A criminal. Making breakfast. With his own hands."
Anwar noticed him and called out:
"Come to the table, boy. Your food is ready."
Kinan blinked several more times and sat down, pulling the chair out in silence, waiting.
"Eat — don't wait for me. We don't eat breakfast here. Today is an exception, for you only."
Kinan reached for a thin piece of flatbread, tore a piece, dipped it in oil, and picked up a boiled egg from the side of the table. He chewed slowly, the strangeness of the situation making every bite awkward — he wasn't accustomed to eating in the presence of strangers, and Anwar's behaviour had almost convinced him he hadn't been taken at all, that he was simply a guest.
"Strange people — they kidnap you and then host you. Is this real or am I dreaming?"
After he'd finished, he stayed at the table without moving, taking in the room: divided in two, half kitchen and half sitting area, its walls lined with weapons — daggers, swords of various lengths, axes, and other bladed things hung in rows.
In a moment of quiet, Anwar threw a knife — it struck the table directly in front of Kinan, who jolted hard. Then Anwar stepped forward.
"Have you finished?"
Kinan nodded.
"Good. Time to train."
Kinan's lips began to tremble. He didn't get a chance to speak or ask before Anwar took the knife, replaced it, and gestured for him to follow outside.
They stood facing each other — Anwar with two daggers in hand, Kinan's familiar sword already thrown to him.
"Come then. Try to kill me."
Kinan's forehead was already bright with sweat. He bent toward the sword, picked it up, and stood in a posture that made Anwar shake his head with immediate displeasure:
"Boy — fix your stance. Take a strong, stable position. Don't stand in front of me like that — it's so embarrassing it's making me want to beat you out of principle."
Kinan grew more rattled and tried a different position. It was no better. Anwar pressed his palm to his own forehead.
"This is my fault. Let me show you what a proper fighting stance looks like."
He moved forward and began adjusting Kinan's posture — and while he was doing so, a carrier pigeon landed nearby, bearing a letter on yellow paper. Anwar noticed the colour immediately. He went to the bird, untied the thread from its leg, took the letter, and read it.
His face changed.
He folded the letter into his side pouch and returned to his place as though nothing had happened.
"Right — form the stance I showed you."
Kinan began to take the position, but his mind was elsewhere.
"What was in that letter to change his face like that? And he came back as though it meant nothing. What does it have to do with me? Maybe nothing. But what if it does?... I don't know. I only want to know the truth — that's why I'm here. Why is he trying to train me?"
Then something clicked.
He let the sword fall from his hand and looked directly at Anwar.
"I want to understand something. Why are you doing this? I didn't come here to train — I came to know the truth. Unless..." He paused, swallowed, and pushed himself to finish. "Unless you're trying to distract me from what I actually came for."
Anwar pressed his palm to his face again.
"Tell me honestly — does this look like the face of someone who plays games like that? And besides, I'm not the one who'll tell you what you want to know—"
A voice came from behind them both:
"That would be me."
They turned. Sarem had returned.
"I'm ready to hear your questions, Kinan. But first I need a word with Anwar — alone."
Kinan hadn't processed any of it before Anwar was already gesturing for him to go back inside. He retreated slowly, and when he'd reached the door he stopped — and watched them through the gap.
"The operation is complete, Anwar," Sarem said, his voice low.
"Truly?"
"Yes. Last night I made the transfer — in exchange, we'll receive another group of men to help us execute the plan."
Anwar's smile was slow and shrewd.
"Good. A significant step forward, sir. Only one more remains."
Sarem patted his shoulder and turned toward the house.
Kinan heard the footsteps approaching and moved silently to his room, pulling the door closed behind him without a sound.
VI.
He sat on the bed and began pulling the threads together.
"Sarem is clearly the one in charge. Anwar is the assistant. The masked men are their people. Amro is with them now — and I'm here. What I need to know is what they want from me. And more than that — how do I verify that whatever they tell me is actually true?"
He pressed his hands together from the anxiety, then began pacing — back and forth across the small room — until the pressure in his head became too much to move through.
"God help me. I can feel the tension building and I can't contain it. Is all of this just fear? Fear is what's stopping me from saying what I need to say. This isn't the change I wanted. I want to understand what's happening."
And then — without a warning thought, without deciding — Kinan opened his door and walked toward Sarem, who was sitting in his chair with the composed, unhurried bearing that seemed to exist solely to make people stop in their tracks.
It worked. Kinan went rigid in the doorway.
Sarem looked up.
"Kinan. What do you want?"
The boy's tongue locked. He took a step back.
"Speak, Kinan. Say what you have." Sarem's voice was quieter this time — not warm, but not hostile.
Kinan steadied himself. He took a slow breath.
"I want to know the truth. I didn't come here to stay with you."
Sarem put his hand to his forehead — a gesture that seemed almost like recognition.
"Ah. I forgot — I never told you why I brought you here."
Kinan's heart jumped. Every part of him sharpened and leaned forward.
"I, Kinan, am your true guardian. And you have come back to me."
Kinan's eyes went wide.
Sarem looked at him and smiled.
"Today I'll tell you everything you want to know. Are you ready?".
To be continued…