"Words that were sanctified, chanted, and inscribed upon the pillars of the world in liquid gold — all believed them to be the words of the Master of Time and Maker of Place, and so they drew wisdom from them, pressed forward, and never looked back. They prayed, they pleaded, they wept... yet every last one of them was deceived. In the depths, he toyed with them — feeding them illusions, making promises, nurturing their desires. With his vows he veiled their sight, and to the absolute truth he blinded their hearts. So they scattered into factions, each rejoicing in what they held — yet the one who was the source of all sovereign will was also the end of all things. And the only one who would truly lose himself was the one who remained, blissfully, unaware."
— Folio No. 40
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A darkness thick as ink had swallowed the land whole.
Tattered tents lay scattered here and there. The remains of the fallen were strewn across the ground, and skulls rose in stacked towers like grotesque monuments to ruin.
In the midst of it all stood a man nearing his forties — Amro was his name — gripping a blood-slicked sword in his right hand, his clothes torn and dusted with the grime of battle. He turned in place, eyes wide with something between horror and disbelief. His brows furrowed low, and sweat gleamed across his forehead.
He lifted his gaze.
At the horizon, a warrior appeared — limbs sheathed in armour, carrying a long sword that swayed with the weight of death itself.
Amro drew a slow, steadying breath and tightened his grip on his blade, shifting into a defensive stance. The warrior advanced on his black horse, hooves striking the earth in sharp, rhythmic cracks. The ground seemed to shrink with every stride. Then — at the moment of zero distance — the horse reared on its hind legs. The warrior raised his sword high. It caught the light of the moon and gleamed.
Then it came down, aimed at Amro's neck — and —
(A sharp gasp. Then rapid, unsteady breathing.)
"Unbelievable... why? Why the same dream again?"
Amro's voice came out in broken fragments.
He had jolted awake from the nightmare — that same nightmare that had haunted him more times than he could count — and here it was again, uninvited, robbing him of his sleep. He pressed his palms against the mattress to steady himself, sat upright, and dragged the back of his hand across his damp forehead.
He raised his eyes.
Across from him stood the boy, Kinan, with that open, innocent face of his and the kind of smile that seemed to exist solely for mornings like this — the kind that could dissolve fear from a room simply by appearing in it.
The boy spoke in a low, careful voice:
"Did you have the same dream again?"
Amro gave a slow nod, then pressed both hands against his temples where the headache had already begun to settle, as it always did. He rose from the bed with heavy steps, crossed to the table, seized the water jug and drank straight from it until his beard was soaked. He set it down with a thud, cleared his throat through a rough cough, and said:
"Why are you up so early? That's not like you."
Kinan looked at him with mild bewilderment and replied, with some hesitation:
"Well... we're actually already two hours behind schedule, so—"
"God damn it," Amro cut him off, his tone edged with irritation. "Then why didn't you wake me sooner?"
"You were sleeping so deeply — I could tell how exhausted you were. I didn't want to disturb you."
Amro's brow creased.
"Fine. Go water the donkey. Then get the goods ready."
"Yes, sir."
Kinan turned to leave. Amro called after him before he reached the door:
"And don't forget to bring the debt ledger."
Kinan nodded and was gone.
Amro remained where he stood, still drifting somewhere between sleep and the shadow the nightmare had left behind. He pressed one hand against the edge of the table to anchor himself, then moved to prepare for the day.
In the courtyard, Kinan untied the donkey's rope and set a bucket of water before it, watching it lower its head to drink while he hauled out a set of worn burlap sacks.
Amro stepped outside a moment later, cast a brief glance in Kinan's direction, then descended the clay steps and sat to lace up his sandals — hand-stitched goatskin, cracked along the edges. He stretched his neck one way, then shut his eyes, surrendering to the fatigue that still clung to him.
Together, they pushed open the rickety wooden door and stepped out into the quarter.
The alleyways were narrow, the houses pressed against one another in tight rows — their colours drained to a pale sameness, their pathways veiled in dust. They moved through the sparse morning foot traffic: faces still slack with sleep, others hard and indifferent, registering nothing. At the far end of the street, the market had already begun to take shape — an expanse of open ground, of stalls and tents arranged side by side. They set their goods down at their spot, and Kinan immediately set to work pulling fabrics from the sacks and arranging them across the wooden display shelf.
Amro watched in silence, his eyes sliding shut every second or two.
The market was unusually quiet that morning. Even the traders' calls were nearly absent.
When Kinan finally finished laying everything out, he stood before Amro with a kind of restless energy and said:
"Alright then."
Amro looked up through half-open eyes, a yawn already forming:
"Alright — what?"
"When does all this end so we can go home? I want to see our family." He said it with the earnest enthusiasm that belonged entirely to youth.
Amro closed his eyes and surrendered.
"Boy, how many times have you asked me that? And how many times have I told you to be patient?".
"But you never give me a real answer. It's always be patient or you haven't learned the trade well enough yet. Honestly, those aren't answers."
Amro shifted uncomfortably, on the verge of dismissing the conversation — and luck, for once, was on his side. An old woman had shuffled up to their stall, her eyes moving carefully over the fabrics.
Kinan noticed immediately and stepped forward.
"Welcome, madam — what can I help you find?"
Amro leaned back and watched his young apprentice work, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly upward. He even rose to contribute his own experience to the exchange — but the old woman left without buying a thing. Amro pressed his lips together, swallowed his displeasure, and sat back down.
Kinan watched her go with quiet resignation, then returned and sat beside Amro. His voice had softened into something almost tender when he spoke again:
"Look — even if you don't answer me, I won't stop asking about them. You have no idea how much I miss them. I need to see them. Soon."
Silence settled around Amro like a weight. His eyes moved, restless, while his fingers twisted together in his lap. Then, gradually, he steadied himself. He exhaled and turned toward Kinan, his voice quiet and deliberate:
"Don't worry. We don't have long left now. And you still haven't learned the trade well enough — if I take you back before you've learned, your family will blame me."
Kinan pursed his lips and folded his arms.
"God help me... you've been saying the exact same thing since the day I met you. What would happen if we went back for just one day? We see them, then we come back. I want to see their faces. Is that too much?"
He paused, looked away, then added in a quieter, more serious tone:
"I never wanted to become a merchant. I genuinely don't understand why my father insists on it."
Something shifted inside Amro at those words. He felt, in an instant, the full weight of the boy's longing — and something else rose to the surface too, something he held carefully behind his eyes, the shape of a secret he wasn't ready to speak. He reached out and placed his hand on Kinan's shoulder.
"Don't worry. You're here, with me. You've grown up by my side — that's not nothing. It won't be easy for me to let you go, just like that."
Kinan turned to look at him, confused by the phrasing.
"You say that as if you're not coming back." A pause. His eyes sharpened. "You are coming back with me. Aren't you?"
Amro smiled with his eyes closed, and stood, sidestepping the question entirely.
"I'm going to the shore tonight. Will you come with me — or stay home?"
Kinan was on his feet before the question was finished.
"Obviously I'm coming. Do you even have to ask? It's been ages since we've been to the beach."
"Then start packing up. The market's dead today. Let's go."
⁂
The sky bled red at the horizon as the last of the sun's light drew back in slow retreat. The streets were emptying. A few people had chosen to sit on their rooftops to watch the colours leave.
Inside the house — the one Kinan had always called The Peach House, after the peach tree Amro had once planted by the door — they prepared for the evening. Amro had changed into dark, almost black clothing. Kinan remained in what he always wore.
"Wouldn't it be better to change? You've had those on for four days straight."
Kinan studied him a beat, then said:
"I like these. They remind me of when I was younger. I'll keep wearing clothes like this until I'm your age."
Amro lowered his head slowly, something like gentle pity passing across his face. Then he moved toward the courtyard. Kinan grabbed two apples, stuffed them in his pocket, and followed.
⁂
They walked side by side through the street with nothing but the quiet between them. Amro was far away in thought.
"The boy's old enough now. But how do I tell him the truth? How do I say it in a way that won't break him — won't shatter him entirely?"
He glanced at Kinan, who was humming softly to himself, untroubled. Amro stopped for half a second, raised his hand as if to call him back — then closed his fingers in the air, let his arm fall, and kept walking.
A quarter of an hour later, their feet met the sand.
Kinan slipped off his sandals immediately. He pressed his soles into the softness, then broke into a run — back and forth along the shoreline, laughing, calling out to no one in particular, releasing something that had been stored up for years.
Amro turned toward a small wooden shelter nearby and called out mildly:
"Stop shouting. People are trying to sleep."
Kinan collapsed onto his knees, breathless, grinning.
"God... this is incredible." He pulled in a long breath of salt air. "It's been so long since I've felt like this."
"You call this enjoyment?" Amro said, with faint disdain.
Kinan pointed at him.
"I don't care how I'm happy. I just want to be happy. By whatever means."
"Is that so." Amro crouched down and rested a hand on Kinan's shoulder, his voice dropping into something serious. "Then what if watching people die made you happy? Would you kill them — just to feel it?".
The smile faded from Kinan's face, slowly, like candlelight meeting wind. He tilted his head to the side, as though the question had found a nerve somewhere he hadn't expected.
Amro stood, walked a few steps toward the water, and looked up at the stars emerging in the dark above.
"Happiness is not all that matters. Peace of mind is what matters." He half-turned back toward Kinan. "At your age, you might not fully grasp that. But there will come a day when you do."
Kinan said nothing. He didn't even move his lips to ask a question. Amro caught it in his expression and shifted course.
"Look there — at the horizon. Do you see anything?"
Kinan turned and looked.
"No. Nothing."
Amro smiled with closed eyes.
"Good. There is nothing."
Kinan stood, muttering quietly, and wandered off until he found a smooth rock where he sat and stretched his feet toward the water. Amro came and settled beside him, draping an arm around his shoulder, resting his head lightly against the boy's.
"You're older now. It's time you learned to stand on your own. Starting tomorrow, I won't be going to the market with you. You'll go alone."
Kinan's expression darkened so completely that Amro was almost certain the boy had resolved never to speak to him again. So he left him on the rock and walked away toward the wooden jetty where the boats were moored.
Kinan watched him go, anger simmering quietly — until Amro missed his step off the edge and plunged into the water below.
Kinan was up in an instant. He ran over, and the moment Amro hauled himself dripping back onto the planks, Kinan launched himself off the jetty and drove them both back under. They came up sputtering, grabbed each other, tried to drown the other, failed, and eventually dragged themselves onto the sand on their stomachs, gasping and laughing.
"Damn you, boy." Amro inhaled deeply. "Don't ever do that again or you'll regret it."
"That's... that's what you get for being so insufferable lately."
"Me!? Insufferable!? Of all the — your father trusted me with you. I've raised you. I've given years of my life to this. You should respect me more than him, not less."
"No matter what you do," Kinan said simply, "he'll always be my father. And you'll always just be... someone who took care of me."
The words hit something.
"What are you saying?" Amro's voice rose before he could stop it. "You're comparing a man who gave half his life to raise you against someone you've never even met? That's not a fair comparison and you know it. If you only knew — if I had told you from the beginning that your father isn't—"
He stopped.
He looked at Kinan. A brief, tense silence.
Then, more quietly:
"At least respect what I feel. Your father may matter more to you than I do — I understand that. But don't forget who was here. Every day he wasn't."
Kinan held his gaze for a long moment.
Then stepped forward and pulled Amro into a tight embrace.
Amro held him back, one hand moving slowly across the boy's shoulders — and in the space behind the gesture, his thoughts ran somewhere else entirely:
"How much longer can I keep lying to him?... I'm exhausted by it. I wish I had died that day. At least then there would have been nothing to regret. What is there to regret for a man who gave his life for his people — willingly?"
They separated and lay down side by side on the sand — Kinan flat on his back, eyes open to the sky; Amro propped on his elbows, legs stretched out before him.
The silence had almost fully settled when Kinan said:
"What are stars, do you think? Why can't we see them in the morning?"
Amro considered this.
"Honestly? I don't know. That kind of knowledge belongs to learned men. I'm just an ordinary person — I won't be able to give you a proper answer."
"But they're always above you. Every night. Doesn't that make you curious? Even a little?"
Amro smiled faintly, something slightly sheepish in his expression.
"I'm not the kind of man who asks questions."
Kinan smiled.
"There's so much about this place I don't understand. And I've always wondered why we came here." He turned his head to look at Amro. "There are so many thoughts like that circling inside me. But I push them away — they tend to make me restless. Uneasy."
"You're not alone in that," Amro said, his voice taking on a quiet, settling cadence. "Everyone around us thinks the same things. But we learn to set them aside — to focus on what we can see with our own eyes. It's a kind of escape, until we've adjusted, until the questions fade on their own."
Kinan turned that over slowly, as though Amro's words had moved through him and cleared something. There was comfort in knowing that others felt the same unease — that it was simply part of being human, not something singular or frightening. He accepted it. Let it settle.
His eyes drifted closed.
And before long, he slept.