Deep night. The outer sky feels like the torn cloth of an ancient kingdom. There is no existence of stars, only darkness, thick and heavy. As if even the air is mixed with the smell of death.
The night has claimed the world with a silent authority.
The moon hangs high, cold, like a silver eye. Peering through gaps in torn curtains of cloud, its light slowly spills over the stone like rolling waves. The palace rises from the side of the hill, as if not built, but born there. Its walls are thick with the weight of centuries, its towers clenched toward the sky. In every window a dim light burns, small, stubborn, like breaths trapped inside a massive chest. The wind moves along the battlements, carrying the faint smell of wet stone and iron. And with it comes the feeling that these walls have learned every whispered secret ever spoken.
A narrow road bends upward, its stones smoothed by the feet of generations. Soldiers, messengers, prisoners, kings, and many others without names. The great gate stands half open, torchlight trembling within the arch, throwing restless shadows that advance and retreat like living things. Beyond the walls, the land sinks into darkness. The valley melts into a soft, endless blue. As if the world itself has chosen silence out of reverence.
This is not a place that sleeps. It remembers.
The palace listens to the night, listens to the moon, listens to the long echoes of time. And anyone who steps inside knows the stones will watch them closely.
Because once you enter, the palace never forgets that you were there.
Moonlight falls upon white marble, but that light is covered by heavy curtains, which though silk, on this night feel like a shroud of death.
Inside the palace, the silence is so intense it feels as if even the heart has stopped. And breaking that silence, Hamad suddenly stirs on the gold-inlaid bed. His sleep shatters, not from a nightmare, but from a sound. Small, muted, yet clear... like the scrape of metal just before a foot comes to rest. That sound is no ordinary sound, but a warning signal, a note born of long experience.
Hamad sits up.
His hair is disheveled, yet that deep hair seems part of the night itself, his eyes leaving an imprint in the darkness, bright but calm. The gold-worked pillow slips and falls to the floor. The bed sheet is wrapped around his waist, moonlight falling across his body... but in his eyes now there is not light, only thought.
On the ceiling of the room are crescent-shaped carvings, where the story of an ancient warrior is etched, a king who once held back an army with his own hands. An ancient language, which was not only letters or words, but a living mural. Every character, every sentence was an intricate design painted by an artist's hand, carrying through centuries the deepest emotions and beliefs of a vanished civilization. The alphabet of this language was so ornate that each letter felt like a small sculpture, and together they formed an unforgettable example of ancient art. Nearly a thousand years ago, when the last person who knew this language, the one who last used it, died, it was not only a language that died, an entire world vanished, a unique way of life, a special way of thinking, and a rich culture. Now the words of that language exist only as an untouchable beauty recorded in the pages of history, reminding us of the constant change of human civilization, and of a lost art's unmatched creation.
Beneath that ceiling now sits Hamad, and deep in his chest, unease begins to beat.
Again that sound. From the room to the right of his hand. This time a little louder. Like fingernails scraping against a metal doorframe.
Hamad knows no one is supposed to come at night in this palace. Those assigned to guard have a different way of moving. They walk the corridors, counting their steps. His heart begins to pound, but not from fear, rather from a thrill he feels in his veins after a long time. He remembers an old folktale of Buremist, "A king is always alone at night, because night knows who is dead and who only pretends to live."
But this sound… it was a thief's.
A thief in the next room? he thought.
But thinking did not mean fear. Instead, within Hamad lived the arrogance of kings, and the detached courage of warriors. He slowly stepped down from the bed. His foot fell upon the soundless cushion, made of leopard skin.
Silently. So silently that even the air of the room could not sense his movement.
From the bed to the leather floor, Hamad's bare foot slid down like a snake, soft and precise.
The surrounding royalty suddenly lost all importance. The hanging silk curtains, the ruby studded mirrors, the lion faced carvings climbing along the walls. Everything became meaningless in this moment. As if the night itself had come close and whispered into his ear: "All of it is a lie, if this night is not survived."
Hamad's face was stone cold, but inside, a different kind of fire burned.
He slowly bent down, reached his hand beneath the bed, and drew out a staff.
A staff made of black metal, its head carved with a sinking sun and thirteen eyes circling it. This was not merely a weapon, it was a legacy, a symbol. To those who guarded the night, this object was handed down by the once kings of darkness.
Hamad's body was tall, packed with muscle, like a statue shaped over long years. His hair had slipped free from the lines of sleep and now framed his face. His eyes, the only light burning in an island's night, sharp and frighteningly alert.
Slowly, Hamad moved toward the closed door. Slowly, silently. Even wearing leather shoes, he moved like air itself. His body melted into the shadows.
From the glass window on the opposite wall of the other room, a narrow strip of moonlight fell inside. That light cast a gentle tremor across the floor, drawing shadow upon shadow, like a silent, bodiless guard.
Standing before the closed door, Hamad became still. In the darkness, only his own breathing could be heard. Then… that sound again. His breath slowed, as if preparing itself before stepping into battle. He turned his fingers around the head of the staff, pressing, as if feeling the soul of the weapon. This weapon had seen much, destruction, betrayal, even the fall of royal families.