Hamad did not open the door. Instead, he stopped within the darkness.
At that very moment, outside the palace, in the distant sky, a strange change occurred. The weight of the clouds suddenly lightened, as if an unseen hand had pushed them aside. The sky that had been dead and starless until now, suddenly lit up with a star. Only one. Small, sharp, unnaturally clear. Its light promised no beauty, but a warning.
Hamad did not see it. But inside his chest, for a moment, he felt a muted pull. As if the sky itself had reached a decision.
Wind swept over the distant mountains, no longer carrying the scent of wet stone, but something like old ash and dried blood. The peaks of the palace trembled faintly. No bell rang anywhere, yet it felt as if the night itself had declared: something has begun.
From the inner room, sounds came from time to time.
Hamad's breathing was slow, deep. Every muscle of his body was ready, yet his eyes were calm. His body was shaped by blood, honour, and the discipline of weapons.
Then… Hamad pressed his lips together. Slowly, carefully, he twisted the handle and opened the door.
The entire room was instantly covered by a veil of silent wonder. The air froze, as if the time of the world had stopped.
Silence returned, but this time it was not steady, it was waiting. A faint light spilled out through the gap of the door. As if it were light from an unfamiliar sky.
As the door opened, he saw someone sitting with his back toward him. Sitting on the floor of the room, on a bluish silk carpet, that unknown figure sat. That body, tall, flawless, yet seated in a way that felt like an ancient man bowing his head before ruins.
In front of the thief, a candle burned softly. The candle flame danced slowly, not in any wind, but in a fear, an unseen resonance. Its light brushed the lines of the thief's body.
So in that dim light, the thief could not be seen clearly. But his presence could be felt.
Hamad did not step back even once. He knew that some doors are not opened by hand, they are opened by decision.
He set the staff against the floor. Metal touching stone made a very faint sound, almost like a prayer. And with it, deep within the palace, it felt as though another breath was taken. Old. Tired. But awakened.
Hamad stepped forward once, slowly. The candlelight touched his face. The head of the staff touched the floor once.
The thief did not move. Only something in the air suddenly changed.
The friction of the air, the patience of stone, and the fatigue of having remained silent for too long.
Hamad raised the staff and stood behind the man. His grip was firm, it did not tremble.
The staff. That staff, bearer of dynastic history, now lifted above Hamad's arm.
On that fragile boundary between light and shadow, Hamad's body became like a hunter's sculpture, form, glow, and purpose all perfect. There was no doubt in his eyes then.
At this moment, he only knew that deep within his royal palace, someone had entered. Someone who was either a traitor, or a dark shadow from the past that had returned.
The candlelight touched Hamad's chin and passed through the bars of the window, making him even more solid.
His heart beat slowly, but heavily. Every sound, every vibration entered his awareness.
The dance of the candle flame on the floor, the distant sounds of the night, the faintest breath of that man…
Now…
That lone star was still burning. Beneath it, the clouds had shifted as if the sky itself wished to reveal a wound.
The outer night slipped inside. Cold, deep, alive.
Now…
Hamad decided.
For the first time, Hamad stepped back, but not to flee. To attack. He raised the staff to strike the thief. Light fell on his shoulder, and his shadow stretched long across the floor.
Just as Hamad was about to strike with the staff, the thief turned around.
It was not a spin, nor a defence. The thief's sharp cheekbones, the scent of sweat in his hair, eyes broken by exhaustion yet strangely beautiful, together made him look like the prince of an abandoned city. Defeated in battle, yet unmatched in beauty.
Some battles begin the moment eyes turn. And some begin simply by standing still.
It was not a spin, nor a defence. Sharp cheekbones, the scent of sweat soaked hair, eyes broken by exhaustion yet strangely beautiful, together he seemed like the prince of an abandoned city, defeated in battle yet unmatched in beauty.
Seeing Hamad's face and the raised staff, the thief's eyes widened.
The thief cried out,
"I am Salih Han. Not a thief."
Not a scream, but a mixture of self defence and confession, a frightened heart that knew it was about to lose everything.
Salih Han.
The name struck Hamad's ears like a storm.
Stunned, Hamad barely restrained himself. He had almost killed Salih.
Suddenly the wind changed direction. The cold current that had been flowing inside from outside now rushed back out, as if the palace itself was exhaling. The curtains swayed, and the shadows on the floor broke and formed new shapes, not like people, but like memories.
The night grew heavier.
Though Hamad's hand remained steady, inside him was a terrible tremor. It felt as if he had struck the staff into his own chest.
Hamad said loudly, "Salih, you thick headed fool! What are you doing here?"
His breath was heavy. His eyes were blurred. Inside his chest, something restless was struggling that words could not hold.
"Can't you see for yourself, idiot."
The valley beneath the palace was no longer only dark, now there was movement there. It could not be seen with the eyes, but it could be felt. As if the earth was hiding something within its chest, and that something was slowly waking up.
Hamad lifted the staff onto his shoulder and stepped forward. He tried to light the room's lamp, but it did not light. "Are the servants sleeping? I will deal with them tomorrow."
He lit another light in the room.
In a moment deeper than the silence left after a flame goes out, the light came alive.
That trembling light touched the stone walls, brushed the dust gathered on the old wooden window, and finally settled on the faces of the two of them.
Hamad's face still held a hardness like water turned to stone. Deep shadows lay across his cheeks, sleepless fatigue beneath his eyes. He stood still, his body in the light glowing like a bronze statue.
On the other side, Salih.
He sat lazily, a plate before him with dried goat meat and half broken bread.
On his lips, an innocent, shameless smile. A smile as if, even in the heart of this shadowed city, he had only found his own scent.
The light played in his hair, his eyes filled with wavering exhaustion, yet within it a strange magnetic softness.
Salih smiled at Hamad.
He did not stop, he kept eating. One bite of meat, one quiet sip like cold water, holding eye contact.
And Hamad?
His hand was not shaking, yet it felt as if he stood on a battlefield.
After a while, he slowly moved forward. The sound of his steps seemed to break the long held sighs gathered with each pace.
What else could he do. Hamad sighed within himself. His lips were firm, nothing could be read in his eyes.
Hamad sat down to eat as well. "If I had killed you, what would have happened?"
Salih remained silent. He himself did not know the answer.
Silence again.
But this time, it was not emptiness.
It was the waking moment of some ancient bond.
In the outer sky, the lone star trembled. For a moment its light faded, then burned again. This time a little larger, a little closer. Breaking the rules of the sky, it was moving.
Salih suddenly spoke, a playful tone in his voice,
"Isn't this the same bread you brought in the evening?"
Hamad did not lift his face, but his voice was slow like the sea,
"Hm"
Salih laughed. On his lips was that childhood satisfaction. He said,
"Do you remember? When we were small. You were crying. So I brought you lots of apples. I told you to keep them and not cry."
This time Hamad slowly looked at him. He laughed.
Salih laughed as well. Holding the bread, a tremble in his fingers.
The words drifted slowly and settled into the walls.
At this moment, inside the room, two friends were eating, laughing, and talking.
Together.
In the light.
And the palace, which never forgets, remained silently as witness.
The light swayed, there was no pressure of wind, yet it trembled, somehow.
And outside...?
The valley beneath the palace was no longer only dark, now there was movement there. It could not be seen with the eyes, but it could be felt. As if the earth was hiding something within its chest, and that something was slowly waking up.
The city of that night. Ancient, broken, yet still standing.
Outside, over the distant mountains, that lone star suddenly shattered, its light spreading across the sky like cracked glass. In that light, for the first time, something could be seen deep within the valley. Lines of ancient roads, shadows of forgotten palaces, and countless footprints, which had never been erased.