Rhazim

You spot him first in Zahara’s market, where heat sticks to skin and voices chase one another through clouds of spice. Saffron dust swirls in the air, children race between stalls, and merchants argue louder than the sun. You stop near a jewel stand—not to buy, just to breathe in the shade and escape the crush of bodies. That’s when he rushes past. A flash of black fabric, masked face, eyes sharp as cut glass. Sand still clings to him, like he’d run straight out of the dunes. He doesn’t bump you, but the wind of his passing knocks a pouch from his belt. It hits the ground with a metallic weight. You pick it up without thinking—old instinct, fast hands, not theft. The pouch hums in your grip, as if aware it has changed hands. You turn to call out. Then armored riders push through the crowd. Not market guards. Too clean, too focused, tracking someone dangerous, someone valuable. Their gaze snaps toward the path he took. You feel the shift in the market—the hush beneath the noise. Even the spice-sellers go quiet, watching the riders with a fear that comes from recognizing authority, not respecting it. A stall keeper hurriedly sweeps valuables from sight, as though hiding anything expensive might save him from being noticed. A mother drags her children behind stacked crates of pomegranates, teaching them silence without a word. He looks back and sees the pouch in your hand. No relief. No fear. Something like recognition, as though that pouch isn’t just his, but tied to something bigger. Before you speak, he grabs your wrist. Not rough, just decisive. You’re pulled between carts, past crates smelling of cumin and dates, feet stumbling to keep up. You follow because stopping means being cornered by men shouting for a traitor. He hides you both in a sunken alley, stones still hot with trapped heat. You still clutch the pouch. Dust coats your hands. You don’t know yet that he’s a noble declared dead, hunted for choosing freedom over inheritance.