The soft hum of medical equipment filled the air as sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the general ward. Nurses moved briskly, tending to patients, but Samad's focus never left Haman.
Haman shuffled between his wheelchair and a walker, every step a mix of determination and pain. Samad walked beside him, adjusting the walker's height, steadying his arm when he wavered. "Easy… one step at a time," Samad murmured.
In those long days, their friendship deepened. They spoke of battles past and moments of quiet life, their laughter breaking the ward's stillness more than once. Samad's care went beyond duty—it was loyalty, carved deep into the heart.
But neither of them noticed the figure at the far end of the ward. A man in a black coat and wide-brimmed hat sat with a newspaper in hand, though his eyes never left them. He watched from behind the printed pages, his gaze fixed, his presence like a shadow that didn't belong. The moment Samad wheeled Haman back to his bed, the man lowered his paper just enough to smirk before disappearing into the corridor.
A week later, Haman was discharged. Samad's smile as he held the door was warm, but somewhere in the hospital's echoing halls, a pair of unseen eyes had already followed their trail.
_____
The night was still, the corridors of Samad's palace lit by golden sconces and the faint flicker of braziers. The guards at the main gate stood at ease—too at ease.
Samad and Haman had barely stepped into the grand marble foyer when shadows detached themselves from behind the pillars and curtains. Eight men, dressed as common citizens of Demara, emerged in unison—guns already drawn.
No warning. No words. The first gunshot echoed like thunder.
Samad reacted instantly, knocking Haman behind an ornate column, but Haman's eyes had already sharpened with the thrill of combat. He pushed forward with his walker—only to swing it like a weapon, striking one attacker's wrist so hard the man screamed and dropped his gun.
The hall exploded into chaos. Samad lunged at two men at once, disarming one while elbowing the other into the wall. Haman ducked low, using the walker's metal frame to block a shot before ramming it into another attacker's knees, toppling him.
One man tried to flank Haman from the side, but Haman pivoted, grabbing the walker with both hands and using it as a hook to pull the man off balance. In a single, fluid motion, he snatched the fallen man's pistol and fired two warning shots into the ceiling, forcing three others to retreat toward the wall.
Samad, breathless but exhilarated, caught sight of Haman in motion—every strike precise, every block effortless. "No one can beat him," Samad thought. "He's not just good… he's the best fighter in the world."
Within minutes, the last of the eight men lay groaning on the marble floor, weapons scattered. Samad straightened, dusting off his sleeves, while Haman calmly folded the walker back into position.
"Remarkable! Haman," Samad said with a rare grin.
The palace guards finally rushed in, late but ready. Samad pointed at the subdued attackers. "Take them to the prison. I want answers before sunrise."
From the shadowed edge of the palace gardens, a familiar figure stood half-hidden among the thick hedges—the same man who had watched Haman and Samad in the hospital days ago. His black hat dipped low, obscuring most of his face, but his eyes never left the chaos unfolding in the marble hall.
When the palace guards finally obeyed Samad's command and moved in to secure the attackers, the man stepped back silently. Without a sound, he slipped deeper into the darkness, vanishing from the garden as if he had never been there at all.
_____
Two weeks of rest had brought some color back to Haman's cheeks. He could now walk on his own legs. No wheelchair, no walker, no support of any kind was needed anymore. He was completely restored. He sat at a polished oak table in Samad's private dining hall, steam curling from the bowl of hot soup before him. Outside, the winter wind rattled the palace windows.
Samad was reading nearby when a faint pulse of light flickered at the edge of his vision. He turned. On the table beside Haman, the silver ring lay glowing with an otherworldly shimmer.
Haman froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Samad… it's happening again. The ring is lighting up."
Samad set his book down slowly. "This isn't the first time, is it?"
"No," Haman said, his voice low. "I don't know what it means, but something is bound to this ring. Something… not of this world."
Samad leaned forward, his tone decisive. "Then we'll find someone who can tell us. A historian, a mystic—whoever understands this kind of thing. But we go together."
Haman's eyes narrowed, the glow of the ring reflecting in them. "Then we should leave soon. I have a feeling this isn't just a warning—it's a call."
____
Haman and Samad stopped in front of an old, isolated mansion, the only structure standing for miles, far removed from any sign of the city.
The crumbling ancestral mansion loomed against the night sky like a relic from another age—its arches clawed upward, and its weatherworn walls were streaked with black moss. Jagged balconies leaned forward as if eavesdropping on the silent courtyard below, their railings twisted and broken.
Shards of moonlight slid across shattered windows, each pane reflecting a cold, lifeless gleam. The massive wooden gates hung half-open, their iron hinges groaned in the wind, while dry leaves swirled across the stone steps like whispers of something long dead.
Above it all, the silhouette of the building seemed almost alive—watching, waiting—its shadow stretched far beyond the walls, as if the darkness itself belonged to it.
They walked up the worn stone steps and knocked on the massive wooden door.
"Do you really think anyone still lives in this place?" Haman asked, glancing at the dark, weathered windows.
"We're about to find out," Samad replied.
After a short wait, the door creaked open. An elderly man stepped out, his eyes sharp despite his age.
"Who are you? What do you want?" the old man asked.
"We've come to ask you about this ring," Samad said, lifting Haman's hand so the old man could see the object.
The man's expression shifted the moment his gaze fell upon it—surprise flickered across his face.
"Come inside," he said quietly, stepping aside to let them enter.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dust and decay. The moment Haman and Samad stepped across the threshold, the faint creak of the ancient wooden floor echoed through the cavernous hall. Faded tapestries clung to the cracked walls, their colors long drained by time, while cobwebs hung like delicate shrouds from the high rafters.
A faint drip of water echoed somewhere deep within, each drop amplifying the silence. The dim light of a single oil lamp revealed half-seen portraits staring from the shadows—faces blurred and distorted, their eyes following the intruders no matter where they moved.
Without a word, he gestured for them to follow. His slow steps led them down a narrow corridor, where the walls seemed to close in and the smell of age grew heavier. Finally, he stopped before a heavy, carved door.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside the room. The two of them followed closely behind the old man. The moment they entered, they felt it—the room was unusually, almost unnaturally cold.
The room was steeped in shadows, the faint light from the doorway barely cutting through the gloom. Dust-laden cobwebs clung to the corners, swaying slightly in the draft. The wooden floor creaked under their steps, each sound echoing unnaturally in the silence.
Faded portraits hung crookedly on the cracked walls, their subjects' eyes seeming to follow every movement. A thick, stale scent of age and neglect lingered in the air, mixing with something colder—something that did not feel entirely natural.
In the dimness, the shapes of antique furniture emerged: a tall, carved cabinet with one door ajar, an armchair whose fabric was torn and sagging. Shadows clung stubbornly to the edges of the room, as if hiding secrets that were better left undiscovered.
______
"I live here alone, and I'm an old man," the old man said with a faint smile. "So cleaning has become a bit difficult. Don't pay too much attention to the dust."
"My name is Khateeb. And yours?" he asked.
"My name is Samad, and this is Haman," Samad replied, gesturing toward his companion.
Khateeb's eyes shifted to Haman. "It seems this young man doesn't talk much," he remarked.
"He's a bit shy," Samad said, teasingly nudging Haman and laughing.
Khateeb chuckled at the response, and Haman, unable to avoid it, forced a reluctant smile.
"Let me see the ring," Khateeb said, his voice low, almost cautious.
Haman slid it from his finger. The moment the metal left his skin, a faint chill crept into the room. Khateeb took the ring and held it under the dim light, his weathered fingers tracing its strange engravings. His eyes narrowed.
"This is no ordinary ring," he murmured, almost to himself. "It carries… power. Ancient power."
Haman and Samad exchanged a glance, their unease mirrored in each other's eyes.
"Ancient power?" Haman asked.
"Yes," Khateeb said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Many ages ago, there lived a man named Baahil—merciful, wise… and feared by the darkness. When black, demonic forces swept across our world, it was Baahil who fought them back, who locked them away where no mortal eye could find them. Before his death, he sealed every shred of his magic into this ring—so that if those forces ever returned, someone could rise again to face them."
He lifted his gaze, his expression now cold and grave. "But the ring chooses its bearer. No one else can touch its power."
Samad's brow furrowed. "Chooses?"
Khateeb nodded slowly. "My teacher once told me of a prophecy passed down through generations. One day, the prison holding those creatures will break. They will come again… stronger than before. And when that day comes, the ring will find its chosen one. It will glow in their hand… and bind itself to their fate."
A tense silence filled the room. The air seemed colder.
"How did this ring come to you?" Khateeb asked suddenly, his voice sharper now.
"This ring chose Haman," Samad said.
For a long moment, Khateeb stared at Haman as if measuring something unseen. Then, very quietly, he said, "If that is true… the world is already in danger."
He stepped closer, pressing the ring into Haman's palm. His fingers tightened around it. "Haman, my son… the fate of every living soul now rests with you."
The wind outside howled suddenly, rattling the old windows. Somewhere deep in the mansion, a door slammed shut on its own.
Khateeb's eyes flicked toward the darkness beyond the doorway. His voice was almost a breath.
"They've already started looking for you."
_____