The cold cut through them like shards of glass. Each gust of wind whipped across their faces, while snow fell in thick, unrelenting silence. For six days, Haman, Samad, and Zahir had been traveling through the mountains in Zahir's jeep. The windshield fogged constantly, forcing Zahir to swipe it repeatedly with the back of his glove. Evening was creeping in, and the mountains loomed like ancient white sentinels, draped in snow that shimmered faintly in the fading light.
Inside the jeep, only the growl of the engine and the crunch of tires over ice broke the heavy quiet. Samad rubbed his hands together, trying to coax warmth into his stiff fingers, while Haman pulled his jacket tighter, his eyes scanning the stormy horizon. One thought weighed heavily on all of them—if the snow thickened, the road would soon vanish beneath it. Yet fortune favored them. Slowly, through the storm, a faint glimmer appeared at the foot of the mountains: their destination.
The jeep rumbled to a halt before a massive gate. Two towering pillars, entwined with fragrant vines of crimson and gold, rose like sentinels. The gate seemed carved from the mountain itself, intricate patterns etched deep into stone as if a master craftsman had spent a lifetime upon them. Above, enormous letters gleamed in stark elegance: "City of Haas." The mountain seemed alive, standing as the city's silent guardian.
Guard stations flanked either side of the gate. Soldiers sat motionless, bundled against the cold, while others lurked in the surrounding cliffs, their gaze sharp, unyielding.
One of them approached the jeep briskly, exhaling clouds of mist. His eyes narrowed as he demanded,
"Who are you? And why have you come here?"
Zahir straightened, voice calm but confident:
"We are guests of Hamail."
The guard scrutinized them, then barked, "Show me your pass."
Zahir retrieved it smoothly from his coat and handed it over, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. The guard examined it, glanced between the three men as if weighing their worth, then nodded curtly and waved them through.
The gate opened with a deep, echoing groan. Zahir pressed the accelerator, and the jeep rolled forward into a city that seemed plucked from another world.
Blossoms framed every home, their fragrance mingling with the crisp winter air. Children in bright coats laughed as they hurled snowballs, their joy echoing across the streets. The city, against the backdrop of snow and mountain, looked like a fragment of paradise carved into the earth itself.
Samad glanced at Zahir, curiosity mixing with awe.
"Where did you get that pass?"
Zahir spread his arms theatrically, pride glinting in his eyes.
"My hands are long enough to reach the law itself."
Haman squinted at him from the passenger seat, his tone sharp yet edged with humor.
"Ah, the same long hands that shot me from behind."
The tension broke. Laughter erupted, filling the jeep with warmth that the snow outside could never touch.
As the laughter faded, Samad exhaled slowly, his tone sobering.
"The pass is secure. But how do we find Hamail?"
Zahir's grip tightened on the wheel. "We go to his house. Straight there—no detours."
_____
The jeep stopped before a small house, tucked away from the bustle of the city. It was pristine, surrounded by vibrant blooms whose fragrance drifted in the cold air. Silence wrapped the place like a soft blanket.
Samad and Zahir stepped out, while Haman lingered in the jeep, eyes scanning the perimeter with quiet intensity. Even in this serene setting, he carried an aura of readiness.
Samad knocked lightly. The door opened to reveal Hamail. Tall, sharp-featured, radiating intelligence, his presence commanded attention even before he spoke.
Raising an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes, he said,
"Well, well… look who's here—Samad and Zahir themselves!"
Then his tone sharpened, tinged with anger:
"And why have you come?"
Samad's voice carried a mixture of earnestness and urgency.
"We need your help."
Hamail's eyes sparkled with both amusement and disdain.
"Not ashamed, are you? Coming to beg help from your enemy?"
Zahir spoke carefully, gauging the situation.
"The matter… is complicated."
Hamail's lips curled into a sharp, confident smile, his pride barely contained.
"Fine. I'll help you. But there's one condition."
"Which?" Samad asked, curiosity flaring.
"You must face me in swordplay. If you win, I'll help. If you lose… you do exactly as I command," Hamail said, his anger and arrogance clear. He knew no one could match him in combat.
Samad's voice remained steady.
"We expected as much. That's why we didn't come unprepared."
Haman emerged then—not at Samad's call, but silently, from the shadow of the garden. The moment his figure appeared, calm and poised, Hamail's teasing glint sharpened into genuine intrigue.
"Oh! Haman… Ajal's companion," Hamail said, his voice laced with excitement and venom. "This just got far more interesting."
Then, his words dripped with malice and cunning.
"Samad… you truly are clever. Even Ajal's ally falls into your grasp."
Samad's eyes burned with anger and sorrow.
"Choose your words carefully. Haman is not my servant; he is my friend."
Steel gleamed in the winter light as Samad drew his sword, tension bristling in the air. Hamail's wicked smile matched the glint in his own hand as he stepped forward.
"Very well… let the real game begin."
Haman pushed Samad's sword down with his own hand, shoving Samad backward. Then, turning toward Hamail, he drew his sword and glared at him, the blade catching the light like a silent threat.
_____
The snow had ceased, but the cold lingered, sharp and unyielding. Haman and Hamail faced each other in the courtyard, the last light of day glinting off their steel blades. The air was still, save for the whisper of wind through the nearby trees, carrying the faint scent of frost and pine.
Hamail lifted his sword with effortless grace, eyes glinting with confidence and challenge. "I hope you're ready," he said, voice steady but carrying a lethal edge. "Few have even come close to besting me."
Haman tightened his grip, feeling the familiar weight of his sword. "I'm ready," he replied, voice calm, though his pulse thrummed with anticipation.
They moved as one, a flash of motion.
Hamail struck first, a flurry of precise, relentless blows that would have overwhelmed any ordinary fighter. Haman blocked and parried, every strike testing his strength, reflexes, and focus. The sheer intensity of Hamail's attacks made him realize—he had never been pushed like this before.
A low laugh escaped Haman, half exhilaration, half awe. "Finally… someone who can truly challenge me."
Hamail's smirk widened, and he pressed the assault, spinning and slashing with calculated speed. Haman danced and twisted, countering, retreating, advancing, each movement fluid and controlled. Sparks flew where steel met steel, echoing sharply in the quiet courtyard.
Hamail lunged suddenly, his sword slicing through the air with blinding speed. Haman met the strike effortlessly, blocking it with his own blade. In the same instant, Hamail swept one of his legs, knocking Haman's foot from under him. Haman stumbled onto the snow, catching himself with one hand, his body bracing against the cold ground.
Before he could recover fully, Hamail struck again, swinging his sword with precision. Haman caught it with his free hand, parrying just in time. He scooped a handful of snow and flung it toward Hamail, forcing him to deflect it with a quick sidestep. Seizing the moment, Haman counterattacked, lunging at Hamail with his blade—but Hamail twisted Haman's wrist backward, pressing the tip of his sword toward Haman's throat.
Haman's instincts flared. He ducked low, rolling beneath Hamail's sword in a smooth motion, then pivoted, aiming a strike at Hamail. Hamail reacted instantly, trapping Haman's leg between his own, and swung an elbow toward Haman's neck. Haman twisted his trapped leg, spinning his body toward Hamail, and struck with his free leg. Hamail leapt back, narrowly avoiding the blow, landing lightly on the snow.
"Nice move," Haman said, breathless but exhilarated.
Hamail surged forward again, closing the distance with astonishing speed. He thrust his sword toward Haman's legs, forcing Haman to drop low and block with precision. Haman rolled forward, driving his knee into Hamail's shoulder, twisting the blade to attempt a disarm. Hamail retaliated with a powerful kick, forcing Haman backward, and broke free, regaining his stance.
Steel clashed as both launched simultaneous strikes, blocking each other with controlled force. Haman threw a punch at Hamail's torso, but Hamail caught it with his free hand. They held their swords in one hand each, the other exchanging strikes and counters. Hamail tried to capitalize on the opening, aiming a swift kick at Haman, but Haman seized Hamail's wrist, twisting it sharply. Hamail countered, rotating his arm and freeing himself, slipping out of Haman's grip with fluid grace.
Both fighters paused for barely a heartbeat, snow crunching beneath their feet, eyes locked, breaths misting in the cold air. The tension hung thick, each movement measured yet unpredictable, a deadly dance of skill and instinct.
Then minutes passed in a blur of motion—blades flashing, feet skimming snow, breaths visible in the frosty air. Haman's mind and body moved instinctively, each block and riposte perfectly timed. For the first time, he felt the intoxicating thrill of a fight where every second demanded his utmost skill.
Then came the opening—subtle but decisive. Haman shifted, ducked under a sweeping strike, and drove his blade into Hamail's side with precision. Hamail staggered, a brief, sharp intake of breath betraying him, but he masked it instantly with a teasing, confident grin.
Haman's eyes narrowed. He had seen it—the slightest wince, the way Hamail shifted his weight to protect the wound. He stepped closer, lowering his sword, voice calm but certain. "I know you're hurt," he said.
Hamail's pride remained unbroken. His lips curved into a sly smile, but inside, a silent truth took hold: Haman is the finest swordsman I have ever faced. Even I, the so-called best, cannot best him.
The duel ended without ceremony. Both sheathed their swords, but the tension between them lingered, a quiet acknowledgment of skill, respect, and hard-earned victory. Haman's chest rose and fell with steady breaths, still buzzing with the exhilaration of the fight. Hamail hid his pain, yet even as he moved with controlled grace, he knew he had met someone unmatched.
For a moment, they simply regarded each other—opponents, yes, but bound now by a silent understanding. In that gaze, it was clear: Haman's skill was extraordinary, and no one—not even the best—could surpass him.
Then suddenly, two guards appeared, their faces pale and urgent.
"Sir Hamail! You… you need to see this," one gasped, his voice trembling with fear.
Hamail's eyes narrowed, a sudden tension replacing his usual confidence. "What now?"
The answer awaited—but what had reached the city was unlike anything they had ever faced.
______