CHAPTER:3 Eyes in the Archway
Fatima walked quickly through the narrow alleys of Timbuktu, the stolen manuscript pressed against her ribs. The streets were alive with the hum of merchants unloading salt and gold, the bleating of goats, and the chatter of children chasing one another barefoot through dust. But to her, every sound carried danger.
She reached her family's courtyard house and slipped inside. The cool shade of the mud walls wrapped around her, but her unease remained. She lit a small oil lamp and unrolled the manuscript again, laying it on a mat.
The verses stared back at her. They spoke of a queen who ruled not through bloodline but through wisdom, guiding her people through famine when kings failed. The name had been scraped away by some careful hand, but the story survived in fragments.
Fatima's chest tightened. How many voices had been lost this way? If she pieced them together, line by line, verse by verse, perhaps she could weave a tapestry of forgotten queens. A hidden history.
She dipped her reed pen in ink and began to copy the poem onto a fresh sheet, adding her own coded marks so only she could read it fully. But halfway through, the oil lamp flickered.
A sound.
She froze. Someone had shifted outside the doorway—too heavy for the wind, too deliberate for chance. Slowly, she slid the manuscript under the mat and blew out the flame.
"Fatima."
Her breath caught. It was a man's voice, low but steady.
She stepped closer to the doorway, the moonlight casting his silhouette across the threshold. She recognized him—the young scholar from Cairo, newly arrived. His name was Musa ibn Khalid, and he had been granted access to Sankore's library only a week ago.
"You left in haste this morning," he said softly. "And you carried something from the shelves that was… not yours."
Fatima's blood ran cold.
"Do not fear," he continued, stepping closer but not crossing the threshold. "I will not betray you. But you must tell me—what is it you guard so fiercely? What words are worth risking your life for?"
Fatima's mind raced. Could she trust him? Or was this a trap? She could still feel the manuscript's weight beneath the mat, as if the words themselves were listening, waiting for her answer.