The wind cut sharp across the ruins, carrying with it the faintest echo of voices that no longer lived. Dhia wrapped his tattered cloak tighter, though the fabric was more hole than cloth. His body, still weak though unnaturally mended, trembled against the cold.
The city of Basra, were blackened and silent. Dhia had buried comrades before, but never had he seen a city itself buried alive.
By the second night, hunger gnawed at him like a beast. His stomach clenched, ribs aching with emptiness. He found a cave just beyond the outskirts, its mouth dark and cold. Crawling inside, he gathered a few brittle branches and set them in a small pile. His father's lessons came back—strike wood against wood, breathe life into ember.
His hands trembled as he turned the stick once, twice—Flames burst forth.
Dhia recoiled. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. He had not struck sparks, had not even kindled friction enough to warm his palms—yet the fire leapt as though summoned. It danced too eagerly, golden and bright, crackling with life it should not have had.
He stared at it, jaw clenched, sweat forming despite the winter chill.
"Is the air filled with fuel?" he muttered, his voice thin, almost mocking. "Or have I gone mad?"
The flames flickered as though answering him. Shadows stretched long against the stone walls, bending into strange shapes—men fighting, rivers flowing, towers rising. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and the shadows were gone.
He sat there until dawn, feeding the flames small twigs, watching them roar each time with unnatural hunger. Sleep did not come. Only questions.
The third day, weakness nearly toppled him. His lips were cracked, his throat dry. He stumbled back toward the river, remembering its water though poisoned with ash. What choice did he have?
The river was no longer the one from his childhood—the one where he had splashed with friends, where merchants had washed silks before trade. Now its surface was gray, sluggish, heavy with smoke and blood. Still, he filled a cracked clay bottle and drank.
The water was foul, sandy between his teeth. Yet no sickness followed. Instead, warmth spread through his body. His skin, dry and flaking from cold, seemed to drink from within. The ache in his bones dulled, his strength returned faster than it should.
He stared at his reflection in the river's surface. The man who looked back was scarred, dirty, broken. Yet there was something else—his eyes, once brown, flickered for an instant with a faint ember glow.
His breath caught.
"No…"
He staggered back, clutching the bag where the book was hidden. He pulled it out, staring. The pages, once blackened and brittle, seemed cleaner. The bloodstains had faded entirely.
And for a fleeting second, as he turned a page, he saw letters—curling, ancient—glow faintly, then vanish like smoke before he could read them.
His hands shook. "You're not just paper and ink, are you?"
That night, he found dried fish along the riverbank—left behind by townsfolk who had prepared them for winter but never lived to eat them. He cooked them over his strange flames. The smell filled his nose, and tears stung his eyes—not just from hunger, but from memory. He remembered his mother seasoning fish with salt and herbs, his father laughing as he scolded Dhia for stealing bites before the meal was ready.
He ate until his stomach ached, then sat with the fire warming his back, the book resting across his lap. He should have felt relief. Instead, unease pressed against him like an unseen hand.
Every time he looked at the book, he could not shake the feeling that it was looking back.