The desert wind had changed. It no longer came from the south, hot and dry; it swirled from the north, carrying the static charge of an approaching storm. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with clouds that promised rain but delivered only shadow.
In the camp, the air was thick with the restless energy of departure. Tents were being inspected, waterskins patched with pitch, and camels grumbling as their knees were checked for the long trek back to the deep Nafud.
Khalid moved through the camp like a ghost haunting his own life.
He was inside the main tent, ostensibly organizing the tribe's grain supply for the journey. In reality, he was stealing.
He moved quickly, his hands steady but his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He took a small sack of dried dates, a pouch of silver coins from the communal chest—just enough to buy passage, not enough to bankrupt his kin—and a heavy woolen cloak. He stuffed them into his saddlebags, burying them beneath layers of parchment and ink.
"You pack like a man expecting a winter, not a ride home."
Khalid froze. He turned slowly to find his father, Sheikh Walid, standing at the tent entrance. The old man leaned heavily on his staff, his eyes—cloudy with age but still sharp—watching Khalid with an unreadable expression.
" The nights in the desert are turning cold, Father," Khalid lied, his throat dry.
Sheikh Walid stepped inside, the sand crunching softly under his sandals. He reached out and touched Khalid's shoulder. His hand was heavy, a weight of expectation that Khalid had carried for twenty-six years.
"You did well with the soldiers, Khalid," the Sheikh said, his voice raspy. "Hamza has the fire, yes. But fire burns down the tent if it is not watched. You... you are the tent pole. You hold us up."
The praise felt like a knife in Khalid's gut. He looked at his father's weathered face, the map of a thousand struggles etched into his skin. He was about to leave this man. He was about to leave him with only the fire, and no pole to hold the roof.
"Hamza will learn, Father," Khalid said, forcing the words out. "He is strong. He will lead the tribe well."
"He will lead them into a war if you are not there to whisper wisdom in his ear," the Sheikh sighed, patting Khalid's cheek. "But tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we ride back to the silence. I think you miss it, eh? Your books are heavy with the noise of this city."
"Yes," Khalid whispered, looking away. "I miss the silence."
The Sheikh nodded and turned to leave. At the flap, he paused. "Sleep well, my son. The desert awaits us."
Khalid watched him go. A single tear tracked through the dust on his cheek. "Forgive me," he whispered to the empty air.
Inside the Governor's Palace, the air was cool and smelled of stagnant water.
The Pasha sat on a high-backed chair upholstered in velvet, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the armrest. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of oil lamps that cast long, dancing shadows against the marble walls.
Standing before him was the Captain of the Guard—the same man whose nose Hamza had broken. His face was bandaged, the white linen stark against his dark uniform, swollen and bruised violet around the eyes.
"He humiliated you," the Pasha said softly. His voice was not angry; it was bored, which was far worse. "A savage in a dusty robe struck an officer of the Ottoman Empire, and you took a pouch of gold and rode away."
"Excellency, the heat... the mare..." the Captain stammered, his hand resting nervously on his sword hilt. "The brother—the scholar—he paid the tax. I thought it best to avoid a massacre over a horse."
"A massacre?" The Pasha stood up. He was a tall man, he filled the room with a suffocating presence. He walked to the window, looking out over the darkened city. He could see the distant fires of the Bedouin camp flickering like fireflies against the city walls.
"Order is a fragile thing, Captain. It is maintained by fear. If the Bedouin thinks he can strike my men and pay for it with coin, then tomorrow the merchant will strike you, and the day after, the beggar."
The Pasha turned back, his eyes hard and flat like polished stones.
"The Al-Fayid tribe leaves in two days," the Pasha stated. "I want them to remember Damascus. I want them to know whose land they walk upon."
"Shall I arrest the brother? The wild one?" the Captain asked, eager to redeem himself.
"No," the Pasha said, a cruel smile touching his lips. "Not yet. That would be too simple. Tighten the net first. Double the patrols at the gates. Check every cart, every donkey, every basket of grain that enters or leaves this city. Squeeze them."
He walked over to the Captain and tapped the bandage on the man's nose. The Captain winced.
"And if the wild one so much as spits in the wrong direction," the Pasha whispered, "bring me his head. But leave the scholar. I want the scholar to watch. Men who think they can buy peace with gold must learn the price of blood."
"It shall be done, Excellency."
"Go."
The Captain saluted and hurried out, his boots echoing on the marble.
The Pasha turned back to the window. He looked at the fires of the camp, burning bravely in the dark. He raised his hand and pinched the flame of the oil lamp next to him, snuffing it out.
"Burn while you can," he murmured to the distant desert. "The storm is coming."