When the sky watches you, the road is no longer just land… it becomes a trial.
The road eastward grew harsher with each passing day.
The wind was no longer a cold breeze, but sharp breaths that cut across the face.
The clouds grew heavier, hanging low as if watching every step.
And the snow began its slow crawl over the mountains an unhurried white army advancing without mercy.
Time no longer moved at a single pace.
It slowed when exhaustion weighed on the soul,
and rushed forward when danger distracted them from counting the days.
They had entered the third month since the beginning of their journey toward Saba.
Najjar walked at the front, pulling his hood tighter whenever the wind rose. His features had grown harder since leaving the tribe of Nabratha.
Behind him walked Aram, silent as ever, carrying the supplies and playing his role with the precision of a man who knew his survival depended on remaining unseen.
To the right moved Nabalian, his eyes never settling
at times on the ground, reading tracks,
and at times on the sky, as though waiting for a sign.
In one of the narrow valleys, where rock walls pressed in from every side, Aram noticed something unusual.
A bird…
But not just any bird.
It was broad-winged, its feathers a dark gray,
circling the air with a steadiness unlike crows or eagles.
Its call was a long, piercing whistle that cut through the wind appearing, vanishing, then returning to perch on a high rock, its head aimed directly at them.
Nabalian narrowed his eyes and said quietly:
"This is no stray bird…
It's watching us."
Najjar asked without slowing his pace:
"Trained? Belongs to a tribe?"
Nabalian shook his head slowly.
"No bird flies against the wind in this weather unless it knows humans well.
Those are eyes… not just wings."
Minutes later, the air itself shifted.
Snow began to fall heavily, visibility shrinking
and then, without warning, ten men emerged at once from between the rocks,
surrounding them on all sides.
Spears raised. Faces hard.
Yet in their eyes there was no hatred
only the caution of hunters facing prey they are not sure is prey… or rival.
One of them stepped forward. His beard was short and gray, leather beads wrapped around his wrist. He spoke in a steady voice:
"Who are you? And why do you cross our land?"
Najjar stepped ahead, standing as a leader should.
"Travelers heading east.
We seek safe passage before the snow buries us alive.
We carry no malice, and we seek no fight."
The man looked at Nabalian, then at Aram,
then lifted his gaze to the sky where the bird still circled.
He said with calm certainty:
"The sky saw you before the land did.
And our falcon does not follow a deceitful man.
You will come with us… until the snow settles."
No one argued.
The snow alone was enough to bury them alive.
They were led through a hidden path between the rocks
corridors only those who knew the mountain like the palm of their hand could see.
Step by step, the outlines of an entire village emerged…
homes carved into stone,
stone courtyards,
suspended paths invisible from afar.
They had entered the mountain village
the village of falcons and ropes.
There, Aram first learned of the Harras
a massive mountain falcon that obeyed only the hunters of the peaks.
It was used to detect strangers and read intent from the sky.
Each falcon had a distinct call,
and each call carried meaning:
a lone stranger,
an armed group,
or a lost passerby.
Yet the most astonishing thing was not the falcons…
but the ropes.
Ropes beyond counting,
each with a name,
a method of binding,
and a unique knot.
Ropes for climbing,
ropes for traps,
ropes for crossing chasms,
and others for binding bodies when the ground betrays them.
Aram spent long hours watching, learning without asking.
He felt as though he had entered a school that did not teach combat…
but the art of survival.
Among the men of the tribe, one name stood out: Solan.
The most skilled climber.
The fastest knot-maker.
The lightest in movement.
Solan laughed one day when he saw Aram struggling to climb a low wall.
But two weeks later, Aram had mastered half of what he knew.
And after a month, the elders began to look at him with silent respect.
As for Nabalian, he found his place among the archers.
His arrow never missed.
His eye never wavered.
As Najjar recovered, Solan drew closer.
One night he sat by the fire and said:
"I hear you're heading to Saba.
I have business there…
and I'll teach your servant how to vanish in the mountains the way shadows do."
A single glance between Aram and Najjar was enough.
At last, Najjar said:
"You're welcome to join us
if your steps are as honest as your words."
The next morning, Aram offered silver to the village elder.
He agreed to let Solan go with them,
along with his falcon Bariq, which he had raised since it was a fledgling.
And so,
after two full months of snow and learning,
the four emerged from the rocks:
Najjar at the front,
Nabalian moving like a shadow,
Solan with his ropes and his falcon Bariq,
and Aram
the man who now vanished more than he appeared.
The snow began to melt.
The road to Saba finally opened.
Now…
the journey was no longer just a passage.
Now…
the true journey had begun.