When roads begin to converge… enemies step out of the shadows and show their faces.
After their encounter with the mysterious Oshan, and after crossing the Valley of Echoes with its sounds that refused to fade from memory, Aram's caravan continued its journey for many long weeks through the eastern desert.
The sands were no longer as they had been at the beginning of the journey.
The ground grew firmer beneath their feet, the air slightly lighter, and low hills began to rise along the horizon a sign well known to seasoned travelers, an unspoken announcement: you are nearing the midpoint of the road to Saba.
These lands were not mere desert.
Among the caravans, they were known as exchange stations places that belonged neither fully to the east nor the west, but stood between them like a living balance. Here, caravans met to trade goods, news, accents, and sometimes judgments and advice that could save an entire convoy from ruin.
The caravan entered its first major station at sunset.
It was a city without a single name, known instead by its entrance: the Gate of Black Stones.
The gate was built of smooth, dark rocks, as though they had once been burned by ancient fire, leaving its memory etched into the stone. Beyond it stretched wide caravanserais, low stone houses, and open yards where camels were slaughtered, hides spread to dry, and spices from India and Abyssinia, along with heavy oils from the south, were laid out for trade.
Aram and his companions passed through long corridors lined with colorful rugs, their ears filled with the overlapping cries of merchants:
"Fabrics from Yemen!"
"Dates from Oman!"
"Hides from Nubia!"
"Blades from Persia unbreakable!"
The place pulsed with life, more alive than anything they had encountered in months.
Yet Aram's eyes did not seek life.
They searched for danger.
In one corner, his gaze halted on a man displaying two tall African slaves, powerfully built, their muscles taut beneath dark, gleaming skin. Their shoulders were broad, their backs straight, their feet planted firmly on the ground like the roots of ancient trees.
Aram stepped closer and looked into their eyes.
He saw no fear.
He saw brokenness intertwined with silent strength.
A strength that said: we obey, but we are not weak.
The trader smiled confidently.
"They're sons of the savanna hard to defeat. Which one do you want?"
Aram answered without hesitation:
"Both."
He paid the price, and the two men stood behind him in heavy silence.
He gave them names worthy of their presence:
Okkan
Masai
From that moment on, they were part of the caravan not as property to be driven, but as strength added to its spine.
That night, the men gathered in one of the larger caravanserais.
Smoke curled toward the ceiling, lamps flickered against soot-darkened walls, and the voices of travelers blended with laughter and argument.
All except Siham.
She did not sit.
She wrapped herself in a wide cloak, hiding her hair and face, and moved through the inns the way a thought moves through a sleeping man's mind. She knew how to disappear, how to make her presence weightless.
She heard many conversations
But one froze the blood in her veins.
Behind a half-open door, clear whispers:
"The caravan will pass through the northern gate…"
"Prepare the nets and spears."
"Has the payment arrived?"
"Yes… the man from the west paid double. He wants their leader's head."
Siham stiffened.
Another voice, lower still, added:
"And don't forget the Black Gate…
the stones there hide you from all eyes."
She did not wait.
She returned swiftly to the caravanserai and went straight to Aram.
Her voice was low, but unyielding:
"There's an ambush at the northern gate.
Nets, spears, men ready to kill.
And worse
a man from the west is paying the gold."
Silence fell.
Aram felt the threads tightening around him. No longer hidden now being pulled with force.
At dawn, Aram gathered his men.
He did not raise his voice.
He showed no fear.
He spoke with the calm of a man who knows that flight is not an answer:
"We will not change our path out of fear.
We will pass
but not the way they expect."
He laid out a simple plan, sharp as a blade.
He hired five men from the caravanserais, similar in appearance to the group. He gave them clothing from the caravan and ordered them to lead the camels along the expected route, to show themselves clearly and then flee the moment the attack began.
The real caravan, meanwhile, took a rear path, circling the mountain to strike from behind the attackers.
At the northern gate, sixty men lay hidden among the black stones.
Spears ready.
Nets stretched.
Eyes waiting.
The false caravan approached.
"One!" someone shouted.
"Now!"
Nets flew. Arrows rained down.
The five men fled as agreed.
The attackers laughed.
They believed the trap had worked.
Then death came from behind.
From atop the rocks, Aram's men appeared.
Nibalion's arrow pierced the first man's chest.
Samer's strike split the second.
Rayhan hurled blinding sand, throwing half of them into chaos.
Solan leapt, his rope tightening around one man's throat.
And Okkan and Masai charged like beasts unleashed from chains.
As for Aram
He did not raise his sword at first.
He chose his targets with his eyes, then struck only where it mattered.
The men fell quickly.
Two were taken alive.
Before the first captive could speak
A long arrow tore through his head from afar,
shot from the direction of the Gate of Black Stones.
He died instantly.
The second captive froze, staring at his brother's corpse.
He screamed:
"My brother! You killed my brother!"
Aram replied with lethal calm:
"We didn't kill him.
The one who sent you did."
The man collapsed, then spoke through sobs:
"A man from the west…
eyes like a wolf's…
a voice that devours the soul.
He paid us gold and when we hesitated, he killed my brother."
Aram asked,
"Do you know his name?"
The man shook his head.
"No… but I'll recognize him if I see him."
Then he raised his head and said,
"If you spare my life…
I'll stand with you.
And I'll kill the man who killed my brother."
Aram looked at his men, then said,
"From today on, you are with us.
But remember
our road does not forgive betrayal twice."
The man dropped to his knees, pressed his hand to the ground, and said:
"I swear by my life to be your sword.
My name is Ghaidar
and from now on, it is yours."
And so, another man joined the caravan,
driven by a vengeance that would not sleep.
The caravan moved on.
And the truth had never been clearer:
Someone wanted Aram's head.
Someone was paying gold.
Someone knew every step before it was taken.
And the journey
Had not yet reached its most dangerous chapter.