When silence becomes a weapon, survival demands that you move as though you do not exist.
In the lower corridors of the palace, where tunnels intertwined like hidden veins beneath a colossal body, Aram paused.
He slowly raised his hand and studied the ring on his finger.
It did not glow.
It did not shine.
Yet it carried a strange weight
a presence like an unseen gaze that still made one feel watched.
He knew, without proof, that the jinn could sense him even in stillness.
He spoke in a low voice, barely brushing the air:
"The ring is bound to me not to you.
If we split, you will fall before I reach you."
Solan did not object; he gave a brief nod that carried complete understanding.
Siham nodded in sharp silence.
As for Karam, a faint smile curved his lips the kind that always preceded chaos.
They agreed on one rule, beyond negotiation:
no separation.
The goal was not combat
but knowledge.
Where was the king?
Where were the keys?
Where was the altar?
And who if anyone could be an ally in a palace ruled by betrayal, where secrets were handled with blades?
They moved through the tunnels as a single shadow.
Measured steps.
Short breaths.
Bodies pressed to the walls when needed.
The runes carved into the stone told a history older than the palace itself:
some lay dormant like ancient scars,
others pulsed with faint light whenever a jinni passed nearby.
Aram felt a subtle sting in the ring whenever they neared a point guarded by non-human forces,
as if the metal warned him without sound.
Solan whispered, reading emptiness before reading the path:
"Here… the jinn rarely pass.
This is a human corridor."
At the same moment, Karam slid forward like a shard of shadow breaking free from the wall.
He drew from his pouch a small lump of clay soaked in an oily powder,
placed it in a dark corner,
then scored it with a sharp stone.
A soft hiss…
then the scent of thin smoke.
It was not fire
but the illusion of fire.
Minutes later, soldiers' voices thundered from the opposite direction:
"Smoke! There's smoke!"
"Seal the passage!"
They rushed away,
and the path opened before the four as though the palace itself had turned its face from them.
They entered an old storage chamber:
sacks of grain piled high,
water jars half-buried in the floor,
and baskets of provisions prepared for a siege that never came.
Aram said decisively:
"The chasm…
days have passed for them."
They wasted no time.
Karam packed food into small, easy-to-carry bundles.
Solan prepared ropes with silent knots.
Siham stood watch, eyes unblinking.
They returned like shadows that knew their path
corridors they had walked before, memorized like the lines of a palm,
without sound, without hesitation,
until they reached the edge of the chasm.
From a dark point in the ceiling,
they lowered the ropes slowly,
releasing the bundles one by one.
They heard nothing from below,
yet Aram felt gratitude reach him,
as though the air itself carried it up from the depths.
They moved on.
In a side passage, where several soldiers stood near the cells,
they caught words not meant for them
yet they fell into their hands like a dagger.
A tense human voice said:
"The keys never leave my chest
that's the minister's order."
Another replied harshly:
"And the king?"
"Cell of the third chain…
behind the throne hall.
Only three may enter
and from there, the king will watch his grandson's execution at the altar of Saba."
Aram stopped.
He did not move.
He stored the words the way one stores fatal blows.
But the altar
its mention struck like an unexpected stab.
"It will be prepared at the next full moon,
in the upper hall…
where there is no shadow, and no escape."
They exchanged silent glances.
Time was tightening.
And the ground beneath them had little patience left.
They pressed deeper.
In one small chamber, combat became unavoidable.
A human guard turned suddenly.
Siham was closest.
She did not scream.
She did not rush.
One blade, placed where those who live between heartbeats know to strike.
He fell without a sound.
Another guard tried to run,
but Karam tossed a small sphere at his feet.
A flash… a brief scream… then silence.
They did not slow.
At last, they reached an elevated chamber
an inner balcony overlooking the hall of rule.
They hid behind an ornate stone curtain.
And from there…
They saw everything.
Ronen.
Standing in dark robes,
surrounded by humans and jinn alike.
Jinn with shifting features,
limbs moving in inhuman slowness,
eyes flaring in shadow, then vanishing.
He spoke with the confidence of a victor,
as though the palace had been built for him alone to stand upon.
Aram whispered, his voice barely audible,
yet heavier than stone:
"This is the stage…
and what follows will not be a whisper."
And in the moment Ronen raised his hand
to proclaim what he would do before them all…
Fate had already taken
its next step.
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