When the sun rose over Saba, it did not illuminate the square… it revealed what had been waiting for blood.
Morning weighed heavily on Saba,
as though the light itself emerged hesitant,
climbing the walls with cautious slowness,
then spilling into the great square that had already filled with humans and jinn before the day fully formed.
Stone tiers rose in a wide semicircle,
carved into the heart of the mountain,
packed with countless bodies.
Humans with rigid faces,
eyes locked shut around an old, sealed fear.
Jinn whose features refused to settle into a single shape,
eyes glinting in the shadows,
voices not heard… but felt deep in the bones.
Some had come to witness the end of a king.
Some were forced to attend.
Others came hating every moment,
knowing silence was the only way to remain alive.
At the center of the square,
the guillotine stood.
Dark wood soaked in ancient oils,
polished metal reflecting the sun like a blade's edge,
chains pulled taut
unyielding,
merciless.
The procession emerged.
A hooded man,
hands bound,
walking with steady steps despite the weight of the chains.
The captive king.
A dense guard surrounded him
humans in the front,
jinn behind,
as if they were not escorting a man,
but an idea that had to be killed in full view of all.
On the high platform,
Ronen sat.
He was not tense.
He was not waiting.
He was celebrating.
Beside him stood Nahir,
the imposing jinn,
silent
his eyes not following the procession,
but scanning the tiers,
as if counting hearts before blades.
Ronen raised his hand.
A heavy silence fell,
and the rites began.
Somewhere among the crowd…
other eyes were watching,
not the platform,
but one another.
Aram lifted his head slightly,
his gaze meeting Karem's.
The signal.
Fire was not the first thing seen.
It was sound.
A sharp crack,
then another.
And in an instant,
blue flames erupted at the edges of the square.
Not large.
Not devastating.
But enough to slice order open like flesh.
A guard shouted,
"Fire!"
At the same moment
the sand moved.
Not a natural storm,
but low waves of fine grains,
planted with precision,
driving into eyes,
clinging to skin,
choking sight itself.
Rayhan had begun.
Discipline collapsed into chaos.
The crowd surged.
Some screamed.
Some cheered, believing this part of the ritual.
Others fled in blind terror.
Formations broke.
Lines shattered.
And then
everyone moved.
Siham emerged from shadow as if she had never existed before.
Her blade flashed once.
Then a guard fell.
Then another.
No sound
as though death itself was learning silence from her.
Karem hurled his small charges between legs.
A brief flare.
Overlapping screams.
A retreat without order,
as if the ground had turned against those standing on it.
Solan sealed a passage with ropes in a single motion
pull,
cut,
and reinforcements vanished into a dead void.
As for Aram
he did not run.
He did not shout.
He did not clash.
He slipped.
Moved where no one was looking,
passed between bodies like a passing thought,
advanced in measured steps toward the guillotine.
The ring was warm on his finger…
but silent.
He climbed the steps.
At the top,
he struck the guard.
One thrust.
Fast.
Final.
He seized the bound man.
Ripped the hood away.
Time stopped.
It was not the king.
Unfamiliar eyes.
A face he did not know.
A trap.
At that instant,
Ronen's laughter rose,
cutting through the chaos like an arrow:
"You were so close, Aram."
Aram turned.
He saw Nahir raise his hand.
And in a single moment
the jinn moved together,
as one body finally given its command.
Aram shouted,
"Withdraw! Now!"
But time had narrowed.
Nabalyan fell, wounded.
Ghaydar was surrounded.
Others were seized before the signal reached them.
There was no way back.
Solan grabbed Aram's arm.
Rayhan unleashed one final wave of sand,
like a curtain falling on a stage.
Siham and Karem forced a path through sheer violence.
They leapt from the platform.
Ran.
Cleared barriers.
Burst out of the square
then out of the city.
They did not stop.
Through alleys.
Over rock.
Into the mountains.
Behind them
Saba burned.
Ahead
the unknown.
At a narrow river,
its cold water biting into flesh,
they threw themselves in,
letting the current swallow their trail.
When they reached the opposite bank,
they collapsed.
Gasping.
Bleeding.
Silence heavier than screams.
Aram looked at those who remained with him.
Exhausted faces
but unbroken.
At last, he said, his voice calm as sharpened steel:
"We did not lose the battle…
but we lost the illusion."
And he lifted his gaze to the sky.
The path…
no longer led backward.
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