The city of Bahzar was glowing.

From its towering sandstone minarets to the narrow alleys overflowing with spice-laced air, everything shimmered under the late morning sun. Crimson banners fluttered from the palace walls, and golden bells chimed from every archway. It was the kind of day when even the breeze carried laughter, when the city forgot its wounds and remembered its dreams.

Today was no ordinary day. Word had spread like wildfire across every street, shop, and shanty—the street thief had married the princess.

Children ran barefoot through the dust, shouting stories they barely understood. “He was poor!” one cried. “He had a flying carpet!” said another. “No, he was a sorcerer in disguise!” yelled a third, and the group burst into laughter, inventing wilder tales with every corner they turned.

In the heart of this celebration, lost in the noise and wonder, a boy leaned against the wall of a crumbling tea stall, chewing on a stolen piece of flatbread. His name was Zahid, and unlike the rest of the city, his eyes were not filled with joy—but with curiosity.

Sixteen years old, sunburnt, sharp-eyed, and faster than most guards could blink, Zahid had no home, no family, and no real reason to stay in one place. He wasn’t a bad thief—he was a playful one. He stole not because he was desperate, but because the world had forgotten to give him anything else to do. His heart wasn’t bitter—it was hungry for something more.

And this day, this joy, this wedding of a former thief who had somehow become a prince—it lit something inside him. Not envy. Not disbelief. Something else.

Hope.

Still chewing, Zahid wandered through the market, where even the poorest stall owners had hung scraps of silk in honor of the occasion. A potter with cracked hands sold chipped cups for half their price. A blind storyteller sat on a rug, spinning tales of magic lamps and golden caves for a single copper coin. No one questioned whether the stories were true—they needed them to be.

Not far from there, just past the crowd and into the quieter edges of the city, Zahid slipped into his favorite hiding place—an abandoned building behind the old library. Its roof was half-collapsed, and the floor was littered with scrolls, dust, and silence. He liked it here. It was the only place where the world felt still.

He sat on a stone step and looked out at the city.

Bahzar was beautiful, but it was also broken. Behind the joy, there were mothers selling jewelry to buy rice. There were barefoot children chasing stories instead of school. There were boys like Zahid who had never even dreamed of a palace. And yet today, every single one of them smiled.

“Imagine that,” Zahid murmured to himself. “A thief with a magic lamp. Married to a princess. Who writes these stories?”

He laughed softly.

He didn’t know that soon, he wouldn’t just be reading stories.

He’d be walking into one.

The sun was slipping lower behind the towers of Bahzar, painting the sky with streaks of molten gold. The laughter in the streets faded as lamps were lit and the celebration of the grand royal wedding gave way to hungry bellies and tired feet.

Zahid stayed in his hiding place longer than usual.

The silence of the abandoned library felt heavier today. Maybe it was the strange joy outside. Maybe it was the whisper of a dream trying to reach someone like him. He sat cross-legged near a cracked stone column, absently tossing pebbles at the wall.

Then he noticed it.

A corner of leather peeking from beneath a pile of broken scrolls and torn fabrics. It wasn’t new—it was ancient, almost part of the ruin itself. But something about it called to him. He brushed aside the dust and pulled it free.

It was a book.

Not the usual prayer scripts or merchant logs. This was thick, wrapped in cracked black leather, with a symbol burned into its cover—a crescent moon cradling an open eye. No name. No title.

Zahid opened it slowly.

The first page was blank. The second too. But on the third, in bold, elegant ink, a single line was written:

> “If you are reading this… it means I am gone.”

Zahid’s eyes narrowed. He turned the page.

> “My name is Ahmed Arabian. For forty years I wandered the forgotten corners of this world. I hunted stories, followed shadows, and dared to believe in what others called myth—Jinn, witches, sea spirits, talking beasts, cursed gold, and enchanted forests. I have seen them all.”

Zahid felt his chest tighten. This wasn’t just some wild tale. The way it was written, it felt… real. He kept reading.

> “If this book has found you, child, then fate has passed the torch. My adventure was never meant to end in silence. You must continue it. This world hides more than you know. And if you're brave enough to seek it, then begin where all treasure tales begin…”

Zahid turned the page eagerly.

A riddle awaited him:

> “Where thieves dared and treasure bled,

In stone and shadow the secret’s fed.

A hundred steps past the market bell,

A lion guards the mouth of hell.”

Beneath the riddle was one final note:

> “Inside, you’ll find my satchel. Maps. Tools. Truth.

But beware—what waits in darkness does not sleep.

Follow only if your heart is not easily broken.”

Zahid closed the book slowly, the weight of it sinking into his hands. He looked around the ruined building like it might vanish at any moment.

His pulse quickened. His fingers curled tighter around the leather cover.

Was this real?

He had nothing. No family, no roof, no rules. But now… he had a purpose. A path. A beginning.

He stood up, eyes sharp and alive, staring in the direction of the market bell that chimed every sunset.

“I guess I’m chasing ghosts now,” he whispered, smiling.

And so Zahid—just a curious, ragged boy—took his first step toward the cave that once belonged to the legendary Ali Baba.

He didn’t know it yet, but fate had already started writing his name into the pages of forgotten magic.

The streets of Bahzar pulsed with life, even as the sun dipped low, turning the sky the color of burnt copper. Zahid wandered deeper into the southern quarter where stories clung to the brick walls like ivy—legends of monsters, magic, and treasure long lost to time.

He wasn’t chasing dreams. Not really. Just… following a trail of curiosity.

Until he found himself in the wrong alley at the right time.

A boy in a red vest was fighting off two street thieves. Zahid knew their type—eyes sharp, hands quicker than blades, hearts emptier than their pockets. The boy held his own, but he was cornered. Zahid didn’t hesitate.

He swung a broken broom handle hard, cracking it across the wrist of the one with the knife. The other turned too late. Two hits later, they were gone, nursing bruises and cursing Zahid’s name.

“Next time, stay home,” Zahid muttered.

“You didn’t have to help,” the boy grinned, holding out a pouch. “But I’m glad you did. Take this.”

Zahid shook his head. “I’m not interested.”

“Then join me for food. That’s not charity. That’s gratitude.”

Zahid, whose stomach betrayed him with a growl, rolled his eyes. “Fine. But I won’t owe you anything.”

---

Ali’s home wasn’t just rich—it was grand. The kind of house with fountains in the garden and mango trees that gave fruit year-round.

As servants laid out a lavish meal, Zahid watched quietly, shoulders tense even in comfort. He wasn’t used to softness.

“I’m Ali,” his host said between bites. “My father’s a spice merchant. Very rich. Very boring. You?”

“I’m no one,” Zahid said simply. “Just a traveler.”

“Liar,” Ali said, raising a brow. “No one fights like that unless they’ve seen something.”

Zahid pulled out a small, weather-worn book and placed it on the table.

“I found this near the docks. Inside a barrel meant for firewood.”

Ali leaned in.

“Ahmed Arabian,” Zahid read aloud. “Explorer. Dreamer. He claims this world still hides things beyond imagination. Creatures, relics, magic. And... caves.”

“Caves?” Ali echoed.

“One in particular,” Zahid continued. “He said it was a resting place of a forgotten treasure. Guarded by riddles, by spells. He wrote—‘If you find this book, I am dead. But the map is in my bag. And my bag is in the place of thieves and gold.’”

Ali’s eyes lit up. “The Cave of Ali Baba.”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Of course,” Ali said. “It’s legend in every merchant family. Forty thieves, magic doors, gold that corrupted kings. But there’s more. The legend says something was left behind. Not gold. Something powerful.”

Zahid opened the book. Inside the last page, something was scribbled in a shaky hand:

> “Beyond the seventh bell and the trader’s tomb,

Where shadows dance in the lion’s room,

Speak the words the thief once said—

And doors shall open for the dead.”

Zahid whispered the line again, frowning. “The thief once said…”

Ali leaned forward. “It must be ‘Open Sesame.’”

Zahid grinned. “Then we find the trader’s tomb.”

Ali smirked. “I know where it is. An old ruin east of the city. Traders say it’s cursed. My father forbade me to go.”

Zahid stood. “So, of course, we’re going.”

Ali clapped his hands. “At dawn. We’ll ride light and quiet.”

Zahid nodded. For the first time in days, he felt something unfamiliar: purpose.

Not just thieving for fun.

Not just surviving.

But chasing whispers in the dust… and possibly, beginning a tale worth telling for a thousand and one nights.