Whispers Beneath the Dust

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.