Whispers in the Night

Qusay felt a wave of unease wash over him. "Who could be here at this hour? And why do they seem so... off?" he wondered silently. He decided not to take any risks. He didn't know the intentions of these people, and he wasn't looking for an unnecessary confrontation, especially since he was still exploring his abilities. His powers weren't exactly suited for direct combat anyway.

He quickly scanned his surroundings. He knew there were three different paths leading to the top of the mountain, and he had taken the easiest one to climb up. Now, he decided to descend using a different, more rugged path—one that would keep him far from the source of the whispers. "Better to avoid them without being seen," he thought as he quietly moved toward the side path.

Qusay began his descent carefully, avoiding slippery rocks and tangled branches. Every now and then, he paused to listen for the whispers, making sure they weren't getting closer. With each step, he felt the energy he had drawn from the mountain sharpen his focus, helping him move swiftly and steadily.

When he reached the halfway point, he stopped to rest under the shade of a large tree. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. "I made the right call by leaving," he told himself. "I don't know who those people are, but I don't want to face them right now."

After a few minutes, he continued his descent until he reached the base of the mountain. He glanced up toward the summit, where the whispers still echoed faintly in the air. "Maybe they're just a group of kids looking for a quiet spot, but I don't want to find out," he muttered as he walked away briskly.

When he reached the main road, he felt a sense of relief. He knew he had avoided a potentially dangerous situation. "Avoiding danger is also a form of strength," he thought as he headed home.

Back at his house, Qusay made sure to lock the door—something he rarely did—which showed just how unsettled he was by the night's events. He went to his bed and lay down, pretending to sleep, but in reality, he was trying to use his ability to project his consciousness and explore the world. However, no matter how hard he tried, it didn't work. "Hmm, this is strange. I thought I absorbed enough energy to use my ability. Why can't I do it now?" he wondered, feeling frustrated.

After some deep thought, it hit him. "Ah, of course! It's the food! Energy isn't everything—nutrition matters too," he realized with a laugh. His body needed real fuel, not just the spiritual or mental energy he had drawn from the mountain.

He decided to make a quick meal to recharge. He remembered that Spanish tortilla was a simple and decent option. It wasn't his favorite dish, but it was easy to prepare and filling enough to give him the energy he needed.

He peeled a few potatoes and sliced them thinly, then did the same with an onion. He fried the potatoes and onions in olive oil until they were soft. In a bowl, he whisked some eggs and added the fried potatoes and onions, then poured the mixture into a pan. After a few minutes, the tortilla was golden and firm.

He cut it into slices and ate quickly, feeling his energy return. "Not bad," he said to himself with a smile. Now, with his body properly fueled, he was ready to try his ability again.

After finishing his meal, he went back to his room and lay down once more. He closed his eyes and focused on the image of Mount Souna's peak, the place he had been just hours before. This time, he felt his consciousness slip away more easily, as if the energy from the food had helped him overcome the barrier that had blocked him earlier.

In moments, he found himself standing on the summit of Mount Souna, the cold air and clear sky surrounding him. He looked around, relieved to find no trace of the strange whispers he had heard earlier. "It worked!" he whispered to himself, feeling a surge of excitement and triumph.

But his joy was short-lived. As he wandered around the peak, he noticed the same group he had avoided earlier. They were sitting in a circle, laughing and whispering, drinking what looked like a strange beverage. Qusay moved closer, trying to hear what they were saying.

They were talking about a drink they called "Mahia," an alcoholic spirit distilled from dates or figs, known in certain Moroccan circles. They boasted about its benefits, claiming it granted them "eternal life" and "boundless energy." But their words were jumbled and contradictory, mixing talk of a "General Ammar," a "new renaissance," and a "new era of freedom" with phrases about "eternal joy" and "endless vitality."

Qusay felt a mix of confusion and concern. "Who is this General Ammar? And what renaissance are they talking about?" he wondered. He noticed they seemed heavily under the influence of the drink, their movements unsteady and their speech slurred. "Is this drink making them act so strangely?" he thought, recalling the whispers he had heard earlier.

He decided to get closer, knowing they couldn't see him in his astral form. "Maybe avoiding them earlier was the right call," he told himself. But his curiosity pushed him to learn more. "Who knows? Maybe this drink or these people are connected to something bigger."

He moved even closer, almost sitting among them without being noticed. At first, their conversation was scattered and incoherent, filled with laughter and crude jokes. They talked about women, fun, and threw around vulgar insults at names Qusay didn't recognize. "Just a bunch of drunk kids," he thought, ready to leave.

But then he heard a name that struck him like a thunderbolt: the name of the king. They mentioned him casually, even cursing him at times. "Are they against the regime?" Qusay wondered, his anxiety growing. "Are they planning a coup? That's impossible—DST (Morocco's intelligence agency) would never let something like this slide."

The group consisted of five individuals, and they seemed like locals, judging by their dialect and mannerisms. After listening for a while, Qusay realized they weren't just an ordinary group. But the real shock came when their tone suddenly turned serious, and they started talking about "Operation Chefchaouen."

"Our group is ready for the operation," one of them said firmly. "It will be the beginning of the end."

This statement made Qusay's heart race. "What operation? What does it have to do with Chefchaouen?" he wondered, trying to make sense of it all. "Are they serious, or is this just more nonsense?"

Their serious tone and the details of their conversation made him suspect that this was bigger than it seemed. "Maybe I should look into this, but carefully," he thought, continuing to eavesdrop. "I don't want to get involved in something over my head."

He stayed longer, trying to gather more information, but as time passed, he realized his presence wasn't making a difference. The group kept rambling, switching between laughter and incoherent chatter, still drinking their "Mahia," which seemed to disconnect them further from reality.

"What nonsense," Qusay muttered to himself, feeling frustrated. "Nothing they're saying makes any sense or is useful."

They talked about women, fun, and hurled insults at various figures, occasionally returning to the topic of "Operation Chefchaouen" with a serious tone, but without providing any clear details. "Our group is ready," one of them repeated, then went back to laughing and babbling as if nothing had happened.

"Maybe it's all just empty talk," Qusay thought, losing hope of getting any useful information. "Or maybe they don't know anything real, and it's all just drunken delusions."

But the term "Operation Chefchaouen" stuck in his mind. "Even if their words are nonsense, this term isn't ordinary," he told himself. "Maybe I should investigate this further, away from these chatterboxes."

And so, Qusay decided to leave the group and head to Chefchaouen, a city he knew well—not because he grew up there, but because it was close to his hometown, and he had visited it often. Chefchaouen was familiar to him, full of memories and places he knew like the back of his hand. But this time, the city was cloaked in night, giving it a different, more mysterious charm.

When he arrived in Chefchaouen, the scene was familiar yet transformed by the shadows of the night. The blue-painted houses, vibrant under the sun, now glowed softly under the faint moonlight. The narrow alleys he had wandered through many times were draped in long shadows that swayed with the night breeze. The old lanterns hanging on the walls cast a dim light, just enough to outline the path without dispelling the mystery of the place.

"Chefchaouen at night... what an experience," Qusay whispered to himself as he wandered through the alleys he knew so well. "How many times have I walked here at night, listening to the whispers of the wind between the blue walls?"

The night air was fresh, carrying the scent of flowers and the mountain breeze, but it also held a deep silence, occasionally broken by the sound of a cat crossing the road or distant murmurs of people talking on a balcony. "The city seems asleep, but I know there's always something happening beneath this calm surface," Qusay thought.

But this time, he wasn't here to enjoy the city's nocturnal beauty or relive memories. The term "Operation Chefchaouen" still echoed in his mind, and he knew something was happening in this quiet city he loved. "Could there really be something dangerous being planned here, in a place like this?" he wondered as he moved cautiously, trying to pick up any clues that might help him understand what was going on.

And so, as Qusay wandered through Chefchaouen at night, he felt he was on the verge of uncovering something important. The blue city, with its enchanting beauty and deceptive calm, might be hiding secrets far greater than they appeared. "I'll find out the truth, no matter what," he told himself as he prepared to continue his exploration in the darkness of the night.

But suddenly, he noticed something strange: a faint light glowing from one of the old houses in a narrow alley. Deciding to investigate, he effortlessly passed through the wall—after all, in his astral form, nothing could stop him. Inside, he found a room cluttered with maps and scattered papers. A group of people sat in a circle, whispering to each other, and on the table was a bottle of the "Mahia" drink he had heard about earlier.

Qusay moved closer, almost sitting among them. They were discussing "Operation Chefchaouen" in serious tones, pointing at specific spots on the maps. "Everything is ready... tomorrow, after everyone arrives, we begin," one of them whispered. Qusay's heart raced. "What are they planning? And who is 'everyone'?" he wondered silently.

But suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his head, as if his energy was draining rapidly. "No, not now!" he whispered to himself, trying to focus and stay a little longer. The pain intensified, feeling like his head was about to explode. "I need to return to my body... but I have to know more."