The Road Calls

Chapter 1: The Road Calls

The year is 1272, a time when the world trembles under the hooves of Mongol horses. The Silk Road, the great artery of civilization, winds through the vast expanse of deserts, mountains, and cities teeming with traders, thieves, and dreamers.

Among them is Sayid ibn Rahman, a young Persian scribe with nothing left but the ink-stained pages of a manuscript—one he barely understands but knows is worth more than gold. His homeland, the Abbasid Caliphate, fell to the Mongols years ago. Now, as a wandering scholar with no nation to call his own, he follows the trade routes west, toward Constantinople, seeking refuge, knowledge, and perhaps, a new purpose.

The desert wind howls as Sayid tightens his cloak around him. Sand bites at his face, carried by the relentless gales that sweep across the dunes like ghosts of fallen empires. His horse, a sturdy steppe mare he bartered for in Bukhara, moves with practiced ease, her hooves sinking into the golden sea of sand. The sun bleeds into the horizon, casting long shadows of merchants and their camels as they trudge toward the safety of the caravanserai ahead.

The caravanserai of Samarkand looms before him—an ancient fortress of stone and clay, its walls thick with the dust of centuries. Within, the scent of roasted lamb and saffron fills the air, mingling with the smoke of burning frankincense. Traders argue over silk and porcelain, their voices rising and falling in a dozen tongues—Persian, Arabic, Mongolian, even Greek. Coins exchange hands, some earned through honest trade, others through deception.

Sayid moves through the crowd, his eyes wary. He knows that knowledge is as dangerous as wealth in these lands, and what he carries—a book bound in aged leather, inscribed with secrets lost to time—could either save him or end him. He clutches it close beneath his robes.

He finds a seat near a flickering oil lamp, listening to the murmurs around him. A Mongol warrior, his armor battered from countless battles, sits nearby, sharpening a curved blade. A Chinese merchant, his robes embroidered with golden dragons, boasts of spices that can cure even the plague. A veiled woman, barely noticeable in the dim light, watches everything in silence.

And then, there is Mehri.

Dressed as a man, she moves through the caravanserai with the confidence of someone who belongs yet does not wish to be seen. Her features are sharp, her hands calloused—not the hands of a noblewoman but of someone who has lived on the edge of survival. Sayid notices her because she notices him first.

Their eyes meet, and in that brief moment, something unspoken passes between them. Recognition? Caution? Fate?

But before either can speak, the sound of hooves echoes from outside. A rider cloaked in black storms into the caravanserai, his horse foaming at the mouth. Dust swirls around him as he pulls his mount to a stop, his voice cutting through the chatter like a blade:

"The Mongols are moving. The roads will burn. Run while you still can."

A hush falls over the gathering. Sayid's fingers tighten around the manuscript.

He does not know it yet, but his journey has just begun.

The warning from the rider sent ripples of unease through the caravanserai. Whispers spread like wildfire—"The Mongols are moving." Merchants packed their goods with shaky hands, while travelers weighed their options: flee or risk the road.

Sayid sat still, his fingers brushing over the manuscript beneath his robes. The weight of knowledge pressed against his chest, heavier than gold. Across the room, Mehri had not moved. She was still watching him.

"You look like a man with something to hide," she said, her voice low, almost drowned by the murmurs around them.

Sayid met her gaze. "And you look like someone who knows when to mind their own business."

She smirked. "If I did that, I wouldn't be alive."

A gust of wind rattled the wooden shutters, and outside, the desert night had swallowed the last remnants of daylight. Sayid knew he couldn't stay here. If the Mongols were truly advancing, every road would soon be painted with blood. But he wasn't just running from an invading army—he was running toward something. The answers that lay beyond these dunes.

Mehri leaned closer, lowering her voice. "I know who you are, Sayid ibn Rahman."

His breath caught for a split second before he masked his surprise. "Do you?"

"You're the scholar from Baghdad. The one who survived." Her gaze flickered to the book hidden beneath his robes. "And you're carrying something that others would kill for."

Sayid tensed. He had been careful, but not careful enough.

Before he could respond, the doors of the caravanserai burst open. A group of armed riders strode in, their cloaks tattered from the desert wind. Their leader, a tall man with a scarred face, surveyed the room with cold, calculating eyes.

"By order of the Empire," he announced, "we are searching for a fugitive. A man carrying a forbidden manuscript."

Sayid felt his pulse quicken.

Mehri sighed, her fingers resting on the hilt of a hidden dagger. "Looks like your secret's out, scholar."