The Weight Of Truth

The parchment felt heavier in Sayid's hands than mere ink and paper should. It was a simple thing—creased at the edges, barely the size of his palm—but within it lay the path to a man who had shaped his very existence.

Iskander.

A name written in bold strokes, along with a location deep within the desert's forgotten ruins.

Mehri watched him, arms crossed. "So?"

Sayid folded the parchment and slipped it into his robe. "We leave at first light."

The old informant chuckled, shaking his head. "You sure about that, scholar? Some men aren't meant to be found."

Sayid met his gaze. "And some men shouldn't be allowed to stay hidden."

The man didn't argue. He simply pocketed the gold Mehri had given him and turned away, vanishing into the dimly lit tavern like smoke dissolving into the air.

A Road Without Answers

Dawn found them on horseback, trailing a winding path through dry, rolling hills. The desert stretched endlessly ahead, an ocean of golden dust beneath the rising sun.

Sayid had traveled many roads, but this one felt different.

He should have been relieved to have a lead. Instead, unease sat heavy in his chest.

Mehri rode beside him in silence, waiting. She always waited.

"You keep thinking about it," she finally said.

Sayid adjusted his grip on the reins. "Thinking about what?"

She shot him a knowing look. "What you'll do when you find him."

Sayid exhaled. "If I find him."

Mehri's voice softened—a rare thing. "You have to decide before that moment comes, Sayid."

He frowned. "Why?"

"Because doubt is a fire." She nudged her horse closer. "If you don't control it, it'll burn through you before you even step into the battle."

Sayid looked at her, the weight of her words pressing against his thoughts.

She was right.

Wasn't doubt always his greatest enemy? It had stolen time, robbed him of sleep, and poisoned his past decisions.

If he didn't decide who he was before facing Iskander… then Iskander would decide for him.

Whispers in the Ruins

By dusk, they arrived at the location marked on the parchment.

The ruins stood in silence, half-swallowed by the sands of time. Crumbling walls and shattered pillars told of a place that had once been a monastery—now forgotten by all but the desert itself.

Sayid dismounted, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

Mehri scanned the area, fingers resting on the hilt of her dagger. "No signs of life."

Sayid frowned. The wind howled through the ruins, whispering through the cracks in the stone. Shadows stretched long in the fading light.

And yet… something felt wrong.

He stepped forward. The air was thick, heavy, as if weighed down by unseen eyes.

A voice murmured in his memory.

"Some men aren't meant to be found."

He swallowed.

Perhaps Iskander wasn't here.

Or perhaps—he didn't want to be found.

Mehri's voice pulled him back. "Sayid."

He turned.

She was crouched beside a weathered stone slab, brushing away dust to reveal an inscription. The letters were old, barely legible, but he recognized the script.

It was a name.

One that shouldn't be here.

His breath caught.

Not Iskander's. His own.

Sayid ibn Rahman.

Carved into stone.

As if someone had been waiting for him.

As if someone had known he would come.

The desert wind howled again, carrying the weight of something unseen.

And for the first time in a long while—Sayid felt afraid.

The desert wind pressed against Sayid's back, its whisper threading through the ruined monastery like the breath of a ghost. His fingers hovered over the inscription. Sayid ibn Rahman.

It was impossible.

Mehri stood beside him, her expression unreadable. "This isn't normal," she murmured.

Sayid swallowed. His name, carved into stone older than himself. It wasn't a trick of the light or a coincidence. Someone had put it there, long before he ever set foot in this place.

A chill crawled down his spine.

"Some men aren't meant to be found."

He straightened. "We need to search the ruins."

Mehri didn't argue. She drew her dagger and moved ahead, eyes sharp as she stepped over broken stone and faded mosaics. Sayid followed, his heart pounding against his ribs.

The ruins were vast, a skeleton of what had once been a grand place of worship. Arched doorways crumbled into sand, and faded murals stretched across the fractured walls—scenes of monks kneeling in prayer, their hands lifted toward a sun that no longer burned bright.

Sayid's gaze lingered on a particular figure in the mural. A lone man, standing apart from the others, his face shadowed.

Something about it felt familiar.

"The one that will give you peace? Or the one that will break you?"

He tore his eyes away. No. Focus.

The weight of his name on the stone slab still pressed on his mind. Someone had left it here. Someone had wanted him to find it.

Mehri's voice cut through the silence. "Footprints."

Sayid turned. She crouched beside a half-buried stairway leading downward. In the fading light, he could just make out the uneven pattern of footprints in the dust. Some old. Some fresh.

Someone had been here. Maybe they still were.

Mehri exhaled. "Whoever it was, they knew this place well."

Sayid tightened his grip on the parchment in his robe. "Then we keep going."

They descended the stairs, each step swallowing them deeper into the ruins. The air grew heavier, damp with the scent of stone and time. The deeper they went, the quieter the world above became, as if the monastery itself was holding its breath.

At the bottom of the stairs, a single wooden door waited, its surface worn smooth by centuries. Unlike the ruins above, this door was intact. Untouched by time.

Sayid hesitated. The inscription on the slab above, the footprints, the way the very air around them seemed to listen—it all felt like a warning.

And yet, he reached for the handle.

The wood was warm beneath his fingers.

He pushed.

The door groaned open, revealing a chamber bathed in the golden glow of candlelight.

Sayid's breath caught.

A room untouched by ruin. Scrolls and books lined the walls, preserved beneath layers of fine dust. A writing desk stood at the center, an oil lamp flickering beside an open manuscript.

And beside it, a figure sat, draped in a hooded robe.

But someone waiting for him all the same.

Mehri's blade was in her hand in an instant. "Who are you?"

The hooded figure did not rise. Their voice was calm, as though this meeting had been long expected.

"You have finally arrived, Sayid ibn Rahman."

Sayid's blood turned to ice.

To Be Continued…