The Weight Of Destiny

The Weight of Destiny

Sayid did not move. His breath was slow, measured, though his pulse pounded like a war drum. The figure's voice had carried no malice, no threat—only certainty.

Mehri, however, was a shadow of tension beside him. Her grip on the dagger did not falter. "You know his name," she said. "That means you know what we're looking for."

A chuckle, soft like shifting parchment. "Perhaps."

Sayid took a step forward, ignoring the flicker of Mehri's warning glance. The room smelled of ink and wax, of knowledge sealed away from the world. His eyes swept over the open manuscript on the desk, the curling script too distant to read.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The hooded figure tilted their head. "A keeper of things lost." A pause. "And a witness to those who come seeking answers they are not yet ready to receive."

Sayid's fingers curled into his palm. "You knew I would come."

"I knew someone would come." The figure leaned back, their hands still hidden beneath their robes. "But your name, Sayid ibn Rahman, has been written in this place for far longer than you have lived."

Sayid's throat tightened. He remembered the inscription outside—the impossible carving of his name in stone.

Mehri exhaled sharply. "Enough riddles." Her blade gleamed in the candlelight. "Where is Iskander?"

The figure went still. Then, slowly, they raised a hand. A single finger pointed toward the far wall, where a large tapestry hung between stone columns. The fabric was thick with dust, its once-vivid colors faded to ghostly echoes.

Sayid stepped toward it, reaching out with cautious fingers. He grasped the edge and pulled.

The tapestry fell away, revealing a door. Unlike the rest of the ruins, this one was not worn by time. It was ironbound, its wood dark and polished, the handle gleaming as if recently touched.

His stomach twisted. Someone had been through here.

The hooded figure's voice was soft. "Beyond this door lies the path you seek."

Sayid turned back to them. "And what lies at the end of it?"

A pause. Then—

"A man who has been waiting for you."

A silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of something unseen. Sayid turned to Mehri. She gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

Without another word, Sayid reached for the handle.

It was warm.

He pushed.

The door swung open, revealing a dark corridor stretching beyond the reach of candlelight. The air was different here—denser, colder, carrying the scent of something deep, something buried.

Sayid took a step forward. Mehri followed without hesitation.

Behind them, the hooded figure watched in silence.

And as the door closed with a whisper of finality, Sayid couldn't shake the feeling that they had just stepped beyond a threshold that could never be undone.

The Path of Shadows

The corridor swallowed them whole.

Sayid's footsteps echoed against the stone, each step hesitant but firm. The air grew colder the deeper they went, thick with the scent of old parchment and something metallic—iron, perhaps, or blood long dried.

Mehri's presence was a steady shadow beside him. She had not spoken since they crossed the threshold, but he could feel her tension like a coiled wire.

The passage twisted, narrowing into an arched hallway where the walls were lined with engravings—words in a script Sayid recognized but could not fully decipher. He ran his fingers over the carved letters.

"These inscriptions," he murmured, "they're… ancient."

Mehri leaned in, her breath warm against the chill. "Do they say anything useful?"

Sayid narrowed his eyes, tracing the faded lines. "A warning, I think. Something about a 'price to be paid' for seeking knowledge beyond one's fate."

Mehri exhaled sharply. "Comforting."

Sayid let his hand fall away from the wall and pressed forward. The passage sloped downward, the air thickening, oppressive now. He felt it pressing against his ribs, his thoughts, as though the very walls of this place whispered things he wasn't meant to hear.

Then—

A flicker of movement ahead.

Sayid halted. Mehri's dagger was in her hand in an instant, her body lowering into a defensive stance.

A faint glow pulsed from the next chamber. A single torch, flickering against the gloom.

They stepped forward.

The chamber was small, its walls lined with shelves of scrolls and tablets, preserved by time in a way that should have been impossible. At its center stood a stone pedestal, and on it—

A single book.

Bound in leather dark as the abyss, the edges worn with age, yet untouched by dust. Symbols were etched into its cover, the script different from the engravings on the walls.

Sayid reached for it.

"Wait." Mehri's voice was sharp. "Look at the ground."

Sayid hesitated. Then he saw it.

A fine layer of sand, disturbed only in certain places—around the pedestal, in a wide, uneven circle.

Like someone had been pacing.

Recently.

A breath of wind whispered through the chamber, though there was no source for it.

Then, from behind them—

A voice. Low. Measured. Unmistakable.

"I was beginning to think you would never arrive."

Sayid turned slowly.

At the edge of the light, standing in the doorway they had just passed through, was a man.

Tall, draped in a dark robe, his face obscured by the dim glow of the torchlight.

But Sayid knew.

He had known the moment he stepped into these ruins.

"Iskander," he breathed.

The man did not move. "Sayid ibn Rahman. At last."

Sayid's fingers twitched at his side. "You knew I would come."

Iskander's lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. "I knew you would have no choice."

Mehri's grip on her dagger tightened. "What does that mean?"

Sayid exhaled, steadying himself. "You left that parchment for me to find."

"Did I?" Iskander's tone was unreadable. "Or was it already waiting for you?"

Sayid clenched his jaw. "Enough riddles." He took a step forward. "I came for the truth."

Iskander regarded him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded toward the book on the pedestal.

"Then open it."

Sayid hesitated. His pulse roared in his ears.

Something about the book felt… wrong.

Mehri shifted beside him. "Sayid—"

He ignored her.

His fingers brushed the cover.

A jolt ran up his arm. A whisper—no, a thousand whispers—rushed through his mind, voices layered upon voices, calling, pleading, demanding.

His breath hitched. His vision blurred.

And then—

The room disappeared.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

He was falling.

Falling into something deeper than the earth, deeper than time itself.

And at the end of it, waiting like a shadow on the horizon—

Was the truth he had been seeking.

To Be Continued…