Roads To Almaran

The desert stretched endlessly before them, the dunes painted in fading gold and soft twilight as Sayid and Mehri rode in silence.

The wind had calmed, leaving only the rhythmic sound of hooves against dry earth. A weight sat in Sayid's chest, heavier than the supplies strapped to his saddle.

His father's journal was gone.

It wasn't the loss of ink and parchment that unsettled him. It was what the journal meant—the last tether to a past he barely remembered. The lessons written in his father's careful script, the memories preserved in its pages… all taken by something Sayid still didn't understand.

And worst of all?

It had happened without him noticing.

Mehri finally spoke, her voice steady. "Dwelling on it won't bring it back."

Sayid exhaled, gripping the reins tighter. "I know."

"Then stop looking behind you."

Sayid turned to her, frowning. "It was my father's."

Mehri sighed. "And does losing the book mean you've lost him?"

Sayid didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his hands, the faint mark still etched into his wrist, dark and unmoving.

"It's not about the book," he admitted. "It's about what it took."

Mehri studied him. "And what if you never get it back?"

The question hit harder than he expected.

Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

He wouldn't get it back.

The lesson was sharp, bitter, but real.

Not everything lost can be found again.

He swallowed the frustration in his throat, shifting in the saddle. "We should keep moving."

Mehri gave a small nod and spurred her horse forward. Sayid followed.

The road ahead didn't care for his grief.

And neither did time.

---

The Roads to Almaran

By the time they stopped for the night, the air had cooled, the vast desert sky glittering with uncountable stars.

Sayid sat near the small fire Mehri had built, staring at the flames as she tended to their rations.

She spoke without looking up. "You're still thinking about it."

Sayid ran a hand down his face. "You don't just let something like this go overnight."

Mehri smirked faintly. "You're not the first to lose something that mattered."

Sayid exhaled, shaking his head. "And what would you know about it?"

Mehri's expression flickered—just for a second. A brief hesitation, a shadow of something unreadable in her eyes.

Then she shrugged. "Nothing."

Sayid wasn't convinced.

But he let it go.

Because tonight, he was too tired to push further.

Tomorrow, they would reach Almaran.

And whatever answers waited there—they wouldn't be easy.

The fire crackled softly, the glow casting flickering shadows across the sand. Mehri leaned back on her hands, tilting her head toward the stars. "You ever notice how everything looks different at night?"

Sayid glanced up. The vast desert sky stretched endlessly, the stars sharper here than in any city. The world felt larger, the weight of his thoughts smaller in comparison.

"I suppose," he said. "But the stars don't change. Just our perspective."

Mehri huffed a quiet laugh. "Exactly." She reached for a piece of dried fruit from their rations. "People always think their losses are the worst. The most painful. But step back, and you realize—you're just another story in a long line of forgotten ones."

Sayid shot her a look. "That's a grim way to see the world."

Mehri shrugged. "It's realistic."

Sayid tossed a small rock into the fire, watching the embers flare. "So what? You're saying nothing matters?"

"I'm saying everything matters," Mehri corrected. "But not in the way you think. Losing that journal—you're not mourning ink on paper. You're mourning the idea of it. The belief that holding onto it kept something alive."

Sayid clenched his jaw. "And what if it did?"

Mehri exhaled, brushing sand off her hands. "Then tell me—what lesson from your father do you actually remember? Not something you read. Something you know."

Sayid opened his mouth—then hesitated.

He had spent so long carrying that book, treating it like a piece of his father's soul, but…

His memories of the man were thin. The journal had been his connection to his past. But had he relied on it too much?

Finally, he muttered, "He always told me knowledge was a burden."

Mehri smirked. "And yet here you are, chasing it anyway."

Sayid shook his head. "It's not the same."

Mehri leaned forward. "Isn't it?"

Sayid didn't answer. Because deep down, he knew.

His father had spent his life preserving knowledge, documenting truths that others had tried to erase. Sayid had followed in those footsteps, believing that words could shape history.

But now?

Now he wasn't so sure knowledge was a gift.

It was a weight. A debt.

And he still didn't know what price he would have to pay.

---

Arrival in Almaran

By the time the city's outer walls came into view, the morning sun had turned the sky into a hazy blend of gold and blue.

Almaran was different from the smaller trade towns they had passed. The gates stood tall, guarded by soldiers in dark robes, their hands resting on curved swords. Beyond the entrance, the streets were alive with merchants, travelers, and officials moving between towering stone buildings and bustling market stalls.

Sayid adjusted the hood of his cloak. "If Omar is here, how do we find him?"

Mehri didn't hesitate. "We don't. He finds us."

Sayid frowned. "That's not reassuring."

Mehri gave him a pointed look. "Nothing about this is reassuring."

As they moved through the crowded streets, Sayid kept his gaze sharp, scanning for anything unusual. The city smelled of spice and ink, a mix of trade and bureaucracy. Deals were being made everywhere—not just with goods, but with information.

People here didn't trade in silver alone.

They traded in secrets.

Mehri led them toward a quieter district, where the streets narrowed and the noise of the market faded. The buildings here were older, their wooden beams darkened by time. Finally, she stopped outside a small tea house, its sign swaying in the warm breeze.

"This is where we wait," she said.

Sayid raised an eyebrow. "For how long?"

Mehri smirked. "Depends on how badly he wants to know why we're here."

Sayid exhaled, stepping inside. The cool air of the tea house was a welcome relief from the heat outside. The scent of cardamom and cinnamon filled the space, and a few scattered patrons sat hunched over their drinks.

They took a table in the corner. A server placed two cups before them without asking, as if already expecting them.

Sayid lifted his cup, watching the steam curl. "And if he doesn't come?"

Mehri stirred her tea, her expression unreadable. "Then we have bigger problems than your missing journal."

Sayid frowned, but before he could respond—

A shadow fell over their table.

A voice followed. Smooth. Calculated.

"You're looking for things best left alone."

Sayid's pulse quickened.

He looked up.

Omar ibn Rashid had found them.