A Shadow in the Sand

The streets of Akkad were unforgiving to those who had nothing. Dust clung to the air, stirred by the restless steps of merchants, slaves, and soldiers. The scent of freshly baked bread mixed with the stench of filth, the sharp tang of copper coins exchanged between calloused hands. Beneath the towering mud-brick buildings, in the narrow alleyways where sunlight rarely touched, a boy crouched low, eyes locked onto a lone figure walking through the market.

The man was different.

He moved with purpose, yet without urgency, his expression unreadable. His clothes were simple, unadorned by the usual dyes and embellishments of the wealthy, yet they were untouched by the dust that clung to everyone else. There was something ancient about him, something that unsettled even the most hardened traders. The boy, however, did not care for such things.

He cared only for the small pouch fastened to the man's waist.

With practiced ease, the boy slid through the crowd, bare feet silent against the packed earth. He had done this a hundred times before—find a target, wait for the right moment, and take what was needed. The man paused near a fruit stand, and in that instant, the boy struck.

His fingers closed around the pouch. A sharp pull. A heartbeat of victory—

And then, pain.

The world spun as his wrist was seized with impossible speed. He gasped, struggling, but the grip was unyielding, as though carved from stone. The boy looked up, meeting the man's gaze for the first time.

He expected anger. Perhaps even the dull amusement of a merchant catching a desperate child in the act.

But there was nothing.

No wrath, no mockery—just eyes that had seen centuries pass like fleeting storms. A silence that carried the weight of forgotten histories.

The boy ripped his arm free, stumbling back. "Let go, old man!" he spat, though his voice wavered.

The man simply watched.

The boy stood there, waiting for him to yell, to chase him, to demand compensation. But the man just turned and walked away.

Humiliation burned in the boy's chest. He clenched his fists and, without thinking, he followed.

Days passed. Then weeks.

The boy trailed the man through the city. He watched as he sat alone by the riverbanks, his fingers tracing patterns into the mud, as if writing words that only he could understand. He watched as he entered the temples but never prayed, as he listened to the scribes but never spoke.

The boy shouted insults, demanded to know who he was. The man never answered.

Yet he never stopped him from following.

At night, the boy slept curled up outside the stranger's dwelling—a small, unremarkable hut on the outskirts of the city. At first, he expected to be chased away, but the man never did. He never acknowledged him, nor did he offer food, comfort, or guidance.

And yet, the boy stayed.

Because something about the man was different. Because something told him that if he followed long enough, he might finally understand what made this man so untouchable, so unbreakable in a world where everyone else bled, aged, and died.

Years passed.

The boy grew taller, his limbs no longer thin with hunger. He found work where he could, carrying baskets for traders, cleaning the steps of the temple. But always, he returned to the silent shadow of the man who never aged.

He learned things, not through teaching, but through observation. He learned patience. He learned how to read the expressions of men, how to predict the shift of the markets, the flood of the river. He learned that power did not always come from the swing of a sword, but from knowledge, from the way men carried themselves, from the way they listened.

And then, one night, he almost lost everything.

The alleyway was darker than usual, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting food. He had taken a wrong turn—too caught up in his own thoughts, too confident in his steps.

The blade was at his throat before he even heard the footsteps behind him.

"Thought you could steal from me?" a voice sneered. The grip on his collar tightened, forcing his back against the rough brick wall. A second figure loomed beside the first, eyes glinting with malice.

"I didn't steal anything," the boy growled, his mind racing.

The man chuckled, pressing the knife harder against his skin. "That don't matter."

The boy tensed, muscles coiling for the right moment to fight, to run—

But then, the pressure vanished. The air shifted.

The boy fell forward as his attacker was ripped away, his body crumpling to the ground like a doll whose strings had been cut. The second man barely had time to react before a hand closed around his throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air.

The immortal had arrived.

There was no fury in his face. No hatred. Only the same, unshaken silence.

The boy watched, chest heaving, as the stranger's grip tightened. The man struggled, his eyes wide with terror. For the first time, the boy saw it—true fear. Not of pain, but of something far greater. Of something eternal.

The boy swallowed. "Let him go."

The immortal did not move.

"He's already lost."

A long pause. Then, slowly, the stranger released his grip, letting the man collapse to the ground, gasping for breath. Without a word, the immortal turned and began to walk away.

The boy hesitated for only a moment before following.

Something changed after that night.

The immortal did not speak more, nor did he acknowledge the boy any differently than before. But there was something softer in his silence, something almost… understanding.

And for the first time, the boy felt something he had never expected.

He felt seen.

As the city of Akkad grew, as men built their walls higher, their palaces grander, the boy continued to walk beside the man who never aged. And though the immortal did not guide him, did not teach him as a mentor would, the boy learned from him all the same.

And then, one day, the immortal left.

He did not say why. He did not say where he was going. He simply walked into the horizon and was gone.

The boy stood there, watching the dust settle in his wake.

And then, for the first time, he did not follow.

Because he had finally understood.

He had everything he needed.

And soon, the world would know his name.