In the grand dining hall of the palace, an atmosphere thick with tension hung over the table. The Sultan, seated at the head, observed the interactions with a quiet intensity, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. On his right sat Aza, exuding confidence and charm as he directed his full attention toward Nahra, who sat across from him. But Nahra’s interest was clearly elsewhere, her replies polite but brief, her gaze often drifting away from Aza’s attempts at conversation.
Growing frustrated, Aza leaned in, his tone laced with forced charm. “You know, Princess, not many are as fortunate as you. Imagine, the chance to stand at the side of a Duke’s son, secure in both status and power.”
Nahra barely reacted, her smile barely masking her disinterest. “Yes, I’m sure… it would be secure,” she replied, her voice neutral, as she reached for her glass.
Aza, sensing her apathy, decided to change his approach. “Though… I can’t help but hear rumors about this… Malin,” he said, his voice carrying a mocking tone as he gave her a sidelong look. “The baker boy.” He chuckled, clearly amused. “Tell me, Nahra, do you really believe someone like him—someone with no lineage, no experience—could stand at the helm of this kingdom? Truly?”
Nahra’s face hardened, her grip tightening on her glass. “Malin is far more than a ‘baker boy,’ Aza. He’s loyal, brave, and has a heart unlike anyone I’ve ever known. Perhaps that’s why you can’t understand him.”
Aza’s gaze darkened, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “Understand him? I think I understand well enough. It’s you I don’t understand, Nahra. You speak of bravery, but bravery without status, without the strength to back it up, is nothing. It’s foolishness. And if, by some far-fetched twist of fate, he were to succeed—”
“He’ll become Sultan,” Nahra interrupted, her voice steady and challenging, her eyes fixed firmly on Aza. “And when he does, he’ll have more than enough strength to lead.”
Aza scoffed, leaning back with a mocking smile. “A Sultan? You truly believe he’s capable of that? Malin is nothing more than a dreamer. Do you think a baker can handle the weight of a kingdom, the intricacies of ruling, of keeping allies in line and enemies at bay?”
Nahra’s eyes flashed with anger, her voice rising slightly. “Better a Sultan with dreams and loyalty than one who rules out of arrogance. Malin has the spirit of a leader. He doesn’t need a title to prove his worth.”
Aza’s smirk faded, his voice lowering as he leaned closer, a condescending tone creeping into his words. “Nahra, let me put this plainly. The world doesn’t care about spirit. It cares about power, tradition, alliances. And those are things your ‘baker boy’ knows nothing about. He’ll be crushed by the weight of it.”
Nahra’s chin lifted, her eyes filled with defiance. “Maybe that’s what frightens you, Aza—that someone with nothing could rise above everything you hold dear. Power, status—none of that matters to Malin. He has strength where it counts, and that’s something you’ll never understand.”
Aza’s hand clenched around his goblet, his voice tight. “You’re a fool to believe that, Nahra. If he truly cared for you, he wouldn’t risk everything on a hopeless journey. He’s deluded, chasing something far beyond his reach.”
Before Nahra could respond, the Sultan cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the tension. “Enough.” His tone was steady but left no room for argument, his gaze shifting between the two of them, commanding silence.
Aza straightened, his frustration visible but contained, while Nahra took a steadying breath, her hands still clenched in her lap.
The Sultan’s eyes lingered on Aza, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “Aza, you speak as if power alone sustains a kingdom. But I will remind you that our kingdom was not built on arrogance, nor on status, but on loyalty, sacrifice, and courage. Qualities you may wish to value more highly.”
Aza’s face flushed slightly, his jaw tight as he muttered, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The Sultan turned his gaze to Nahra, his expression softening, though his voice held the weight of both a father and a king. “Nahra, your loyalty to this young man speaks well of you. But be cautious in letting hope cloud your judgment. If he succeeds, the path will not be easy.”
Nahra nodded, her gaze unwavering. “I understand, Father. But I believe in him.”
The Sultan’s expression was unreadable, a mixture of concern and respect. “Faith is a powerful thing. Let us see if it carries him through.”
He leaned back, signaling the end of the discussion, though the tension lingered like a shadow over the table. Aza looked down, his face a mask of resentment, while Nahra held her head high, her loyalty to Malin clear in her gaze.
As the conversation shifted to more neutral topics, the unspoken challenge remained, a quiet battle of wills between Aza and Nahra. And deep down, Nahra held onto the hope that Malin would rise above them all, proving every doubt wrong and claiming his rightful place—by her side, as the Sultan they never expected but the one they truly needed.
The next day, Abel walked through the narrow, winding streets of Laza-Farim, his mood as grey as the early morning fog settling over the city. He muttered under his breath, a mixture of frustration and disbelief swirling in his mind. He’d gone through his accounts that morning and was forced to confront an uncomfortable truth—he was running dry. All his recent expenses on lavish parties, endless nights of drinking, and fleeting companionship had drained his once abundant resources. Even the bustling energy of the city seemed muted to him, replaced by a nagging sense of emptiness.
As he moved along, grumbling about the situation, a sudden and eerie silence fell over the street. The usual clamour of merchants, the chatter of people, the distant sounds of the harbour—all of it vanished, as if the entire world had been frozen in time. Abel stopped, glancing around in confusion, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.
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Out of the silence, a figure appeared—a man with an air of quiet authority, his presence commanding yet serene. Abel’s grip on his sword tightened as the stranger approached, an unsettling calm in his eyes.
“Who in the world are you?” Abel sneered, his voice laced with irritation. “And what is this nonsense?”
The man’s gaze held Abel’s firmly, his expression unreadable. “I am the Son,” he said, his tone calm yet resonant. “And you, Abel, have been a lost child for far too long. It’s time you become noble, like your father before you.”
Abel snorted, an arrogant smirk crossing his face. “You must be insane, to speak to me like that.” He drew his sword, the blade gleaming coldly as he pointed it toward the man. “I am a prince, and I won’t tolerate disrespect. I’ll cut you in half for that insult.”
The Son looked at him, unperturbed, a faint, almost pitying smile on his lips. “You are no longer a prince, Abel.”
Abel’s face contorted in anger, his grip tightening on his sword. “I am still a prince, and I’ll prove it to you right now.” With a furious cry, he swung his sword down with all his strength, aiming to end this impudent stranger.
But the Son didn’t flinch. With a simple movement, he raised his hand and caught the blade, stopping it mid-air. Abel felt a shock run through him—he tried to pull the sword back, to free it from the man’s grasp, but it wouldn’t budge. The Son held it effortlessly, as if it were no more than a child’s toy, his expression never changing.
“You seek to reclaim your status?” the Son asked, his voice calm, as if unaffected by the weapon in his hand. “Then prove yourself worthy of it.”
Abel’s face twisted in fury and disbelief as he strained against the sword, his muscles tensing, his frustration growing with every second that the blade remained immovable. “What… are you?” he spat, his pride bruised and his arrogance faltering.
The Son released the sword, letting Abel stumble back. “If you truly want to be noble,” he said, “then help Malin. Go to the harbor and wait for him. Your path lies alongside his.”
Abel’s brow furrowed, his confusion only adding to his frustration. “Who is Malin? And why should I follow some ridiculous order from a madman?”
But before Abel could say another word, the Son disappeared, vanishing into thin air as if he had never been there at all. The world around him slowly came back to life—the sounds of the market returned, people resumed their movements, the city once again bustling and alive. Abel looked around, his sword still in hand, his mind reeling with disbelief and confusion.
For a moment, he stood there, staring at the spot where the Son had been, his heart pounding. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something profound had just happened, something beyond his understanding. Grumbling to himself, he sheathed his sword, but the command echoed in his mind, lingering with a strange weight.
Go to the harbour and wait for him.
With a reluctant sigh and a lingering sense of anger, Abel made his way toward the harbour, muttering under his breath as he went. Whoever this Malin was, he would find out soon enough.
The ship glided smoothly through the azure waters of the harbor, the sails catching the early morning sunlight as they approached the city of Laza-Farim. For Malin, who stood at the railing in his simple baker's attire, it was a breathtaking sight, unlike anything he had ever seen. The city stretched out before him like a golden jewel on the edge of the desert, sprawling across the shoreline with a mix of grandeur and vibrant life that left him momentarily speechless.
The architecture was magnificent—domed towers and minarets rose proudly from the sandy streets, their surfaces glistening under the sun's warm embrace. Intricate archways framed grand entrances, and tall palm trees lined the streets, casting slender shadows that danced across the stone. The city's colors were rich and warm, a blend of earthy tones and deep blues that mirrored the sea and the surrounding dunes. Along the shoreline, bustling markets stretched out, with stalls shaded by tents of various hues, brimming with goods from across the lands—spices, silks, jewelry, and foods that made Malin’s stomach growl in anticipation.
Maya stood beside him, fully clad in her traveling attire, her gaze steady but a hint of curiosity glinting in her eyes as she took in the city. She, too, seemed impressed, though her expression remained more restrained. Seeing Malin’s wide-eyed awe, she couldn’t help but smile slightly.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it, Baker Boy?” she teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow.
Malin nodded, unable to tear his eyes away. “It’s incredible… I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Bazzle appeared behind them, sauntering up with his usual flamboyance, a satisfied grin on his face as he looked over the city. “Ah, Laza-Farim, the desert’s oasis of life and commerce,” he proclaimed, his tone theatrical. “A beautiful city, full of opportunity, intrigue, and—well, not my problem anymore.”
Maya turned to him, crossing her arms. “So, this is where you abandon us?”
Bazzle placed a hand dramatically on his chest, feigning hurt. “Abandon? My dear Maya, I prefer to think of it as handing the reins over to you capable warriors.” He winked, his smile playful. “My duty is to return to our future Sultan Aza, who undoubtedly requires my talents in these times of turmoil.”
Malin and Maya exchanged glances, both of them sighing in unison. Bazzle’s antics were entertaining, but neither of them would miss his overly dramatic presence on their journey.
Bazzle clapped his hands together, beaming at them both. “Ah, but I have the utmost faith in you two! Besides, you, my dear Malin, have a mission of utmost importance. And you,” he nodded to Maya, “are more than capable of keeping him alive. Probably.”
With a final flourish, he bowed and turned, preparing to make his way back to the ship’s cabin. “Farewell, my friends! May the sands guide your steps and the stars light your path. I’ll be watching from afar… metaphorically, of course.”
Malin shook his head, a reluctant smile on his face as he watched Bazzle retreat. He looked out over the city once more, feeling both excitement and nerves buzzing inside him. This was it—the real beginning of his journey.
Maya adjusted her gear and turned to Malin, her expression turning serious. “Alright, Baker Boy. This is where it all starts. Laza-Farim is the gateway to everything beyond—the desert, the mountains, and eventually, Shar-Kesh.”
Malin nodded, feeling a surge of determination despite the unfamiliar territory. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got a long way to go.”
They descended from the ship and stepped onto the bustling dock, where the scent of spices, salt, and the rich aroma of cooking food filled the air. Around them, merchants shouted their wares, travelers moved in every direction, and the hum of the city’s life vibrated with energy. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous, but as Malin looked over the vast cityscape before him, he felt a flicker of hope.
With Maya at his side and the memory of Nahra’s support fresh in his heart, he was ready to face whatever lay beyond the walls of Laza-Farim.