The story of the city was a folktale recited to children as a reminder of their heritage. He still remembered how his aab (father) would tell these stories to the village kids during every waliima of the hisad—the grand festivities celebrating a successful harvest. Crowds of musicians would dance and sing to the beat of tars, while the distinct fragrance of yeast, evidence of freshly baked goods, filled the air, masking the rancid smell of fish.

Whenever his aab spotted him in the crowd, he would pull him to join the other children, sitting and listening to the stories. His father would always say, "My child, do not dwell among the ignorant, for ignorance is a disease, just like knowledge is a cure." Sitting before the children, his father would place an oil lamp beside him, its flickering light highlighting his black eyes and large mustache, which curled down into a beard that concealed his mouth. Even after all these years, he hadn’t forgotten that face—the face that had betrayed him.

"Well, my dears, this season I will recite a poem from a great scholar named Ahmad al-Farouq." The children’s cheers drew even more people to the already crowded hut. Every child from the village seemed eager to hear the tale.

"The story begins long ago when people started exploring the world, seeking new lands to settle. Our friend Ahmad tells the tale through a poem." His aab cleared his throat and began reciting in a melodious tune:

"Cruel was the king, kind was the queen.

A kingdom in between, their son I could have been.

Lucky was the merchant, I came to be.

Sailing the seas, searching for fish.

Lucky indeed, a farmer's maiden, I sought.

On a new course, I found the key to my need.

Untouched soil, a prize for my bride.

Little did I know it wouldn’t suffice, for what people brew.

I had no clue.

Treason was the crime I did not commit.

In the depths, I found my peace in her reflection.

Indeed, she would always be my Madyani queen."

The children, though confused, clapped and applauded. His aab bowed his head and thanked the listeners. He raised his hand to quiet the crowd before speaking again. "So, my dears, that is how our kingdom came to be..." But a little voice interrupted him. A small face crumpled in confusion as a boy asked, "But how? I don’t understand the story!"

"Shh, Suleiman, just clap," his friends urged, eager to join the dancers.

"No, no, it’s alright. Go ahead, my son," his aab encouraged, though many of the listeners had already slipped away.

"It’s just that I don’t get it," Suleiman insisted. "What does this story have to do with our land?"

His aab smiled, his eyes lighting up with interest. "Let me explain the poem," he said, leaning in, his face close to ours, as if sharing a secret. "You see, long ago, kings and queens sent explorers to discover new lands and expand their kingdoms."

He swept his hand in a circle. "Ahmad, our poet, lived in such a kingdom. In this kingdom, the king and queen disagreed on many matters." His aab took a coin from his pocket and tossed it into the air, our eyes following its arc. "Like two sides of a coin," he explained, catching the coin and handing it to Suleiman, who accepted it with a grin. "Shukria," the boy said.

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His aab rested his hands on his lap and continued. "Our poet tells the story of a prince who gave up his claim to the throne for love. He fell in love with a farmer’s daughter and became a successful fishmonger. For her hand, the farmer asked for a piece of fertile land—not just any land, but one where the grass stays green, the sand is black as coal, and a river runs through with clear, abundant waters." His aab paused, watching the children’s eager faces, before continuing.

"The prince traveled to distant lands in search of this place. He eventually found the perfect land. In this new country, he learned the word madyan, meaning 'a lender.' He later referred to the one to whom he had been lent in another of his poems." Some of the children nodded in understanding. "Upon returning, rumors spread about his true identity. His parents, furious that he had renounced the throne, threatened to kill anyone who helped hide him. The farmer, fearing for his life, betrayed him. The prince escaped by boat, but he drowned, his body never found."

The children’s amazement faded quickly as they rushed outside to join the music and dancing. All but Suleiman and the narrator, who stayed behind, eager to ask more questions. "What happened to the land? And the farmer? Did they ever find his body?"

His aab laughed at his curiosity. "When the story reached his parents, they claimed the land and expanded it. Later, they gifted it to one of their sons, who named it Madiyan. That’s all I know for now. Go and play."

---

"Munir... sir," a voice cut through his daydream.

"Yes, what is it, Khalid?" Munir replied, his gaze still fixed on the breathtaking view of the city bathed in early morning light. The orange rays reflected off the tiled rooftops, glinting like stars.

"It’s almost noon. We should head back if we want to return before nightfall." Khalid stood to Munir’s right, his broad figure blocking the sun. His black-and-white checkered *keffiyeh* covered most of his face, leaving only his dark eyes visible, focused on his teacher.

The temporary shed they had set up for the night was now useless under the shifting sun.

"Then let us not waste time." Munir stood, shaking the sand from his slippers and clothes. He helped Khalid take down the small tent and gather the pans and mats. After packing the horses, Munir took one last look at the view before leading them back to Mahdiya.

Their energetic horses carried them swiftly through the desert. By the time they reached the city, it was already noon. Ahead, a caravan inspection was underway. Hours passed as the final load of goods was examined. One trader unloaded large orange baskets from his animals, one of which was noticeably heavier than the rest. It took three soldiers to unload it.

The trader watched in silence as his goods were inspected. When they opened the heaviest basket, a small figure emerged, looking as though she wanted to run but too weak to do so. Instead, the child collapsed to the ground, toppling the large baskets nearby. Fabrics, exotic dried fruits, and wine spilled onto the sand, staining its yellow surface.

"Sir, what are you doing? It’s not our place to interfere," Khalid warned, but Munir was already off his horse, striding toward the scene.

The trader, now in tears, pleaded with the guards. "Please, sir, I don’t know this child! I swear, it’s the first time I’ve seen her!"

The commotion attracted the attention of the archers on the walls, who drew their bows, ready to fire. The soldiers in white and blue, meanwhile, drew their swords, preparing for action. Munir made his way through the crowd, with Khalid following close behind.

"Hey, enough of this! The child needs care," Munir shouted.

"Who do you think you are? This is none of your business," one of the guards growled. "Move away!"

Munir pulled his keffiyeh from his face. The guards immediately bowed slightly, recognizing him. He knelt down to inspect the child.

"I’m sorry, sir, but you know you cannot interfere," another guard warned.

Munir looked up from the child, his eyes cold. "Sheath your weapon, soldier," a voice behind him commanded. "If the king hears that an unknown child died because of his staff’s incompetence, what will you say then? And that the royal physician was present but not allowed to help? For all we know, she could be royalty!"

The guards sheathed their weapons.

Munir’s blue tunic, lined with silver and secured with a gold pendant, marked his high status. "I apologize for my men’s ignorance," the commander said. "I’ll have them take her to the palace for you."

Without a word, Munir lifted the small child, placing her in front of his saddle. He climbed onto his horse, ignoring Khalid’s disapproving look.

"Open the gates!" Munir commanded.

As he rode through the crowd, the soldiers muttered their apologies. The large metal gates swung open to allow them to pass. They rode in silence through the city streets, passing the soldiers' village and moving toward the commoners' quarters. The city was divided by a great souk, with the village of the nobles on one side and the commoners on the other. The great castle stood at the heart of the nobles division, near the banks of river Madiyani. Both never looked back and by the time they reached the palace gates, it was sundown.