He did not know how long he had been swallowed by the dark. The first thing he felt was a chilling cold creeping from his limbs toward his chest, followed by faint pinpricks upon his skin, as if the very dust in the air was interrogating him for daring to be here. Aws… opened his eyes slowly, only to be greeted by a suffocating blackness, interrupted by drifting gray specks swaying with the dizziness in his head.
He tried to move, and the ground beneath him groaned like the ribs of an ancient structure burdened by time.
Then it came to him… the fall. The moment the earth had split beneath his feet, the cry—he could not tell if it had erupted from his throat or from the air itself—the merciless darkness that devoured him whole. Fleeting images flashed through his mind: the frantic running, the ragged breaths, the sound of distant metal being struck, and then… the abyss—an endless plunge. He tried to seize those fragments, but they slipped from him like the frayed ends of a rope.
He sat up slowly, feeling the soil cling to his damp palms, the thick scent of dampness filling his nose, mingled with something ancient… older than his own lifetime. He turned his head, searching for any sign of light, but saw only darkness—darkness that seemed to guard some hidden truth. His hand slid along the wall beside him, meeting a cold, weathered surface carved with lines that told of stone patient through centuries.
Suddenly, his fingers brushed against a small metallic protrusion. Without thinking, he pressed it.
A pale glow bloomed—faint, yellowish, from an old tungsten bulb hanging by a frayed cord in the center of the ceiling. It was not enough to banish the shadows, but it revealed the place in vague outlines, like the past itself peering out with caution.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw the floor—covered in a richly patterned carpet. But not just any carpet… its designs were intricate, a marriage of geometric precision and floral elegance radiating outward from a central motif, like a blossom with endless symmetry. The colors flowed from deep crimson to indigo, with faded golden threads at the borders, as though remnants of sunlight had once walked here and left their trace.
Raising his gaze, he found before him an arched doorway flanked by two columns, their carvings changing subtly as his eyes traveled from base to crown. The chiseling told silent stories—coiling leaves, intersecting stars, arch within arch. Beyond the arch lay a broader chamber, its floor even, its high walls washed in a strange, directionless light.
The walls were a canvas of weary beauty. Stone dressed in endless interlaced patterns, where lines and circles wove into one another until the gaze was drawn inward, lost. The designs stirred a memory of old Eastern cities he had once seen in faded photographs, where architecture wedded soul and craft in one living breath.
Despite the dust and the oppressive silence, there was a serenity that wrapped around him like a warm cloak—an intangible sanctity whose source he could not name.
Then he noticed it—at the far end of the room, a small bookshelf carved from dark wood, the craftsmanship meticulous. Yet every shelf was bare. Whoever had been here had taken not only the books but every trace of the knowledge they once held, leaving only the hollow frame behind.
He knelt before the lowest shelf and pulled at a small wooden door. A muted scrape answered him. Inside, amid the dust, lay a long leather case, rectangular like those once used for violins. He reached in and drew it out, brushing the dust away to reveal elegant Arabic engraving on its surface: "ذو الفقار".
Beneath it, in smaller Latin letters, was written: (Zu-el-fakar).
He drew a deep breath, his fingers trembling slightly, and unlatched the case. Slowly, the lid rose to reveal a sword—yet not like the swords of common battle.
Its blade was long, double-edged, parting at the tip in a delicate split, like a serpent's tongue. The edges were polished to a mirror sheen. Along the steel ran fine inscriptions, as if written by a calligrapher's hand on illuminated parchment, except they were born within the metal itself, as though the sword had been cast with them in its soul. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, traced with interwoven silver threads, all gathering at the pommel, where a small, coldly gleaming metal gem was set.
He let his fingers glide along the blade until they halted at an inscription. Reading softly, he murmured:
"The most defiant of people against God is he who strikes one who has not struck him, and kills one who has not killed him."
The moment the final word left his lips, the blade trembled in his hands, and a sacred light burst forth from the engraving, spilling across the blade and racing up the walls. The light was alive—breathing—pouring from the steel like water from a hidden spring.
A presence followed it, a weight upon his chest, not of oppression but of command. The light grew, swallowing the shadows until his vision was nothing but white. He shielded his eyes, but the radiance pierced through his lids, surrounding him.
Then came the voice—majestic, layered with an echo as though it spoke through vast halls of time:
"O you who have awakened the sleeper since the first covenant… none may bear its edge save a heart that weighs justice upon the scales of light. If it be drawn without right, it shall turn to sever the hand of its bearer. Go forth, for the shadow lies in wait… and beware making it a tool of desire—for blood is not to be spilled save in truth, and truth is not safeguarded save by justice."
Aws trembled—not from fear alone, but from the gravity of the words, as though they were cast directly into his heart, bypassing the ear entirely. He could not yet fathom how a voice could carry such certainty… nor how a sword could judge.