Suhaib stepped out of the headquarters of the Order, walking slowly until he reached a narrow backstreet—dim, yet decently lit. He followed it until a row of modest houses came into view—far humbler than those lining the main road. Sheets of parchment hung upon some doors, each bearing the same faded inscription: "For Rent."
He picked one at random—they all looked nearly identical: single-story houses, two small trees before every door, walls clad in marble from the base up to the midsection, and painted above in a pale grayish hue. The doors were wooden, carved with intricate patterns, painted a deep, dusk-blue.
He knocked three times—his habitual rhythm. No response. Moving to the next house, he knocked again. This time, the door creaked open to reveal a man in his late fifties, bald-headed, with a thin white beard and eyes of piercing blue that shimmered faintly under the lamplight. The man gave a slight nod and said quietly:
— Come in.
He wasn't the friendly sort; not a single question about Suhaib's name or purpose. Without hesitation, Suhaib stepped inside, and the man led him through the place, pointing things out as they went.
The house was modest but acceptable: one bedroom, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a simple sitting room. The walls were white in the bedroom and main hall, blue in the rest. The man gestured toward them and said:
— You can change the colors if you wish.
When the tour ended, he said without preamble:
— The rent is one gold piece and two silvers per month.
Suhaib thought to himself, That's nearly half my salary… I'd have only one gold and six silvers left.
He sighed softly and asked:
— Could you lower it a little?
The man smiled faintly, his tone calm yet firm:
— The house is in fine condition, and the price includes the deposit. Truth is, I was going to raise it by three silvers, like the one next door. I'd say this is a fair offer—and if you wander around, you'll find none better in this district.
Suhaib, too weary to argue, accepted the price and handed over the money. The man smiled, passed him the key, "The property owner said, 'The contract is in the cupboard; sign it and keep it.'' Then waved a casual goodbye, and closed the door behind him.
Suhaib glanced around, breathing out in relief. What pleased him most was that the house came fully furnished. In that moment, all he longed for was a bed—a place to let his weary body and fogged mind rest after a day crammed with astonishment.
He threw himself onto the bed and exhaled deeply, as though shedding the weight of the entire day. A faint, tranquil smile curved his lips as his thoughts began to drift—until the image of the papyrus scroll he had found in the desert surfaced. He reached for it and read the words absentmindedly, unaware that those very lines would one day hurl him into another realm.
Could there be another papyrus like the one that brought me here? he wondered. Perhaps somewhere near the pyramids?
Then he smiled faintly.
But this time, I must be careful. I might end up in a third dimension… lost between worlds with no way back.
He chuckled softly. Or worse—stranded upon that colossal moon.
He recalled the plump guard he'd seen by the pyramidal structures and thought:
Was he one of those who received that mysterious power… or merely an ordinary sentry?
He pondered until the last threads of sunlight withdrew from the small window beside him. The final golden ray slipped through the glass, reminding him of the great moon he had seen the night before. Quickly, he rose, shut the window tight, latched the oak shutters, and drew the curtain closed—as if to seal away even the memory of that moon. Then he lay down, closed his eyes, and surrendered to sleep.
That night was utterly still—no dreams, no nightmares. He slept for ten uninterrupted hours, as though the earth itself had chosen to breathe on his behalf. When dawn came, he made his bed, brushed his teeth, performed his ablution, and prayed Fajr.
Stepping outside, the morning air brushed gently against his cheeks. The moon was fading, pale and retreating, while the sun stretched its first golden fingers across the distant horizon. On his way, he passed a small bakery, where he bought a loaf of wheat bread for a single copper coin. He counted what remained: one gold piece, five silvers, and nine coppers.
Suhaib walked along the bustling street until the great structure loomed ahead—unchanged from the day before. It stood circular and radiant, its golden surface gleaming beneath the pale light of dawn, as if it were a colossal ring awaiting the finger of some forgotten god.
The entrance was almost invisible—part of the wall itself—save for a small bronze handle at its center and a sigil above it: a sun disk, beneath which spread the wings of a falcon's eye.
Below, etched in ancient script, were the words: "The Guardians of Ra."
Suhaib gripped the handle and turned it slowly. The door opened with solemn grace, like a secret yielding to its rightful heir.
Inside, Hind was seated away from her desk, on one of the side benches. Beside her sat a veiled girl with soft, tranquil features, and before them stood a young man, nearly Suhaib's height, with eyes bright and delicate—like those of a child untouched by the world's cruelty. His hair, long and dark, cascaded down his shoulders, framing a face too serene to trust.
The moment Suhaib took his first step toward them, they all turned.
They were smiling—except for the young man.
His smile was different. Joyful on the surface, yet shadowed by something sly beneath, like the mouth of a tunnel that conceals darkness at its end. His wide eyes shimmered with a mockery he didn't bother to hide.
Suhaib swallowed hard and approached them with cautious steps.
Tap… tap…
The veiled girl's presence softened the tension; her calm aura seemed to breathe gentleness into the room.
Then the young man spoke, his voice laced with amusement:
— He's more handsome than I expected.
He turned to Hind as he said it.
Her cheeks flushed crimson, and she stammered:
— You're still an idiot, Zayd! I never said Suhaib was ugly!
The other girl tried to ease the awkwardness, smiling nervously:
— Actually… he's the kind of man most girls would like.
She hadn't realized she'd made it worse. Her words, though kind, only pressed deeper—like small, unseen blades sinking into him.
In truth, Suhaib wasn't unattractive at all. His dark eyes looked naturally lined with kohl, his slightly rounded face calm and clear, his nose straight and graceful, his broad forehead lending him quiet dignity. His features were balanced, his presence gentle yet luminous—though he himself had never noticed.
He drew a deep breath and spoke in a low, rough voice, as if smothering within:
— So… you must be Zayd.
Then, turning to the veiled girl before he could speak, she said with a bright smile:
— I'm Reem. Glad to have you with us, Suhaib. We're a team now—but be warned, there are fools among us.
Her eyes flicked toward Zayd in teasing rebuke.
Hind, now composed, said softly:
— You look rested. Slept well?
Suhaib smiled faintly.
— The house is comfortable.
Suddenly, Zayd's expression sharpened.
— Where did you get those clothes?
Suhaib hesitated for a moment, then replied calmly:
— Not from here.
He muttered inwardly, A fair question… everyone here wears garments that mirror the solemn grace of this place and its history.
The men were dressed in long robes—mostly white, though some in black or in warm earthen tones—flowing from shoulders to feet. Their faces seemed to glow, as if the sun itself filtered softly through them, and their eyes, rimmed with dark kohl, held a composed and ancient allure.
As for the women—describing them was like reciting a silent poem. Their veils concealed their hair but not the depth of their gaze; some wore niqabs that transformed their features into mysteries, like translucent walls through which only the worthy might glimpse. Their abayas hung with both heaviness and grace, adding to their solemn beauty—curtains of light and shadow that lent each motion the rhythm of a whispered verse.
Amid such elegance and enigma, the newcomer seemed small—an echo lost in the hush of grandeur—as though the place itself murmured: Every robe tells a story, stranger.
— Where is the Commander? Suhaib asked quietly.
Hind gestured toward the inner hall.
— In his office. He's expecting you.
Suhaib advanced with measured steps and, as was his habit, knocked three times upon the door. From within came the steady voice of Muawiyah:
— Enter.
He stepped inside. The Commander sat behind his desk, a cup of spiced coffee in hand—the rich aroma of eastern herbs drifting through the room like a whispered incantation. His eyes gleamed with a balance of calm and intellect, and a faint smile curved his lips.
— You seem to have slept well, said Muawiyah.
Suhaib wondered briefly if the weariness of yesterday had been so plain on his face. Then he smiled.
— Yes… it was a peaceful night.
The Commander motioned for him to sit, set the earthen cup down upon the table, and sighed softly.
— Forgive my discourtesy. I forgot to ask yesterday—where do you come from?
Suhaib had expected this question and prepared his answer long before. He decided there was no need for deceit; perhaps the truth would lead him home.
He spoke calmly:
— I'm from another world. I can't return. I simply found a sheet of parchment lying on the ground, read the words upon it, and… woke up here.
A long breath escaped him, as though he had unburdened his soul.
Muawiyah studied his face intently. The possibility had crossed his mind—Suhaib's strange garments alone betrayed it: a short-sleeved shirt and knee-length shorts, more suited for children than men. He looked like an echo of another age amid a sea of solemn robes.
— Do you know the dimensions of your world? the Commander asked.
Suhaib shook his head.
— Then your return is impossible, Muawiyah replied evenly. Even if you knew them precisely, the passage itself remains perilous. I've never heard of anyone crossing between realms in this manner… but I will look into it.
A flicker of hope kindled in Suhaib's eyes.
At last, he thought, the first step—finding the Earth's coordinates.
He smiled faintly.
— Thank you, Commander.
Muawiyah cleared his throat, then spoke in a voice that seemed to draw power from something unseen:
— "Those who are touched by the Breath of Stars awaken what must never be awakened. They become the Receivers… and this is the first step upon a path with no return."
Suhaib repeated the phrase under his breath, as though tasting the mystery of it.
— The Breath of Stars…
His thoughts froze. Was that the power they spoke of?
He was about to speak when Muawiyah's tone sharpened slightly—calm yet commanding:
— Do not ask further. Too much curiosity seldom spares its seeker.
He finished his coffee in one long sip, set the cup down gently, and rose.
— Come.
They left the chamber together. Beyond the door stretched the great hall—its ceiling soaring nearly twenty meters high, as if brushing the morning clouds. The others were already there, standing in quiet anticipation.
Muawiyah's voice broke the silence, deep and resonant:
— Zayd, your task is Muṣab. He will undergo the Rite of Receiving in three weeks, and I want him ready before then. Take him on your missions as well.
Zayd straightened, his usual playfulness gone, replaced by a sudden and unfamiliar resolve.
— As you command, my lord.
The Commander turned and departed, his footsteps slow and deliberate, echoing down the marble hall until only the silence of his presence remained.
Zayd turned toward them, that enigmatic smile returning—bright, yet veiled in mischief, as if he'd just been handed a secret prize.
Suhaib swallowed, a knot of curiosity and unease tightening in his chest.
— What kind of preparations take three weeks?
Zayd only waved a hand dismissively.
— Don't worry. I'll explain on the way.
And with that, he strode toward the towering gates, where the sunlight poured in like molten gold.