The city of Al-Zahra woke with the sun.
Golden light spilled over sandstone walls and domed rooftops, awakening merchants, riders, and guards alike.
The scent of cardamom and dust filled the air as the kingdom began another ordinary day.
Aydin guided his chariot through the morning crowd, the reins resting loosely in his hands.
His horses moved at a steady pace, familiar with the narrow streets and sharp turns. He had driven these roads for years—long enough to know which stones were loose, which alleys flooded during rare rains, which guards preferred conversation over vigilance.
He was good at his work.
Too good, some said.
"Aydin," a merchant called out, waving. "Palace route today?"
Aydin gave a polite nod. "Yes."
That was all he said. He was not unfriendly—just quiet. The kind of man who listened more than he spoke, whose presence never lingered.
A nobleman climbed into the chariot near the western square, adjusting his embroidered cloak.
"To the palace," he ordered.
Aydin snapped the reins lightly.
The chariot rolled forward, wheels echoing softly against stone.
As the palace came into view, its white walls gleaming beneath the sun, Aydin's gaze lifted—just briefly. The banners fluttered high, marked with the royal sigil of Al-Zahra.
Power lived there.
So did history.
He looked away.
At the gate, guards inspected the nobleman and waved the chariot through. One of them glanced at Aydin, then immediately lost interest.
Aydin helped the passenger down, bowed, and turned back toward the city without waiting for payment to be counted twice. He trusted the weight of coins by sound alone.
No mistakes.
By midday, the heat pressed heavily against the streets. Aydin returned his horses to the stables near the lower city, wiping sweat from his brow. He moved with practiced calm, his hands gentle as he fed and brushed them.
"You work too hard," the stable boy said lazily.
Aydin smiled faintly. "Someone must."
He left before the boy could say more.
His home lay beyond the busier roads, tucked between worn stone houses where no one asked questions. Inside, it was quiet—cool, shadowed, empty.
Aydin sat on the floor and drank water slowly.
For a moment, his hand trembled.
He frowned, set the cup down, and exhaled.
The city outside buzzed with life, laughter, and bargaining. Somewhere in the distance, palace drums echoed faintly—signals of royal movement.
The Queen was making her daily rounds.
Aydin stood and moved to the window, watching the distant palace walls rise against the sky.
He felt something then.
Not hatred.
Not fear.
Something heavier. Older.
He stepped back from the window and closed the wooden shutters.
As evening approached, lamps flickered to life across Al-Zahra. Aydin returned to the streets, taking a final passenger to the southern quarter. The sky burned red and violet as the sun sank behind the dunes.
When the ride was finished, Aydin walked home alone.
Above him, the first stars appeared.
Somewhere in the city, whispers traveled on the night wind—stories of fear, of justice, of shadows that punished the wicked.
Aydin did not listen.
He closed his door, extinguished his lamp, and lay down in silence.
Sleep did not come easily.
Outside, the desert watched.
And fate, patient and unseen, took its first step.