Al-Dubbah, 200 AAC

Old Passouf sat motionless on his little stool beneath the shade of the old olive tree, just as he did every day. His task was simple: watch the children as they played around the well in the center of the village square. No more herding goats, no more lifting stones — those labors belonged to the younger folk in his family. His time was past. He now just sat beneath his olive tree, with a white turban on his old hairless head. Now, he was free to dream, to drift, to listen to the laughter of youth.

Al-Dubbah was a large village, nestled deep in the Uum Peninsula, far to the southeast of Jagrad. The village was near a great oase, so the area was lush, and filled with plants. Not like the desert surrounding it. And Passouf was a man of respect. He had once been the mentor of young Rashman — the Rashman, the great general of the Uumnites, now marching south to conquer the city of Bamasa. The very name made the village children’s eyes light up with wonder. But it was Passouf who had taught him to hunt, to read, and to keep silent when silence was needed.

A sudden movement caught his eye. One of the boys, Aghana, came running from the group, his hands pressed to his face. Blood trickled between his fingers and stained the dusty folds of his tunic.

Passouf leaned forward with a grunt. “Aghana, what happened to you? You’re covered in blood, boy.”

“Qadira… she hit me in the nose,” the boy whimpered, his voice muffled by his hands.

Passouf’s old back cracked as he stood. “QADIRA!” he called. “Get over here, NOW!”

From among the other children came a girl with a bald head and a defiant stride. She was around eleven, a full head taller than Aghana, and walked like someone trying to keep her rage on a leash.

“What did you do?” Passouf asked, his crackling voice low and sharp, pointing at Aghana’s bloodied nose. His grey brows loomed like thunderclouds.

Qadira met his gaze with her dark brown eyes, unwavering. “He and the others called me a demon. A desert demon! He deserved that punch!”

Passouf sighed deeply. It was always Qadira. There was always something with that parentless girl. She never played with the girls, always tried to join the boys, and they found her strange, even threatening. But he knew — he had seen it too many times — they provoked her when they thought he wasn’t looking. They tested her, pushed her.

She had arrived seven years ago, wandering alone from the desert, a wild-eyed little girl with cracked lips and a bald head. She couldn’t speak for days, but she grunted in her sleep. Some claimed she had died and returned, sent by the gods themselves as an omen for bad luck. Many feared her. Some even wanted to kill her to keep the village safe. But she was taken in, adopted. Now a daughter of Al-Dubbah, whether the people liked it or not.

Passouf needed to punish her. He laid a hand on her shoulder and gave her a firm slap on the cheek. Not hard — not enough to hurt — but enough to make a point.

Qadira didn’t flinch. She stared at him, her jaw clenched, eyes burning.

“One day,” she said, rubbing her cheek, “no one will dare to hit me. One day, I’ll ride beside Rashman. On a camel.”

Passouf narrowed his eyes. “No one hits Rashman because people respect him. You want to earn that? Then learn to hold your fire. And if I see this again, I’ll have you cleaning out camel dung with your bare hands. Do you hear me!”

A crooked old finger rose before Qadira’s eyes, steady and stern. She met it with a silent, tight nod, then turned on her heel and ran back to join the other children.

Passouf looked down at Aghana, still sniffling, blood dripping from his nose.

“And you,” he muttered, “stop whining. You let a girl punch you in the face. If she’s a desert demon, you’re half a grain of sand. Wash your face and get back.”

Aghana stared at him, disbelief written across his dirt-smudged features. This wasn’t the justice he’d come seeking. But arguing was pointless. He trudged back toward the well, still cupping his nose.

Passouf sank back down on his stool, the wooden legs creaking beneath him. Sunlight filtered through the olive leaves above, and already, laughter was beginning to rise again from the square.