Jenin, the Jewel of Dahran, was a city of contradictions. It sat by the sea, a cultural melting pot where merchants, scholars, and warriors once gathered freely. Its towering sandstone buildings, bustling markets, and grand temples spoke of a proud past—one now buried beneath the weight of foreign rule.
Once governed by its own people, Jenin had been forced into submission. The colonizer's from the kingdom of taured imposed their laws, their language, their religion, reshaping the city to fit their vision. The nobility lived in comfort, dining with foreign officials, while the common folk struggled under oppressive taxes and watchful patrols. The slums, overflowing with the displaced and the desperate, told the real story of Jenin—one of resistance, quiet suffering, and the unyielding spirit of those who refused to kneel.
---
Inside a towering castle in the nobles' district, Ezran sat at his desk, pencil in hand, sketching the image of an old merchant he had seen that morning. His dimly lit room smelled of ink and parchment, a single candle casting flickering shadows on the walls. The strokes of his drawing were smooth, precise—years of practice evident in every line.
But exhaustion tugged at his eyelids. With a quiet sigh, he set the sketchbook aside and stretched, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. Pushing himself up, he walked toward the balcony doors and stepped outside.
The cool night air greeted him. From here, he could see all of Jenin—the slums, the marketplaces, the towering minarets of ancient temples. The nobility lived above it all, both literally and figuratively. His gaze wandered beyond the castle walls, past the golden glow of lanterns and into the darkened streets below.
That's when he saw him.
A tall, dark figure walked alone in the empty street below, barefoot and dressed in tattered clothes. His posture was straight, unshaken by the chill of the night. Despite the distance, something about the man's presence unsettled Ezran.
Who is he?
The man moved silently, his steps slow and deliberate. Just as the clouds parted to reveal the moon, he suddenly stopped—and turned his head directly toward Ezran.
Ezran stood staring back.
(He can see me from there?) He thought to himself.
For a brief moment, their eyes locked. The man's gaze was unreadable, like he was looking through him rather than at him. Then, without a word, he turned and disappeared into the darkened alleys.
Ezran stepped back inside, shutting the balcony doors behind him. He lay down in his grand bed, sinking into the soft white sheets, his thoughts lingering on the stranger.
Gratefulness and pity those were the thought's racing in his mind as he slowly drifted to sleep.
---
Dawn broke over Jenin, casting a warm glow over the clay rooftops and dusty streets. The city stirred awake. Merchants unlocked their stalls, the scent of fresh bread and roasted nuts drifting through the air. Children darted through the streets, their laughter ringing against the stone walls.
In a small house near the market, Omar groggily stepped out of his room, rubbing his eyes as he dragged himself to the bathroom.
He splashed cold water onto his face, shivering at the touch. Droplets slid down his skin as he caught his reflection in the basin. Dark, unruly curls clung to his damp forehead, and sharp, hazel-gold eyes stared back at him—half-lidded with exhaustion. His light bronze skin bore faint scars, remnants of a life spent weaving through the rough streets of Jenin. He ran a hand over his face, sighing before shaking off the water and stepping into the main room.
His father was already seated on the matted floor, pouring tea.
The meal was simple—bread and tea, a staple of the poorer districts.
Omar plopped down, still half-asleep, and tore off a piece of bread. "I'm gonna get more bread after this. Don't forget to open the shop."
His father took a slow sip of tea, staring at him.
"..."
Omar blinked. "Alright, Dad."
He finished eating, stood up, stretched, and stepped outside.
The sky was darkening—a storm was coming. The air smelled of rain and earth, and a quiet excitement buzzed through the streets.
A group of children ran past him, giggling.
"It's gonna rain! It's gonna rain!" one of them shouted, followed by a chorus of excited voices.
Omar looked up at the sky, mind drifting.
(How long has it been since it last rained?)
"Omar!" He turns to see a bunch of girl's wave at him.
He waves back with a dumb smile on his face making the girls laugh except one girl who was giving him a death glare.
He looks at her for a couple of seconds before he continues walking, people greet him as they pass by.
Despite the rain, Jenin's marketplace was alive with activity. Merchants stood beneath canopies, their stalls overflowing with spices, fabrics, trinkets, and fresh produce. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, sizzling meat, and cardamom.
Omar weaved through the crowd, stepping over puddles until he reached his usual bakery—a small, humble shop nestled between a blacksmith's forge and a fabric stall.
The owner, an old man with a thick beard and a wrinkled face, barely looked up as Omar entered.
"You're late," the baker grumbled, pulling a fresh loaf from the oven.
"Yeah, yeah," Omar replied, tossing a coin onto the counter. "It's raining, in case you haven't noticed."
The baker snorted. "Raining? In Jenin? Should be a damn holiday."
Omar smirked, grabbing the bread before heading back toward his father's shop.
Then his eyes landed on a slumped figure lying against a wall, facing away. A hood covered its head, and blood stained its clothes.
Omar frowned.
"Tsk. Not again."
In the Valley of Kings, dead bodies in the streets weren't rare. Murder was common, and people had long stopped caring.
But Omar couldn't be like the rest.
He glanced around—passersby walked by without even sparing a glance.
His irritation grew.
"Cold-hearted bastards."
Muttering under his breath, he stepped forward, crouching beside the body.
"Poor soul… at least someone should bury you."
He reached out—
The body jolted upright.
"Shit!" Omar yelped, stumbling back. "You scared me!"
The tall, dark-haired young man slowly turned toward him, eyes half-open, face groggy.
His deep brown skin, the color of polished wood under firelight, contrasted with his wild mess of tight curls that framed a sharp, angular face. But what stood out most were his eyes—bright orange, like embers still smoldering in a dying fire.
They flickered with something unreadable as they settled on Omar. Half-lidded, lazy—yet carrying an intensity that made it impossible to look away.
The young man exhaled, voice slurred. "u tyn ob me ushum."
Omar blinked. "Huh?"
Raindrops began to fall, tapping against the rooftops.
The young man kisses his teeth, annoyed, before repeating himself louder, still groggy.
"I shaid—u trynna rob me, bastar'?"
Omar scoffed. "No, I thought you were dead, I was gonna move you off the street and throw you in an alleway."
The young man stared at him for a long moment before rubbing his face with his hands. Then, his expression shifted—perplexed.
"Why would you do that?" he asked, voice calmer. "It's none of your business."
Omar sighed. "I don't want the kids getting used to seeing dead bodies like it's normal, and the street would smell bad if the body isn't removed in time."
The man didn't answer. He just stared—deep in thought. Then, with a slow movement, he stood up towering over omar, brushing dirt off his already-filthy clothes. The bloodstains were still fresh.
Omar eyed him amazed by his height. (This guy is tall) He thought to himself before asking "Where did you come from?"
The man stretched, rolling his shoulders. "North."
Omar's breath hitched.
"You're from the north?"
The man shot him an irritated look. "Yeah.."
Omar had heard stories. The northern peninsula was a land of war, rebellion, and tribal bloodshed. A living hell.
The man turned, already walking away.
But Omar being who he is offered him a piece of fresh bread he just bought. "Wait, take this."
The man froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned his head, eyes narrowing. "What?"
Omar shrugged, offering a relaxed smile. "Don't worry, I just don't like seeing people starve."
At that moment, the storm clouds parted, and a golden light broke through, illuminating Omar like a scene from a story.
The man's gaze darkened. "I don't want it."
He turned and walked off.
Omar huffed. "Hmph! Your loss."
The rain had started falling in earnest now, turning the dusty streets into slick, muddy paths. Omar pulled his hood up, shaking his head as he watched the stranger walk away.
"Stubborn guy," he muttered.
He wasn't sure why he even bothered. People in the Valley of Kings didn't go out of their way for others—not unless they wanted something in return. But Omar wasn't like the rest. He hated how death had become just another part of the scenery, how people could walk past a dying man without blinking. It wasn't right.
He stood there for a moment before continuing his way.
------
Elsewhere in the city, the tall, dark-skinned young man trudged through the rain-soaked streets, searching for work.
Shop after shop, door after door, rejection after rejection.
Some turned him away with polite apologies. Others made it clear they didn't like the way he looked.
Hours passed, and with each rejection, his hope withered. But still, he tried one more time.
Stopping before a spice shop, he took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside.
Behind the counter, an elderly woman looked him up and down with a scrutinizing gaze.
"What do you want?" she asked sharply.
He already knew how this would end from the way she looked at him, but he still answered.
"I'm looking for work."
The woman scoffed. "A job? After the mess your people caused yesterday in the market, now you're looking for work?"
Dumbfounded, he frowned. "Lady, I just got to this city."
"NO!" she snapped. "Don't play dumb! You all look the same. You're that bastard Georgie's goon, aren't you?"
He blinked, stunned by the accusation. "I don't know anyone named Georgie!"
"Liar!" she spat. "You and that crazy bastard murdered four young men yesterday! Get out before I call my husband!"
Fury burned inside him, but he clenched his jaw and turned away. Kissing his teeth in frustration, he muttered under his breath.
(racist bitch...) He cursed her inside his mind, He walked away, disheartened, her words lingering in his mind.
Leaning against a wall in front of a woodworking shop, he watched as people passed by, going about their lives while he stood there, lost in thought.
Then, something caught his attention.
A scent—something rare even among the wealthy. Perfume.
In Dahran, most people used oud, a fragrant resin burned for its deep, woody aroma. Perfume, however, was expensive and rare.
Raising his head, he spotted the source.
A well-dressed young woman with black short hair and Ocean blue eyes walked by.
The young woman moved with an air of confidence, heading up the street beyond the hill.
For a brief moment, the thought crossed his mind—should he keep looking for a job or just rob this rich kid?
Then, he remembered the old woman's words.
(I'm not like them.)
Shaking off the idea, he turned toward the workshop, inhaled deeply, and stepped inside.
A man, seemingly in his mid-thirties, sat behind a cluttered worktable, surrounded by wooden planks and tools. He barely glanced up before smirking.
"Surely you're not here to fix a table. What do you want?" His tone was both aggressive and relaxed.
The young man opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut him off.
"We don't hand out food here, beggar! Now shoo!"
Clenching his fists, the young man held his ground.
The man smirked. "Go rob some poor soul already. Scram!"
A voice came from the back.
"How many times have I told you not to chase off beggars like that?"
The curtain at the back of the shop lifted, revealing Omar.
Omar leaned against the doorway, smirking. "What? You need your table fixed or something?"
The young man exhaled sharply. "No. I came looking for a job."
Silence filled the workshop.
Then, the older man scoffed. "First time I've seen one of you people looking for work."
"Shut up, scumbag," Omar muttered, straightening. "Alright, you got the job."
"What!?" The older man shot up in protest. "Boss said my cousin got the job!"
"Your cousin was supposed to start last Monday. He still hasn't shown up," Omar countered. "We need an extra hand, and he can have the job if he actually shows up."
The young man remained silent as Omar turned to him. "Come inside."
He followed Omar into an office—a small wooden desk covered in parchment, the scent of sawdust thick in the air.
Across the desk, an older man sat writing, his weathered face calm and unreadable. Omar's father.
The man raised his head, his sharp gaze flicking between his son and the stranger.
Omar broke the silence. "He's looking for a job."
The man stared at the young stranger for a long moment.
"..."
Omar says "he's asking why do you have dried blood on your clothes?"
The young man became dumbfounded. "How do you know what he said?"
Omar shrugged. "I know what he's thinking. He doesn't need to talk."
The young man curiously asks. "Are you awakened?"
"No." He replies
Dumbfounded, the young man rolled with it. "A man tried to rob me last night. He had a sword. I hurt him in self-defense."
The father eyed him carefully and inquiries.
"..."
Omar replies "He's from the north. He doesn't have a place to stay," he added. "I met him in the market."
The young man didn't like how desperate that made him sound, but it was true, so he kept quiet.
The father asks with a serious tone "..."
Omar replies "he asks Where in the north?"
"Ashur," he replied hesitantly.
The man regretted asking.
"What's your name?" Omar asked.
"Nero."
Omar smiles welcoming him "I'm Omar. That's my dad, Rady, and the guy in front is Khalid."
"Congratulations," Rady said with a welcoming smile. "You've got the job—and you can stay here if you don't have a place to stay."
Khalid groaned in protest from the back.
Omar led Nero through a door behind his father's desk, revealing a simple home—mud walls, a small courtyard, and an iron gate.
Handing Nero fresh clothes and a bucket of water, Omar gestured toward a tiny mud-brick bathhouse. "Get cleaned up. Give me your old clothes when you're done."
Later, Nero sat on the floor of the living room, tearing into bread and sipping hot tea like it's cold water and he chokes.
Cough! Cough!
"Relax," Omar laughed. "The food ain't running away."
Nero gulps the food in his throat and slowed down.
"So what happened in Ashur?" Omar asked.
Nero scowled. "Something bad."
Omar pushed. "Obviously. What happened?"
Nero kisses his teeth in annoyance.
Omar frowns "If you tell me I'm going to give you piece of chicken."
Nero stares at him for a few moments before answering "i don't remember much...but I remember there was a genocide committed by taured Force's"
Omar's face darkened. Silence hung between them,a few minutes passed before Omar tried talking again meanwhile Nero was stuffing his face.
"So..How old are you?" Omar finally asked. "I'm 18."
"15."
Omar laughed, then turned dead serious. "You think I was born yesterday?"
Nero scowled again. "Why the hell would I lie?"
Omar thinking he's being made fun of yells "IF YOU'RE 15 IM 6!!, IM NOT JOKING TELL ME HOW OLD ARE YOU!"
Nero angry replies "DONT RAISE YOUR VOICE BASTARD!!WHY THE FUCK WHOULD I LIE ABOUT MY AGE!?"
They go back and forth for a while before they get tired of screaming,Omar laughs lightly before saying "alright I believe you."
While thinking (as if idiot!, a 15 y/o can't be that tall and muscular piss off.)
Nero kisses his teeth annoyed with Omar, Omar gets up and tells him "you can sleep in my bed tonight, I'm gonna sleep on the couch but my father's snores sound like thunder so bear with him."
Nero replies "no that's alright I'm going to sleep in here."
Omar scoffs "suit yourself." Before going to bring a blanket and pillow and handing it to Nero
"Alright rest today, tomorrow is going to be hell for you." He smiles before heading out to bed with his father because he gave his blanket and pillow to nero
That night, as Nero lay on the couch, warm and full, he thought:
(idiot. One day, he'll regret helping strangers like this.. ) he thinks reflecting on his day (what would've happened if I robbed that rich kid earlier....)
(I'm glad I tried.)
Sleep took him, peaceful for the first time in a long time.