The scream that tore from Idris was no longer human. It was a jagged, primal sound that echoed off the stone walls of the square, the noise of something fundamental snapping inside his chest. As the crowd gathered around the cooling body of Maslah, the air filled with the poisonous hum of gossip. Some whispered prayers of pity, while others, gripped by a desperate need to feel safe, claimed the Founders must have had a righteous reason for the execution. They looked at the blood in the snow and searched for a way to blame the victim so they wouldn't have to fear the killers.
Mahir was the only one with the courage to move. He stepped through the circle of onlookers and wrapped his arms around Idris, trying to pull him away from the darkening slush. But Idris’s grief had already curdled into a cold, sharp rage that gave him a strength Mahir didn't recognize. Idris tore himself free with a violent jerk. He didn't stay to mourn or wait for the midwives to claim the body. He mounted the nearest horse, a bay mare tethered to a nearby post, and rode blindly into the mounting snowstorm. He pushed the animal toward the upper heights of the village, where the air grew thin and the houses turned to stone. Mahir swore under his breath and followed on a borrowed mare, pushing through ice and wind that cut across his face like a razor. They rode until the massive silhouette of the House of Sahradeen rose before them, a fortress carved from fire and gold against the black mountain.
The estate of the head founder was a monument to a dynasty built on the bones of the past. It was guarded by stone statues of ancient kings whose faces had been worn smooth by a century of mountain storms. Knights draped in armored red cloaks stood at the iron gates, their spears forming a lethal cross. When the guards blocked the way, Idris shouted through clenched teeth that he demanded to speak with their master. His voice was thin against the howling wind, but his eyes held a fire that made even the guards hesitate. After a tense exchange that felt like hours, a messenger returned with a single word. Only the boy was permitted to enter.
Mahir was left behind the silver engraved iron gates, his fingers gripping the bars as he watched Idris walk toward the light. A stiff faced maid led Idris through halls that felt like another world. The floors were made of polished marble that reflected the ancestral portraits lining the walls. Every painted eye seemed to track his movement, and the ancient swords mounted on velvet plaques felt like they were waiting for the chance to strike. The air inside smelled of expensive spices and dry heat, a sharp contrast to the smell of blood and wet wool he had left behind in the square.
?He was brought into a dining room that defied the reality of the valley below. Crystal lanterns hung from the ceiling, illuminating a long table made of dark, polished wood. At the head sat the four pillars of Solvara. Noordeen of Sahradeen sat at the center, flanked by Asad of Lama, Faysal of Nahlir, and Munir of Fashir. They were surrounded by their families, a sea of silent children and rigid spouses dressed in silks that cost more than a year of village grain.
?Noordeen broke the silence with a voice that radiated a quiet, terrifying power. He didn't look up from his plate as he asked the boy what he wanted. Idris swallowed his terror, the taste of copper still in his mouth. He demanded to know which one of them had murdered his father. A murmur rippled through the room, the sound of jewelry clinking and silk rustling. Noordeen did not answer. He simply waved a hand, dismissing the spouses and children. They filed out like ghosts, leaving only the four Founders alone with the carpenter’s son.
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Noordeen spoke to the others as if Idris were not even in the room. He asked why this child was bothering them about a dead man while they were trying to eat. Asad Lama smirked and leaned back in his chair, openly admitting it was the worthless man they had killed earlier. Munir chuckled darkly, the sound echoing in the high rafters. Idris’s eyes welled with tears of frustration and hate, but his voice remained steady. He looked at the four men who ruled his world and swore he would make them pay for what they had done to Maslah.
The room erupted in laughter. It was a cruel, melodic sound that felt like glass cutting into Idris's skin. The laughter only died when Noordeen stood up. He walked toward Idris with a slow, deliberate weight that seemed to suck the air out of the room. He grabbed Idris by the collar and pulled him close, his low voice turning deadly. He told the boy he had no idea who he was threatening. He claimed to understand grief, offering to forgive Idris's stupidity just once. But as he spoke, he tightened his grip until Idris struggled to breathe. Noordeen issued a final ultimatum. He warned that if Idris ever stepped into this house or breathed another threat, he would ensure Idris lost everyone he loved before the guards came for the boy himself. He released Idris like he was discarding a piece of garbage, and the guards dragged the boy out, throwing him face-first into the freezing snow.
Mahir was there to catch him. Idris finally broke, sobbing into Mahir’s chest as the realization hit him. The men who killed his father were untouchable. They were the law, the judges, and the executioners. Mahir held him until the sounds of grief softened into a dull ache, and then they began the long, silent trek back to the safety of the lower village.
While the boys were at the fortress, the atmosphere in Ziyado’s house had changed. Ziyado closed the door behind Maida and locked the heavy wooden bolt. She lowered her voice to a frantic whisper, her eyes darting to the windows. She told Maida she had something to give her that no one else in the world could ever know about. She went to her small bedroom and returned with a bundle wrapped in old, yellowed cloth. She pulled back the layers to reveal a script and a family tree that looked older than the village of Solvara itself.
Maida frowned, looking at the ink that had faded to a dull brown. She thought she already knew the history of the families, but her grandmother’s sharp eyes told her to read the names before she spoke. Maida opened the parchment and felt her breath hitch in her throat. At the very top, written in a bold, regal hand, was the name Dahir Farah. Beneath him, the lineage split into two distinct branches. The firstborn son was named Sahran. The second son was named Sahradeen.
?It was the proof of a stolen birthright. The parchment confirmed that the House of Sahradeen, the men currently sitting in the High Hall, were the younger line. They had usurped the throne and rewritten the laws to bury the true heirs. Maida asked where the rest of the pages were, her heart pounding against her ribs. Ziyado’s voice broke as she explained that the other records had been lost or burned on the night the sky turned red. The revelation sat in Maida’s stomach like lead. She tried to sleep that night, but her mind spun with the implications of a history that made her the rightful heir to the very men who were currently hunting her.
The next morning, the snow fell heavier than ever. It blanketed the village in a suffocating white silence that seemed to muffle the very soul of the valley. A sudden, heavy knock shook Ziyado’s door, making both women jump. They looked at each other with a shared terror, fearing the Red Coats had finally come. When Ziyado opened the door, she froze. Her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock. Standing on the doorstep, half hidden by the swirling flakes, were people she never expected to see again in this lifetime. The silence of the morning felt fragile. The arrival of these ghosts was the final spark needed to set the entire valley of Solvara on fire.
https://open.substack.com/pub/almamymuktar/p/the-vault-the-carpenters-debt-a-eulogy?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=6vxgom
https://substack.com/@almamymuktar/note/p-184372576?r=6vxgom
