Every story requires a narrator, for if it wasn't recounted and passed from one person to another, a story would be lost to time and no one would ever come against its crux. No one would hear of the hero who defeated the seven-headed monster, nor of the great treasure trove discovered by the wandering trader.

A narrator is a crucial part for the story, they may not be the hero, but they keep the story alive and bequeath it to the coming generation. And that's what I'm here for.

To tell a story.

For I'm the narrator of this tale which I bore witness to. I won't be long, you're not here to know me, though I'm to play a small part in the coming events. So this won't be the last of me.

Now come closer and feast your eyes on this exclusive golden-rimmed mirror which I got from an old friend. See anything within? Yep, that's how our story will unfold before your very eyes, for you see this mirror is very special.

Hush now, just look into the shimmering glass and let my voice guide you…

━━━━━━━༺ *** ༻━━━━━━━

 Al-yamama, a small trading village hidden among mounds of golden sand and protected with high walls from all four directions. Its houses were as simple as one could imagine, united in their dull brown color and wooden small windows, different in their sizes as they approach its beating heart, the market.

It was located in its center, crawling with people from all around. From when the first sun ray appeared up till the twinkling of the Northern star in the sky, the market was always crowded. Floods and floods of traders pass by each day, selling and buying. Teaching the people of the village of the mysteries they learned on their journeys or recounting their breathtaking adventures.

No day was like the previous, for each morning promised the arrival of new things to their small village.

Al-yamama valued trading more than anything else, so it kept its doors wide open for whoever wished to enter it. It had four gates, East, West, North, and South, each of them opening to another world, a new path. Those gates were never closed.

Aside from the gates, there were also all of the four towers rising around Al-yamama, to keep watch over the horizon for the outlaws and thieves. Those were the only unwelcomed guests for the people of the village.

During the recent years, those four towers were occupied by one single person. A young girl no older than 16.

This was Zarqa.

Since she was young, Zarqa never ceased to amaze people with her supervision which allowed her to see a brawl breaking in the suburbs from the market. Someone then suggested she use her eyes to forewarn them of thieves who roamed the deserts day and night, and she took the offer.

Ever since, Zarqa was known as the warden of her village. Keeping watch over the horizon. Neither sun nor rain could deter her, never wavering in her duty nor slacking, each day on one of the four towers. Her name was soon known all around the land as stories of how she stopped countless attempts from thieves to approach their peaceful village were carried by the traders to all the corners of Earth.

Al-yamama became the safest town known in history. No Bandit in their right mind would dare to approach it, for they knew Zarqa of Al-yamama would spot them days before they could reach it.

Their land prospered and the people's love for Zarqa grew by the day, showering her with gifts and compliments, yet she had no eye for those, for all she ever wanted, was to keep her homeland safe. And so it was… or, had been…

The years of drought came, sparing little of the harvest. War raged outside the walls of Al-yamama for long, and though it had nothing to do with them, most of their trading routes were cut. There was no way for them to restock their rations. Then came the epidemic, feasting on whatever was left by hunger and poverty. And due to the shortage of water, it spread fast as though fire caught a breeze.

No trader saught the village again, for it had no more worth. Its market scarcely offered anything to pique the traders' interst, and so, Al-yamama became a town of ghosts, with nothing but death and hunger looming over it. Every day or two, the village woke up to the bitter loss of someone at the hands of either of those two, or maybe both.

That morning was no different. The one who fell for the sickness this time was none other than Iness, the wife of the village Sheikh, their leader, and adoptive mother of Zarqa. She died overnight, falling victim to the fever.

Soon after Iness was laid down to the ground, the people of the town gathered around Malik, their Sheikh, begging him for a solution. They ignored Zarqa's pleas to leave him alone, to let him mourn, but Malik agreed to listen to them.

" Today it was your wife whom we buried," someone told him. " If this continues, we would be all goners sooner or later."

" We have no food in our houses and no medicine to cure the sick. All we can do is watch as they writhe in pain."

" Is there no way for us to survive? Maybe we could ask for help from other villages."

Malik kept silent the whole time, looking down at the fading carpet. He was so old that his skin was drooping down, and his eyes were covered by it there was no telling if they were open or closed. One could have mistaken him to be asleep. " We can't ask for help…" His voice was deep, and despite his old age, it was sturdy and it never wavered once, not in the past, nor even then after he parted with his 'other half' as he always called Iness. " Those who don't have can't be givers. The other villages are struggling with the drought and epidemic too. There is no way they would be able to share with us."

" Then, we ask for help from a large city. We send a messenger, ask them to lend us food and medicine," another man spoke this time, shouldering his way up to Malik.

" They will need reassurance won't they, especially in these dire times? Our village has nothing of value other than its children and women as of now. Would you be fine with giving your sons off to war and your wives and daughters up to the wealthy?"

No answer came.

" Figured as much. All we can do now is be patient. This is a trial. Let us not lose faith. Now be on your way."

The men of the village left Malik's house irritated and unsatisfied. They had been waiting for years, and as if it was a punishment for them, no cloud roamed above their town for three years.

Zarqa watched the men leave from her seat by Malik's side, feeling her heart become a heavy rock at the sight of their haunched shoulders and darkened faces. Those harsh past years had squeezed every ounce of life from them, and there was nothing they could do to change their situation.

She wished there was more to be done than wait and pray.

" Zarqa, come closer my dear." Malik's call snapped her back to the present.

" Yes." The girl approached her adoptive father as he gently placed a hand on her head.

" There you are. You feel sad after losing Iness. I can tell, even with my weak eyesight."

Zarqa swallowed the lump of emotions she had been keeping at bay for long. Nothing comes from crying over the dead now, they departed this world into one with no suffering, and crying over them would only make them restless.

Even though she would miss the woman fussing over the tiniest wrinkle in her robes, her hands streaking through her long hair and combing it, and her kind and soft voice as she wished her good night. What could she do about it?

Nothing. Always nothing.

Just have faith.

" It's okay to feel sad. But the important thing is…"

" To accept it and move on. Yes, I know Baba."

" Good girl, I'm sure Iness would be proud of you." His smile was gentle and soft although it highlighted every wrinkle he had on his face.

He was growing too old.

" Now, shouldn't you be off to the tower?"

" And leave you alone? How could I do that?" She argued.

Malik's smile broadened as he reached for his walking cane and with much effort, was up on all three. " I'm not that old. As you can see, so long as one can walk, they'll be alright. Now dear, you should hurry to the tower. It's these dire days which spur bandits to action more than any other time."

He had a point.

With a nod of her head, Zarqa stood up, straightened her green dress, and left the house to head over to the Northwest tower…