The morning sun painted Marrakech's ancient walls in hues of gold, as the medina stirred to life. Through the labyrinthine alleys of the souk, Bakr threaded his way past vendors setting up their stalls. His muscular frame, unusual for a 22-year-old archaeology student, drew curious glances from the locals.

The souks of Marrakech were alive with color and sound, the air thick with the mingling scents of spices, roasting meat, and orange blossoms. Bakr moved with quiet determination, weaving through the crowds with practiced ease. He had always loved the medina—its chaos, its vibrancy, its secrets hidden in every narrow alleyway. But today, something felt different.

Behind him, Youssef groaned in exasperation. "You dragged me out here for what? Another 'hidden gem' to add to your collection of junk?"

Bakr turned and shot his best friend a grin. "It's not junk. They're artifacts."

"Artifacts," Youssef echoed, shaking his head. "You mean cracked pottery and faded scraps of parchment. We're not archaeologists, you know."

Bakr ignored him, his gaze scanning the stalls with an intensity that had nothing to do with mere curiosity. He couldn't explain it, but something had been tugging at him all morning—a strange pull in his chest, as though an invisible thread were guiding him.

They turned a corner into a quieter section of the market, where the noise of haggling and laughter faded into a hum. The air here was cooler, shaded by the overhang of intricately carved woodwork. It was here that Bakr saw him: an old merchant sitting cross-legged on a faded rug, his wares spread out before him.

The man's eyes were sharp and knowing, and when Bakr approached, the merchant gave a toothless smile. "Ah, a seeker," he said in a voice like dry leaves.

"Seeker?" Bakr asked, crouching to inspect the items on display. They were an odd assortment—ancient coins, rusted daggers, faded scrolls. But one item caught his eye: a drum, small enough to fit in his hands, its surface etched with intricate Amazigh patterns.

The merchant's smile widened. "A seeker, indeed. That drum has been waiting for you."

Youssef snorted. "Oh, come on. You're not seriously buying into this mystic nonsense, are you?"

Bakr didn't answer. His fingers brushed the drum's surface, and a shiver ran through him. He could feel… something. A faint hum of energy, like the first breath of a storm.

"How much?" Bakr asked.

"For you, seeker, a gift," the merchant said.

Youssef threw up his hands. "Right. And I'm sure you don't have an ulterior motive at all."

But Bakr was already picking up the drum, barely noticing the merchant's cryptic smile as he turned away.

That evening, they sat in Bakr's small, book-filled apartment. The drum rested on the table between them, its patterns glowing faintly in the dim light.

"This is ridiculous," Youssef said, pacing. "We spent the entire day in the medina, and for what? A creepy old man's freebie?"

Bakr wasn't listening. He couldn't stop staring at the drum. The pull he'd felt earlier was stronger now, an almost magnetic force drawing him closer.

"I just want to try something," he said, picking up the drum.

Youssef froze. "Don't. Seriously, Bakr, I've seen enough horror movies to know this is a bad idea."

But Bakr couldn't help himself. He struck the drum once, a single, resonant beat that seemed to echo far longer than it should have. The sound filled the room, vibrating through the air and deep into his bones.

The drum shattered.

Light erupted from its fragments, swirling in patterns too intricate for Bakr's eyes to follow. A voice filled the room, deep and ancient, speaking words he couldn't understand.

"Amsgar n ugdal…"

"What the hell is going on?!" Youssef shouted, but his voice was distant, drowned out by the growing roar of the light and sound.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the chaos ended. The room was silent, save for Bakr and Youssef's ragged breathing. The fragments of the drum lay scattered on the floor, glowing faintly before fading into dull wood.

"What…" Youssef began, his voice shaky. "What just happened?"

Bakr didn't answer. He was staring at his hands, where faint symbols had appeared, glowing like embers beneath his skin. His mind raced with fragments of the voice's words, images of mountains and temples and battles flashing behind his eyes.

"I think," he said finally, his voice trembling, "we just woke something up."

That night, Bakr dreamed.

He was standing at the base of a towering mountain, its peak shrouded in clouds. Around him, the air was thick with power, humming with the weight of something ancient. Figures emerged from the mist—tall, majestic beings whose eyes glowed with light.

"You have been chosen," one of them said, their voice echoing like thunder. "The guardians must rise again."

Bakr felt a surge of energy as the mountain began to crumble, the ground beneath him giving way. He fell, the figures vanishing into the darkness.

When he woke, he was gasping for air, his body slick with sweat. Across the room, Youssef sat on the couch, wide-eyed and pale.

"I had a dream," Youssef said quietly. "There were gods. Mountains. Symbols. It was… the same as this." He gestured to Bakr's hands, where the faint glow of the symbols remained.

Bakr nodded, his mind racing. Whatever had happened, it wasn't just a coincidence. The drum, the light, the dreams—it was all connected.

"Youssef," he said, his voice firm. "We need to find out what this means."

Youssef groaned, burying his face in his hands. "You're going to drag me into this madness, aren't you?"

"Come on," Bakr said with a faint grin. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Youssef gave him a flat look. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

But despite his grumbling, Youssef knew there was no going back. Whatever this was, it had already begun.

And somewhere, in the depths of Marrakech, a shadow stirred.