The desert stretched endlessly, a sea of golden dunes shimmering under the relentless sun. The wind carried with it the faint scent of sun-baked earth and the distant cries of desert birds, their mournful calls echoing across the barren landscape. At the edge of this vast expanse lay Qazi Village, a cluster of crumbling mud-brick homes and weathered stone structures that clung to life like a dying man clutching at his last breath. The village was a shadow of its former self, a relic of a bygone era when the Qazi Clan had been a name spoken with reverence across the seven great nations. Now, it was little more than a forgotten speck in the desert, its people broken and its spirit fading.
At the heart of the village stood a small, dilapidated home, its walls cracked and its roof sagging under the weight of time. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and the faint tang of smoke from the cooking fire. Grandmother Khadija sat by the hearth, her gnarled hands busy weaving a basket from dried reeds. Her face was lined with age, but her eyes were sharp and full of life, a testament to the strength that had carried her through decades of hardship. She hummed softly, a tune that had been passed down through generations of the Qazi Clan, its melody a bittersweet reminder of better days.
On the roof of the house, perched like two desert hawks, sat Khalid and Abdul. Khalid, at sixteen, was lean and wiry, with sun-kissed skin and a mop of unruly black hair that refused to be tamed. His green eyes, sharp and piercing, scanned the horizon as if searching for something beyond the endless sea of sand. Beside him sat Abdul, his best friend and brother in all but blood. Abdul was slightly taller, with a calm, thoughtful expression that often masked the storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface. His dark eyes carried a hint of caution, as if he were always calculating the risks of their next move.
The boys had been raised by Grandmother Khadija since they were infants, their parents lost to the harsh realities of desert life. She was not their blood grandmother, but she had become their family, her love and wisdom the only constants in their turbulent lives. To Khalid and Abdul, she was the anchor that kept them grounded, the voice of reason in a world that seemed determined to break them.
"Do you think it's true, Abdul?" Khalid asked, breaking the silence. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the stillness of the desert. "What Grandmother says about the Qazi Clan? That they were once the greatest warriors in the world?"
Abdul shrugged, his gaze fixed on the distant dunes. "Maybe. But it doesn't matter now, does it? Look at us. We're nothing but beggars in a forgotten village."
Khalid's jaw tightened, and he clenched his fists. "It matters to me. If we were once great, then we can be great again. I won't spend my life groveling at the feet of the Barshian king."
Abdul sighed, knowing better than to argue with Khalid when he was in one of his fiery moods. "Dream all you want, Khalid. But dreams won't fill our stomachs."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, the boys climbed down from the roof and entered their small home. Grandmother Khadija looked up as they entered, her eyes softening at the sight of them. "There you are," she said, her voice warm but tinged with exhaustion. "I was beginning to think you'd run off to join the desert nomads."
Khalid grinned, his earlier frustration melting away. "Not without you, Grandmother."
She chuckled, gesturing for them to sit. "Come, eat. It's not much, but it's enough to keep you alive."
The meal was meager—a few scraps of bread and a thin stew made from desert herbs—but the boys ate it gratefully. As they ate, Grandmother Khadija began to tell them a story, as she often did. This time, it was the tale of the Qazi Clan's greatest victory—the defeat of the Yahawas Cult.
"Long ago," she began, her voice low and reverent, "the Qazi Clan was the shield of the weak, the sword of justice. They stood against the Yahawas, an evil cult that sought to plunge the world into darkness. The Yahawas performed unspeakable rituals—sacrificing young girls, burying infants alive, and summoning demons from the depths of the earth. But the Qazi Clan, led by the great warrior Qasim the Unyielding, fought them with everything they had. In the end, they emerged victorious, banishing the Yahawas to the shadows."
Khalid's eyes shone with admiration. "And what happened to them? The Qazi Clan, I mean."
Grandmother Khadija's expression darkened. "Time happened, Khalid. The world changed. The Qazi Clan grew complacent, and their strength waned. The Barshian kings saw their weakness and seized the opportunity to oppress them. Now, we are but a shadow of what we once were."
Khalid's fists clenched again. "Then we'll bring it back. The glory, the strength—everything. I'll make the Qazi Clan great again."
Grandmother Khadija smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. "You have a fire in your heart, Khalid. But remember, fire can either light the way or burn everything to the ground. Be careful how you wield it."
Before Khalid could respond, the sound of hoofbeats echoed through the village. The boys froze, their hearts pounding. They knew that sound all too well—it was the Barshian soldiers, coming to collect taxes.