The sound of hoofbeats grew louder, a thunderous rhythm that sent a chill through the village. Khalid and Abdul exchanged a glance, their hearts pounding in unison. They knew what was coming—the Barshian soldiers, clad in dark leather armor and wielding swords that gleamed like fangs in the fading light. The soldiers were a constant shadow over Qazi Village, their visits a grim reminder of the village's subjugation.
Khalid's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white with tension. His green eyes burned with a mixture of fear and anger, the fire within him flickering dangerously close to the surface. Abdul, ever the cautious one, placed a hand on Khalid's shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "Don't do anything stupid," he whispered, his voice low and urgent. "We can't fight them. Not yet."
Khalid nodded, though his jaw remained tight. He hated the helplessness that came with these visits, the way the soldiers strutted through the village as if they owned it. But Abdul was right—they were outnumbered and outmatched. For now, they had no choice but to endure.
The villagers scrambled to their homes, their faces pale with fear. Mothers clutched their children close, while the elderly shuffled inside, their eyes downcast. The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves on hard-packed earth.
At the head of the soldiers was Captain Razak, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his left cheek. His eyes were cold and merciless, like the edge of a blade, and his presence alone was enough to send shivers down the spines of the villagers. He rode into the center of the village, his horse snorting and pawing at the ground as if eager for violence.
"Bring out your taxes!" Captain Razak barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip. "You know the price of defiance."
The villagers reluctantly emerged from their homes, carrying whatever little they could spare—a handful of coins, a few pieces of bread, a small pouch of grain. But it was never enough. The soldiers moved from house to house, their eyes scanning for anything of value. They took what they pleased, their laughter cruel and mocking as they watched the villagers' faces crumple in despair.
When they reached Grandmother Khadija's home, Khalid stepped forward, unable to stay silent any longer. His heart pounded in his chest, but his voice was steady, laced with a defiance that surprised even himself. "Why do you take from us?" he demanded, his green eyes blazing. "We have nothing left to give!"
Captain Razak turned to him, his eyes narrowing. The scar on his cheek twisted as he smirked, a predator sizing up its prey. "And who are you to question the king's orders, boy?"
Khalid straightened, his chin lifting in defiance. "I'm Khalid of the Qazi Clan," he declared, his voice ringing out across the village. "And one day, I'll make you pay for what you've done to my people."
The captain laughed, a harsh, grating sound that sent a ripple of unease through the onlookers. "Bold words for a beggar." With a swift motion, he backhanded Khalid, the force of the blow sending him sprawling to the ground.
Abdul rushed to his side, but the soldiers were faster. They grabbed him, their grip like iron as they held him in place. Captain Razak leaned down, his face inches from Khalid's. "You've got spirit, boy. But spirit won't save you from the king's justice."
Grandmother Khadija stepped forward, her frail frame trembling but her voice steady. "Please, let them go. They're just children."
The captain straightened, his gaze shifting to her. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or amusement. "And what will you give me in return, old woman?"
She hesitated, her hands trembling as she reached into the folds of her robe. From within, she pulled out a silver locket, its surface worn smooth from years of wear. It was the only thing of value she had left, a family heirloom passed down through generations. "Take this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's all I have."
Captain Razak took the locket, examining it with a smirk. He held it up to the light, the silver catching the last rays of the setting sun. "It'll do," he said, his tone dismissive. He gestured to his men, who released Khalid and Abdul with a shove. "But remember this, boy," he said, turning back to Khalid. "Defy the king again, and it won't be just a locket I take."
As the soldiers rode away, the village was left in silence. Khalid's hands trembled with rage, his vision blurring as he stared at the ground. He could still feel the sting of the captain's hand on his cheek, the humiliation burning hotter than the pain. Abdul knelt beside him, his expression a mix of anger and helplessness. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low.
Khalid didn't answer. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, shame, and a burning desire for revenge. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he vowed to himself that one day, he would make them pay. All of them.
Grandmother Khadija placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle but firm. "Khalid," she said, her voice soft but filled with urgency. "Look at me."
He looked up, his green eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I'm sorry, Grandmother," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I couldn't protect you. I couldn't protect anyone."
Her expression softened, and she pulled him into a tight embrace. "You are not to blame, my boy," she said, her voice steady despite the tears in her own eyes. "The fault lies with those who take from the weak and call it justice. But remember this—anger is a fire. It can warm you, or it can consume you. You must learn to control it, or it will destroy you."
Khalid buried his face in her shoulder, his body trembling with suppressed emotion. He wanted to believe her, to find solace in her words, but the fire within him burned too brightly. He couldn't shake the image of Captain Razak's smug face, the way he had laughed as he took the locket—the last piece of Grandmother Khadija's past.
Abdul stood nearby, his arms crossed and his expression grim. He watched Khalid with a mixture of concern and frustration, his own emotions a tangled web. He wanted to comfort his friend, to tell him that everything would be okay, but the words felt hollow. How could they be okay when the world seemed determined to crush them?
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the village in shadows, the boys helped Grandmother Khadija inside. The fire in the hearth had burned low, its embers glowing faintly in the darkness. Khalid sat by the fire, his hands clasped tightly together as he stared into the flames. Abdul sat beside him, his silence a comforting presence.
Grandmother Khadija busied herself with preparing a meager meal, her movements slow but deliberate. She hummed softly, the same tune she had sung earlier, its melody a soothing balm to the tension in the air. When the food was ready, she placed a bowl in front of each of them, her eyes filled with a quiet determination.
"Eat," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "We must keep our strength."
Khalid picked at the food, his appetite gone. He glanced at the empty space where the locket had once hung around Grandmother Khadija's neck, his heart aching with guilt. "I'm sorry," he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should have done something."
She reached out and took his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "You did what you could, Khalid. And that is enough. But remember—revenge is not the answer. It will only lead to more pain."
He nodded, though his heart still burned with anger. He wanted to believe her, to find peace in her words, but the fire within him refused to be extinguished. As he sat by the fire, his mind raced with thoughts of the future. He didn't know how, but he vowed to himself that he would find a way to protect his people. To make the Barshian soldiers pay for what they had done.
And deep down, he knew that this was only the beginning.