The days following the tax raid were bleak. The villagers of Qazi Village moved about like shadows, their spirits crushed under the weight of oppression. The Barshian soldiers had taken everything of value, leaving the people with nothing but their despair. Khalid and Abdul did what they could to help, but their efforts felt like drops in an ocean of suffering.
Grandmother Khadija, who had always been the pillar of strength for the boys, began to weaken. The stress of the raid and the loss of her precious locket had taken a toll on her health. She tried to hide it, but Khalid and Abdul could see the way she winced when she moved, the way her hands trembled as she cooked their meager meals. Her once-bright eyes were now clouded with pain, and her voice, though still warm, carried a note of exhaustion that worried the boys.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Grandmother Khadija collapsed. Khalid rushed to her side, his heart pounding with fear. "Grandmother! What's wrong?"
She smiled weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's nothing, my boy. Just… just a little tired."
But Khalid knew it was more than that. Her skin was pale, her breathing shallow, and her forehead burned with fever. He turned to Abdul, his eyes filled with desperation. "We need to get her medicine. Now."
Abdul nodded, his expression grim. "But where? The village healer has nothing left. The soldiers took everything."
Khalid's mind raced. Then it hit him—the capital. Zharrakai. It was their only hope. "We'll go to the capital," he said firmly. "There has to be medicine there. We'll find a way."
Abdul hesitated. "The capital is days away, Khalid. And we don't even know how to get there."
"We'll figure it out," Khalid said, his voice steady. "We have to. For her."
Grandmother Khadija reached out and took Khalid's hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "No, my boy. You mustn't go. The capital is no place for children like you. It's dangerous—full of thieves, liars, and worse. And I… I don't want to be a burden to you."
Khalid's heart ached at her words. "You're not a burden, Grandmother. You're everything to us. We can't lose you."
Tears welled in her eyes, and she pulled him into a tight embrace. "You are my heart, Khalid. Both of you. But the thought of you two out there, alone in that city… it terrifies me."
Abdul knelt beside her, his voice gentle but firm. "We'll be careful, Grandmother. We'll look out for each other. And we'll come back as soon as we can, with the medicine you need."
Grandmother Khadija looked at them for a long moment, her eyes filled with love and fear. Finally, she nodded, though her expression was still troubled. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll look out for each other."
Khalid and Abdul nodded, their voices steady. "We promise."
The next morning, the boys prepared for their journey. Before they left, they visited their neighbors—a kind family who lived a few houses away. The father, Hassan, was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a gentle smile and calloused hands from years of working the fields. His wife, Layla, was a warm and nurturing woman with a knack for healing herbs. Their daughter, Amina, was around Khalid and Abdul's age, with bright eyes and a quick wit.
Hassan greeted them with a firm handshake, his deep voice filled with reassurance. "You're doing a brave thing, boys. We'll take care of Grandmother Khadija while you're gone. Don't worry about her."
Layla stepped forward, her hands resting on Khalid's shoulders. "You're like sons to us, you know that. We'll make sure she's comfortable and has everything she needs. You just focus on getting that medicine."
Amina, ever the spirited one, crossed her arms and gave them a mock-stern look. "And don't you dare get into trouble in the capital. If you come back with so much as a scratch, I'll never let you hear the end of it."
Khalid and Abdul smiled, grateful for their neighbors' support. With their hearts a little lighter, they set out for Zharrakai.
The journey to the capital was grueling. The desert stretched endlessly before them, its golden dunes shimmering under the relentless sun. The boys carried only the essentials—a small pouch of dried dates, a waterskin, and a thin blanket each. They had no weapons, no maps, and no idea what awaited them in the city.
By the third day, their supplies were running low, and their spirits were beginning to falter. Abdul stumbled, his legs trembling with exhaustion. "We're not going to make it," he muttered, his voice hoarse from thirst. "This was a mistake."
Khalid, though equally exhausted, refused to give up. "We're not dying," he said firmly. "Not here, not like this. We'll make it to Zharrakai, and we'll find the medicine. I promise."
Their luck changed on the fourth day when they stumbled upon a caravan of merchants traveling to the capital. The merchants, a colorful group of men and women dressed in flowing robes and adorned with silver jewelry, took pity on the boys and offered them food and water. They also allowed them to ride in one of their wagons, sparing them the grueling walk.
As they traveled, Khalid and Abdul listened to the merchants' tales of the capital. They spoke of its towering sandstone walls, its bustling markets filled with exotic goods, and its opulent palaces where the rich and powerful lived in luxury. But they also spoke of its darker side—the poverty, the corruption, and the ever-present threat of the king's soldiers.
"Zharrakai is a city of contrasts," one of the merchants said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "For every palace, there are a hundred hovels. For every noble, there are a thousand beggars. Be careful, boys. The city can be as cruel as it is beautiful."
When they finally reached Zharrakai, the boys were awestruck. The city was unlike anything they had ever seen. Its walls rose high into the sky, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns that glowed in the sunlight. Beyond the gates, the streets were a chaotic maze of people, animals, and carts, all moving in a constant stream of noise and activity.
The air was thick with the scent of spices, sweat, and smoke from countless cooking fires. Merchants called out to passersby, hawking their wares—silks, jewels, weapons, and food from distant lands. The boys wandered through the markets, their eyes wide with wonder, but also with a growing sense of unease. The poverty they had heard about was everywhere—beggars lined the streets, their hands outstretched, and the faces of the common people were etched with hardship.
As night fell, the boys found themselves in a quieter part of the city, where the streets were narrower and the buildings more dilapidated. They were searching for a place to sleep when they heard the sound of footsteps behind them. Turning, they saw a group of rough-looking men approaching, their eyes gleaming with malice.
"Well, well," one of them said, a sneer on his face. "What do we have here? Two little rats lost in the big city."
Khalid and Abdul backed away, their hearts pounding. They were outnumbered and outmatched, and they knew it. The leader of the group, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward, his voice dripping with menace. "Hand over whatever you've got, and maybe we'll let you go."
Khalid's hands clenched into fists, but he knew they stood no chance against the thieves. Just as the men closed in, a voice rang out.
"Leave them alone."
The boys turned to see a young noble boy standing at the end of the alley, flanked by two armed guards. He was around their age, with sharp features, a confident smile, and an air of authority. He was dressed in fine clothes, and a sword hung at his side.
The thieves hesitated, their eyes darting between the boys and the guards. The leader sneered. "This doesn't concern you, boy. Walk away."
The noble boy—Zain—stepped forward, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. "It does concern me. These two are under my protection. Now, unless you want to explain yourselves to the city guards, I suggest you leave."
The thieves exchanged uneasy glances, then backed away, muttering curses under their breath. Zain watched them go, then turned to Khalid and Abdul, his smile returning. "You two look like you've had a rough day. My name is Zain. What's yours?"