Page 2

"Stop that thief; she robbed me," a man said, running behind a girl.

She pushed her legs hard against

the muddy ground, each step a desperate attempt to outrun the thundering footsteps closing in behind her.

Her long hair streamed behind her, whipping against her

hips as she sprinted with unwavering determination, as if her very life depended on never stopping.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the man still hot on her trail. To her horror, he now wielded a thick stick in his hand, his expression twisted into something wild and unhinged, like a man possessed.

"Stop, you little scoundrel."

Her fear intensified, and she quickened her pace, pushing herself to run even faster. Her breath came

in ragged gasps, each one a struggle

as her lengthy skirt tangled around her legs, making it even harder to keep up her speed.

Suddenly, a large figure appeared in front of her, blocking her path. She tried to stop, but it was too late. She crashed into him with full force, the impact sending a jolt of pain through her body.

"Aah!" she cried out, wincing as she stumbled back.

He resembled a massive wall, very huge. His face remained concealed behind a scarf, preventing her from catching a glimpse of his features.

“Huff, thank God you caught her,”

the gray-haired man wheezed, panting like an exhausted pig. “She robbed me in the bazaar,” he added, his voice thick with anger.

Oman glanced down at the girl, his eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance.

She was clutching a piece of bread to her chest, her small hands trembling.

She was tinier and more fragile than he had expected, barely more than a teenager, her gaunt frame suggesting she hadn’t had a proper meal in days.

As the merciless sun sliced through the morning mist, Oman’s first instinct was to get her out of the heat. Despite everything, the sight of her standing there, so vulnerable and afraid, stirred something deep within him.

She lifted her hazel eyes to his face, unusually clear and steady, framed by long, curling eyelashes that cast delicate shadows across her gaze. Despite the dust covering her face, the tattered skirt, and the dirt-matted hair, there was an undeniable beauty beneath the grime.

She was wrapped in a shabby old cloak, her appearance a stark contrast to the harsh environment. Her bare feet, reddened from the hot sand, added to her fragile, almost ethereal presence. She looked like a girl barely in her early teens.

"Give that girl to me. I'll make her pay," the man with the stick growled, stepping forward as he reached out to seize her wrist.

But before he could lay a finger on her, Oman’s hand shot out, gripping the man’s wrist with a vice-like hold. His dark eyes bore into the man’s, so focused and intent that it sent a shiver of fear down his spine, making him falter.

“What has she stolen?” Oman asked, his voice cold, each word laced with quiet menace.

The old man hesitated, startled by Oman’s icy tone. He tried to tug his wrist free, but Oman only tightened his grip, causing him to wince in pain.

“Aww, she… she took my loaf of bread and fled,” the man stammered, his voice trembling as he struggled against Oman’s unyielding hold.

Oman’s gaze remained locked on the man, unblinking, as he considered the situation.

Oman released the man’s wrist with a sharp jerk, sending him stumbling back.

Without a word, he reached into his cotton bag, pulling out a handful of gold coins.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he flung the coins onto the ground, the gold scattering in all directions, glinting in the harsh sunlight.

The man stared at the coins in disbelief, his anger quickly replaced by greed. He dropped to his knees, scrambling to gather the coins with trembling hands. There were more than he had ever seen at once, more than enough to silence his complaints.

As he scooped up the last of the coins, he looked up at Oman with a twisted grin, his dirty teeth showing in a leering, triumphant laugh.

"Waah, Allah will give you double, my son," he said while laughing, and he walked away swaying his hand full of gold coins.

Her blazing eyes surveyed him. There was something about him; an aura of authority, a touch me not glaze-which dazzled and at the same time made her want her to reach out, just to see if he was real. He both compelled and intimidated.

He glanced at her one last time, his gaze unreadable, before turning and walking away. She remained rooted to the spot, watching him, something in her unable to let him go so easily. Finally, as if drawn by an invisible thread, she began to follow him, her small feet moving quickly to keep up.

Oman continued down the bustling street, passing by shop after shop, the crowd parting instinctively to let him through.

But after crossing the fifth shop, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the same little girl from before, trailing behind him with determined steps.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He quickened his pace, taking long strides, hoping she would give up and turn back.

He was astonished to learn she kept chasing him. It was a funny sight to see her running with her small legs.

He walked past many shops; now houses started to appear. He knew without looking back that the long-haired girl was still on his heels. He entered a narrow street. Not a single soul was seen on the path. Street walls were so high and hard to climb.

Her footfall was the only thing that he could hear on this silent, narrow street.

He finally stopped in front of a small iron gate.

The gate was worn, its hinges creaking as he pushed it open.

Oman’s towering frame required him to bow slightly as he entered the house beyond, a gesture that seemed almost out of place for someone so commanding.

He disappeared inside without a backward glance.

She wanted to follow behind him, she hesitated at the threshold, her courage faltering as she stood

before the gate.

She stood in front of the gate. Hesitantly, she slowly pushed the

gate ajar.

She stepped inside, her bare feet making no sound on the cool stone.

The house was larger than it appeared from the outside, with rooms standing adjacently, their doors closed like secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Her eyes darted around, taking in the surroundings—the worn furniture, the dusty windows, the sense of quiet that hung heavily in the air.

As she ventured further inside, she suddenly stopped, her gaze landing on a woman who had just appeared in the hallway. The woman was in her late twenties.

"Who are you?" the woman asked, surprised to see a girl in her home.

"Oman, who is she?" Fatima shouted, but didn't receive any reply in return.

Frustrated. "Who are you, girl, and how did you get here?" she asked while taking some steps towards her.

"Out of here immediately," Fatima commanded, pointing toward the exit. The girl became scared looking at the horrifying woman. Fatima went near her in an attempt to move her back. But when she tried to touch her, she flinched away.

"She followed me, Fatima" a man said, looking behind her to see her brother standing behind her. He was holding a plate full of food in his hand.

"What? How can she follow you, and you let her come here?"

"She was hungry, so I didn't say anything," he replied bluntly.

"Are you out of your mind Oman? If someone finds out, they wouldn't hesitate to send troops here," Fatima whispered urgently to Oman, her voice tight with fear and frustration.

Oman said nothing, his expression unreadable as he walked past her and approached the hazel-eyed girl. She was still clutching the piece of bread to her chest, as if it were a lifeline. Fatima glanced at the bread, her anger rising.

"She already has bread," Fatima pointed out, her voice sharp. "How can you say she's hungry?"

Oman remained silent, his focus entirely on the girl before him. He extended his hand, offering her a plate of food. The girl looked up at him with those haunting, doodling eyes, her stare intense and empty. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away.

Oman's breath caught in his throat. There was something in her eyes, something that reached deep inside him and stirred an instinct he hadn’t felt in years—an overwhelming urge to protect and defend her. The feeling was so strong, so primal, that it took him by surprise.

Coming to his senses, he took a step back and gave her one last look before storming into his room.

Fatima hurried after him, her worry evident in every step. "Oman, listen to me," she pleaded as she caught up with him. "Don’t ever do that again. You’re already in danger. Don’t look for any more trouble."

She cared for her elder brother very much, and looking at how he believed in people made her irritated sometimes.

"Don't worry, it won't happen again," he said, pulling out a dagger from beneath a mattress and checking its blade. It needed to be sharpened.

"Whatever, you won't listen to me anyway," she said, folding her arms near her chest like a little girl showing her anger.

Oman was sharpening his legendary dagger on a rough stone, the rhythmic scrape of metal against rock echoing in the quiet. The dagger, had seen countless battles alongside his heavy sword. Oman was known for his brutality in combat, a warrior who spared no one and remained undefeated.

His focus was so intense that he didn’t notice Fatima sitting beside him.

“That girl... is she mute?” Fatima asked, her voice thoughtful. “When I questioned her about her family, she didn’t utter a word. I haven’t heard a single sound from her.”

Oman paused, briefly inspecting the blade's edge. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so,” he replied, still engrossed in his task.

Fatima hummed softly, lost in her thoughts. “I wanted to give her some clothes. Her skirt was torn, and I felt bad for shouting at her.” Fatima had a soft side, though she often tried to maintain a cold exterior.

“Don’t worry too much, Fatima,” Oman said, noticing the concern on her face.

“I just don’t want some dirty men to harass her,” Fatima continued, her voice tinged with worry. “I tried to give her something appropriate to wear, but she ran away.”

“She ran away again?” Oman asked, though he wasn’t surprised.

Fatima narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

Oman sighed, setting the dagger aside. “I’ve seen her many times in the streets. Whenever she spotted me, she would run after me. Today, she followed me all the way home,” he said, a slight amusement in his tone.

Fatima looked thoughtful. “She doesn’t have a family.”

“I don’t know, Fatima,” Oman admitted, taking a deep breath. “It doesn’t seem like anyone’s looking after her.”

“She was cute, though,” Fatima mused, recalling the girl’s delicate features. “Innocent, too. Her eyes... they were the most striking. Like those of a princess.” Fatima’s desire to help the girl grew stronger, tugging at her heart she couldn’t ignore.

Oman resumed his work, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the girl. She didn’t speak much, but her eyes communicated everything. They were full of a deep, quiet sadness that cut through him every time she looked at him.

A little girl fighting the world alone—it was such a horrible thing.

He had seen her before, flitting around like a butterfly, and had often given her something to eat when their paths crossed. Maybe that’s why she chased him. After receiving food from him, she would disappear again, and Oman often wondered how she managed to survive out there.

He wasn’t particularly interested in her, but there was something about her—something elusive, something that tugged at the edge of his mind. After a moment, he pushed those thoughts aside, focusing once more on the task at hand.

But the image of her sad eyes lingered, refusing to leave him completely.