The desert night was colder than expected.
Malick sat alone on the edge of a crumbling stone wall, far from the lights of the sheikh's palace, watching the dunes vanish into the shadows. A breeze blew sand into the folds of his dark cloak, but he didn't brush it off. He barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere tangled, relentless, and heavy.
He had risen quickly. Too quickly. In just a few short years, he had gone from a terrified young man smuggled into a foreign country, to a shadow among wolves. He had become what he swore he never would: ruthless, calculating, loyal only to survival.
And yet tonight, his past wouldn't let him rest.
Ali.
Even thinking the name made Malick's chest tighten. He could still see the look in his friend's eyes the last time they spoke, before Ali was thrown into that cold prison beneath the palace. There had been no dramatic confrontation, no shouting, no punches. Just silence ,disbelief, betrayal. Malick had avoided his gaze.
That was months ago.
And now Ali had escaped.
He hadn't believed it at first. The news had arrived like a whispered rumor, carried through half-scared guards and half-missing reports. The gardener had vanished. A section of the servant's wing had burned. Two camels stolen. No sign of Ali in the dungeons.
Gone. Like smoke.
Malick wanted to be angry. He wanted to feel vindicated. But all he felt was... something else. A deep, slow guilt that coiled like a snake in his stomach.
He stood and began walking across the sand, kicking up small clouds of dust that swirled in the moonlight. His steps led him nowhere in particular, but his thoughts were loud enough to drown out everything else.
Back then, in their village, they had been inseparable. Malick remembered the dry red earth beneath their feet, the cracked laughter echoing from tin-roofed homes, and the taste of sugarcane they used to steal from the market stalls. Ali had always been the dreamer. The one with wild plans and impossible hope. Malick had admired him for that.
But dreams don't survive long in the underworld.
When they were captured, Malick had clung to Ali like a lifeline. But as the nights wore on, as the guards grew crueler and the world darker, Malick began to change. He didn't want to. It happened slowly. He learned to stay quiet. To watch. To listen. He started doing favors, delivering messages, cleaning blood. Then he started asking questions. Then giving orders.
The moment he was given power ,real power ,it felt like someone finally saw him. The boy no one had noticed before. The boy who had always stood in Ali's shadow.
At first, he thought he could use it to protect them both.
But that had been a lie.
Malick stopped walking and turned his face to the stars.
He thought about what it would take to undo what he had done. To go to the Sheikh and ask forgiveness. To stand by Ali again, like before. Could he? Would he?
No. The truth was simpler. He was too far gone.
In his rise, Malick had ordered beatings. He had sent others to their deaths to cover his own tracks. He had lied, betrayed, destroyed. And the worst part? He had done it all with precision, and sometimes... satisfaction. Because for the first time in his life, he mattered.
Ali had always mattered. Without trying. Without compromising.
And that, more than anything, had made Malick hate him.
He sat again, this time on a broken stair carved into stone. He reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out an old, cracked photograph. The corners were bent, the image faded, but it was still clear enough. It showed two boys ,Malick and Ali grinning, arms around each other, at the edge of a football field in their hometown.
He remembered that day. The sun had been unforgiving, the game pointless. But they had laughed the entire way home.
He had kept the photo all this time.
Why?
Because somewhere inside the man he had become, the boy who loved his best friend still survived. Barely. Quietly. But he was there.
Footsteps approached. Malick quickly slipped the photo back into his coat and stood. A guard approached, lowering his head.
"Sir, the Sheikh wants to see you. Tonight."
Malick nodded. "Did he say why?"
The guard shook his head. "Just that it's urgent."
He watched the man retreat, then turned his gaze once more to the horizon.
The sheikh never summoned people without purpose. Perhaps he knew about the doubts. About the hesitation. About the photo. Maybe someone had seen him weeping in the dark, or had heard him speak Ali's name when he thought he was alone.
Malick swallowed.
He couldn't afford weakness. Not now. The empire was shaking. Servants were disappearing. The sheikh's enemies were growing louder, bolder.
If Malick stumbled now, he wouldn't be given a second chance.
He made his way back to the palace. The guards opened the great doors without a word. He walked past golden tapestries and marble pillars without looking at them. They didn't impress him anymore. Nothing did.
The sheikh was waiting in his private study.
The room was dimly lit. Books lined the shelves. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air. The sheikh sat behind a polished desk, his ringed fingers tapping slowly against its surface.
"Malick," he said without looking up. "Come in."
Malick entered, standing at attention.
"Do you know why you're here?"
"No, my lord."
The sheikh looked up, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
"Ali has escaped. Yusuf as well. But you already knew that."
Malick said nothing.
"Do you know how they got out?"
Malick shook his head. "I investigated. The fire in the servant's quarters distracted the western guards. The dungeon locks were tampered with. But we still don't know how they slipped past the outer wall."
The sheikh nodded slowly. "They had help. Someone who knew the estate well. Someone who could move unnoticed. Someone close."
Malick held his breath.
"I have my suspicions,"the sheikh continued. "But that is not why I called you."
He stood and walked around the desk. He faced Malick directly.
"You've been loyal to me. Fiercely so. You rose quickly. Earned fear. Respect. But tell me, Malick..."
He paused.
"Do you regret any of it?"
The room was silent.
Malick didn't answer.
The sheikh smiled. "I think you do. And that makes you dangerous. Not yet. But soon."
He returned to his chair and waved a hand.
"Go. I'll call on you when I have need. In the meantime, keep an eye on Sonia. She hasn't tried to flee. Which means she's planning something worse."
Malick bowed and left.
Outside the study, he paused in the hallway.
Dangerous.
The word echoed.
He had thought he still had time. Time to figure things out. Time to choose who he wanted to be. But perhaps the sheikh was right. Perhaps regret wasn't just a feeling it was a liability.
Back in his chambers, Malick locked the door and sat at his desk. He pulled out the photo again and stared at it.
Ali had believed in things. In people. In goodness. Even in this place, he had held on to that light.
And Malick had extinguished it.
The worst part?
He wasn't sure he could bring it back.
But maybe...
Maybe it wasn't too late to stop others from falling where he had.
He took a deep breath.
He wouldn't betray the sheikh. Not yet. That would be suicide. But he could watch. He could listen. He could protect Sonia from a distance.
Maybe there was still a sliver of the boy in the photo left.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start again.