The wind had a new weight.
It carried no scent, no sound—only the sensation of something watching. Not with eyes. With memory.
Zayan stood beneath the cedar, the scroll pulsing faintly beside him, the staff of Master Faatir resting like a sleeping beast at his side. His fingers traced the etched sigil. A breath-loop, unbroken but open. A gate? A mark? A warning?
His thoughts were interrupted by birdsong—or perhaps what tried to be birdsong. The melody wavered, like it was being played backwards through fog. And when he looked up, he saw the sky had shifted color.
No longer morning-blue.
But a silver-grey hum.
Like breath held just before a scream.
He tightened his grip on the staff and whispered the only prayer he remembered:
"Rabbi inni limā anzalta ilayya min khayrin faqīr."
"My Lord, indeed I am in need of whatever good You send down to me."
(Surah Al-Qasas 28:24)
The wind paused, as if listening.
Then came the pulse.
Not from the sky. From the earth.
Low. Slow. Like the heartbeat of a buried colossus.
Zayan knelt. The scroll moved on its own, unrolling across the dirt, its ink glowing faintly. The letters were not all Arabic—some curled like Sanskrit, others knotted like Norse runes. Yet as he stared, they shimmered into words he could understand.
THE FIRST SEAL: NAFAS AL-HAYAT
(The Breath of Living Essence)
Breathe not from the mouth, but from the soul.
Let the air pass through memory,
through grief, through awe,
and return it clothed in prayer.
Mark the body with three points:
Between the brows (the gate of intent)
The center of the chest (the well of will)
The soles of the feet (the roots of return)
And then recite:
"Allāhu nur al-samāwāti wa al-arḍ. Yūriḍu an yashfiyak."
(Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. He wills to heal you.)
Zayan obeyed.
His finger, dipped in dew from the cedar's roots, marked the three points. His breath slowed. The staff began to hum, faintly, then vibrate. Not violently. Like a string plucked once on an ancient harp.
And then—
A voice.
"You opened it, didn't you."
He turned. A girl stood among the ferns. Not older than him. Hair coiled in braids, skin like sun-stained bark, eyes like glass warmed by firelight.
She wore no shoes. Her tunic was stitched from woven reeds and barkcloth. On her arms, burned into the flesh, were symbols that matched those on his scroll.
She pointed at it.
"You don't know what you've called."
Zayan blinked. "I didn't call anything."
She laughed, short and sharp.
"The Book only opens when called."
She circled him once. Not like a predator. Like a question.
"Name?"
"Zayan."
She nodded, once.
"You may keep it. For now. My name is Ilya. I am of the Wahija—the walkers between ailments and awakenings."
"You're a healer?"
"No." Her smile flickered. "I am the remedy to what healing fails."
She knelt and placed her palm over the scroll. It pulsed once, then rolled shut.
"The First Seal is always easy. The others?" She looked up. "They cost."
"Cost what?"
"Memory. Blood. Sometimes... the truth."
A shadow passed overhead.
Both looked up.
It had no wings.
Just absence. A shape that bent the sky. An echo in the light.
Ilya stepped close.
"They found you. The one who opened the scroll leaves a scar in the sky."
"Who are they?"
"The ones who broke it, long ago. The ones who sealed the healers beneath mountains and named sickness a king."
She shoved a small stone into his hand. Smooth, red, humming.
"This is a heartstone. If it warms, run. If it burns—pray."
"Pray to who?"
She looked at him, long and slow.
"To the part of you that remembers who you were before they told you what you had to be."
The forest shook.
Trees bent as though bowing. Birds scattered. Light fractured.
Ilya seized his wrist.
"No more questions. Only movement."
She ran. Zayan followed. The scroll followed too—tied now to the staff, fluttering like a forgotten wing.
Behind them, the shadow fell to earth. And the cedar tree began to bleed.