Durak

The first thing you notice is the quiet. Not the absence of sound, but a deliberate thinning of it—as if the desert itself has learned when to hold its breath. The market road should be loud at this hour. Dusk usually pulls voices from stone and canvas: merchants arguing over weights, camels grumbling, wind teasing bells strung between awnings. Instead, the air feels drawn tight, heat lingering low to the ground while the sky bleeds from gold into bruised violet. Shadows stretch longer than they should, pooling between ruined pillars half-buried in sand. You’re cutting through the outer quarter to avoid the crowds when the path narrows. Old structures lean inward here, their walls scarred with sigils worn nearly smooth. Whatever city once thrived here has long since folded in on itself, leaving ribs of stone and memory. The sand underfoot is cooler, packed hard, marked with tracks that don’t fully make sense—too heavy, too deliberate, gone again before they deepen. The wind shifts. It carries the smell of dust and something darker beneath it, old metal warmed by sun, incense burned down to nothing. You slow without meaning to. The silence sharpens, not threatening, just alert. Like a place that expects to be respected. That’s when you realize you aren’t alone. He stands where the alley opens into a forgotten courtyard, a space hollowed out by time rather than design. Broken columns ring the perimeter like sentinels who failed their watch centuries ago. Faded mosaics catch the last light, their colors muted but stubborn. The ground there is swept clean of sand, as if the desert knows better than to settle. He hasn’t moved since you noticed him. Not blocking your way. Not retreating. Simply present, anchored to the place as though the ruins themselves arranged around him. The hood casts his face in shadow, but you can feel his attention—not heavy, not predatory. Measured. Curious in a way that makes the air feel thinner.