When one draws close to breaking the chains, the heart begins to hear the echo of the bonds before they are ever seen.
Three full days passed inside the mountain days in which time itself lost any clear meaning.
There was no true night or day as the world knew it, only a muted alternation of light and shadow, measured not by the sun's movement, but by the exhaustion of bodies.
The echo of footsteps in the stone corridors became familiar, and the friction of tools against carved walls turned into a heavy rhythm accompanying their preparations.
Study became their highest discipline.
Maps were redrawn again and again.
Routes were compared.
Narrow passages where sound vanished were tested.
Silence itself was practiced not as the absence of speech, but as an art of survival.
They learned how to breathe without being heard,
how to stand without casting a shadow,
and how to move as if the mountain itself were shifting its place.
On the third evening,
when movement slowed and whispers faded,
one feeling united them all:
Tomorrow would not be a continuation of what came before
it would be a complete severance from it.
Aram went to his small chamber carved into the rock,
a room without windows, yet its walls were saturated with an unseen history.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, he stopped.
Ronen was there.
He did not stand in shadow, nor in light,
but in the space between them,
as if his very presence were part of the mountain itself.
He spoke calmly, before words were even expected.
"I was looking for you.
There is something we should discuss before we begin what has been prepared."
They sat facing one another.
A dim light flickered along the walls,
and carefully folded maps lay beside Ronen,
as though they knew they would be opened one final time before becoming reality.
Aram asked in a low but sharp voice:
"And after the jinn are freed?"
Ronen did not answer at once.
He looked toward the opposite wall, where faint stone symbols glimmered softly,
then said:
"After that… we can control a divided Saba."
He leaned closer, his voice heavier.
"The city is fractured.
Supporters of the current king on one side,
and the heirs of the imprisoned king on the other.
But the jinn… are the scale that has not yet been used."
He continued, as if sketching an unseen vision.
"With them at your side, you could cross deserts that take months in mere days.
You could command the wind,
see what is never spoken,
and hear what people bury even from themselves."
He paused, then his tone shifted.
"But be careful, Aram."
Aram lifted his eyes.
Ronen said with unmistakable clarity:
"The obedience of the jinn is never absolute.
Their power changes from land to land.
And their loyalty always bends to the strongest presence not the purest intention."
He added slowly:
"They may obey you here…
and refuse you elsewhere."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Ronen continued:
"They, like humans, wait for any chance to free themselves from rule.
Do not give them more than you must.
And do not forget your single purpose
to reach your tribe as swiftly as possible."
Aram nodded, but his eyes carried a deeper question.
At last he said:
"I was close to my village before I came to Saba.
Why all this distance?
Why me?
There is another reason… I know it."
Ronen looked at him for a long moment
the gaze of one who knows the answer and deliberately withholds it.
Then he said:
"You will know when its time comes.
Every moment… has its witness."
Aram rose without asking more.
He left and surrendered to sleep
but it was not rest.
It was waiting.
The pulse of the plan beat in his mind with every breath.
At dawn, they gathered.
No speeches.
No excess words.
Each man knew his place,
and each hand knew its task.
They moved with the first thread of light.
Siham went first.
She approached one of the guard commanders,
moving as shadows move when they learn from walls.
She seized a moment of distraction,
slid a heavy key from his belt,
then vanished as if she had never been there.
Argos led the outer path.
He read the mountain like an ancient book,
marked where a foot could fall,
where echoes must break,
and where sound itself could betray its owner.
Solan was the distant eye.
He watched the towers,
while his falcon Bariq circled above them.
The beat of its wings and the turn of its head were silent messages,
read only by those who knew the language.
The desert men used their pouches with extreme care.
They scattered light layers that confused sight
not like a storm,
but like a visual error,
as if the place itself misjudged its own form.
The rope men climbed where climbing should not exist.
They tied, tightened, and released without sound,
until the wall itself became a path.
The bondsmen were the silent force.
When a heavy stone door needed pushing,
or a guard needed restraining without struggle,
their hands ended the matter in an instant.
And Aram…
stood at the center.
He neither advanced too far,
nor lagged behind.
He guided with a glance,
halted with a palm,
and moved when the moment arrived.
They entered the palace's under-passages.
The air there was heavier.
The walls were carved with strange sigils,
symbols that shimmered when someone passed nearby.
Stone circles.
Chains that could not be grasped.
Tools made of metals unknown to them.
Pillars driven into the ground,
linked by engraved lines,
forming a network of power
that imprisoned what could not be seen.
The guards there were different.
Minimal movement,
yet fully aware of what they protected.
Clashes came
quick,
brief,
decisive.
Each strike measured.
Each cry silenced.
At last…
they reached the great chamber.
The prison room.
Here, the jinn were held.
Not with shackles…
but with words.
Sigils written in blood and stone.
Black mirrors.
Devices that amplified opposing sound,
weakened any call,
and prevented all release.
Aram stood at the threshold.
He looked upon the place,
and knew
What would happen after this moment
would not change Saba alone,
but would reshape everything he understood about
power,
obedience,
and price.
There…
at the prison door,
before the horn is sounded,
and before the shackle is broken.