The cave always smelled the same.
Cold.
Wet.
Wrong.
Youness couldn’t breathe.
His small chest rose in short, broken gasps as the chanting echoed off the stone walls. The air tasted like rust and damp earth. Somewhere nearby, water dripped… slow and steady… like a clock counting down.
“The jewel… the diamond… the eye of a Zouhri…”
The voice did not sound human.
It rumbled through the cave like a lion speaking from deep underground.
Youness squeezed his eyes shut.
No.
No no no—
“Please!” Anwar’s voice cracked beside him. “Youness—!”
Youness’s eyes flew open.
His best friend was only a few steps away, held tightly between two shadowed men. Anwar’s bright blue eyes were wide with pure terror, his golden hair messy and damp with sweat. He looked so small.
Too small.
The men were arguing again. Their voices were sharp. Greedy.
“This one,” one of them said. “Look at his eyes.”
“No — the other boy has both lines.”
The first man clicked his tongue impatiently.
“He said the eye of a Zouhri. This one has the line… and blue eyes. That combination is rare.”
“He can wait,” the second man replied coldly. “This one is rarer.”
Youness’s stomach twisted so hard it hurt.
They chose Anwar.
The blade caught the torchlight for just a second.
Then—
Anwar screamed.
The sound tore through Youness’s chest like something alive.
“YOUNESS, SAVE ME!”
There was blood.
Too much blood.
Youness saw Anwar’s face turn toward him—
One eye wide with terror.
The other…
Gone.
Dark.
Hollow.
Tears mixed with blood streamed down his cheek as his small hand reached toward Youness, shaking.
Then Anwar’s body went limp.
And the screaming stopped.
The men turned.
“And now… the second one.”
Something inside Youness broke.
He kicked wildly, twisting with a strength that didn’t feel like his own. His heel slammed into someone’s knee.
“Ahh—!”
The grip on him loosened.
Youness thrashed harder, screaming now, his whole body shaking. The rough rope around his wrists began to loosen… little by little… fibers slipping… knot shifting…
Someone cursed.
“Hold him!”
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But it was too late.
The rope slipped free.
Youness bolted.
Bare feet slapping against the cold stone as he sprinted into the darkness.
Behind him, the men shouted.
For one brief, terrible moment—
Youness looked back.
The torchlight flickered over the cave.
Over Anwar.
Over the men staring at him.
His body hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
The man’s eyes locked onto his.
Then—
The man suddenly lunged forward.
Youness turned and ran.
Into the dark.
Away from the screaming.
Away from the blood.
Away from Anwar.
?
Youness woke up gasping.
His small hands clutched his stomach as if trying to hold his insides together. The heavy Moroccan blankets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat.
The nightmare was always the same.
And it never got easier.
Youness was seven years old.
And he had the line on both of his hands.
He was a thin boy with messy black hair that always fell into his dark brown eyes. His skin carried the soft olive tone of a typical Moroccan child, though lately it had grown pale from too many sleepless nights. Where other boys his age were loud and restless, Youness had always been quiet… observant.
Now he looked like a shadow of himself.
Coward.
Coward.
Coward.
The word pounded inside his skull like a war drum.
It had been one month since the hunters took them.
One month since a traveling villager — riding his donkey between dusty douars — found Youness wandering the desert outskirts alone, devastated, mute, and completely broken.
The police had searched.
They found the cave.
They found blood.
They found the knife.
They even found Anwar’s eye.
But the men…
and the body…
had vanished without a trace.
For an entire month, Youness barely spoke, barely ate, barely slept. His small body had grown frighteningly thin. He no longer played outside.
He no longer laughed.
The only time he spoke…
was to Anwar’s mother.
And what he told her broke the entire household.
From the hallway came the muffled sound of his mother crying.
She was heavily pregnant, the stress of the past month threatening both her and the unborn child she carried.
His father’s exhausted voice murmured softly, trying to comfort her.
Doctors.
Psychiatrists.
Local raqis.
Nothing had worked.
Then the front door opened.
Heavy footsteps.
And lighter, precise steps beside them.
His aunt had finally arrived from a distant city after hearing the news.
And she had not come alone.
The bedroom door creaked open.
A small girl stepped inside.
Aya.
His cousin.
Six years old.
She wore a neat little hijab — unusual for a girl her age, since most girls only begin wearing it after puberty — yet on Aya it somehow looked completely natural.
Her eyes were wide.
Sharp.
Focused.
There was no childish sleepiness in them.
She looked at Youness not with pity…
but with quiet understanding.
Behind her stood an old man leaning on a wooden cane.
Cheikh Salah.
Many in the region whispered that he was a Wali — a saint — though he always laughed it off. He often reminded people that in his youth he had been reckless, lost in alcohol, gambling, and women before Allah guided him back.
What the villagers did not know…
was that Cheikh Salah was also a double-lined Zouhri.
The old man studied Youness carefully.
Then he glanced at Aya.
A slow smile cracked across his weathered face.
“You know,” Cheikh Salah said warmly, “you two would make a very good married couple one day.”
Aya’s face exploded red.
“Grandpa! We are cousins!”
“Yes, yes,” the Cheikh chuckled. “And cousins are allowed to marry. Sometimes it even preserves strong family traits.”
Aya frowned seriously.
“But they say Tagharabou Tasihou — that cousin marriage can cause weak children… even disabilities.”
The Cheikh raised an eyebrow.
“You speak like someone much older than six, binti.”
Aya puffed her cheeks.
“It’s true!”
“It can be true,” the Cheikh admitted calmly. “If it happens too frequently in the same family line. But many noble marriages in our history were between cousins. Sayyidina Ali married Fatima. The Prophet ? married Zainab, his cousin. Even in the family of Ibrahim, peace be upon him.”
Aya hesitated.
The Cheikh gently added, “Balance and wisdom, my daughter. That is what matters.”
Aya crossed her arms with a dramatic huff.
“We are still too young.”
The Cheikh laughed softly.
“You may be six, my child… but you argue like you are seventeen. Very well — I will stop.”
The brief humor faded.
Cheikh Salah turned back to Youness.
He sat slowly on the edge of the bed.
He did not recite Qur’an.
He did not perform ruqya.
He simply looked.
For a long, heavy moment, the two Zouhris stared at each other.
And Cheikh Salah saw everything.
The cave.
The terror.
The unbearable guilt.
The old man sighed deeply.
Then he turned to the parents.
“I am sorry,” he said gently. “I cannot help him immediately.”
Youness’s mother quietly sobbed.
“The trauma has severely shaken his mind,” the Cheikh continued. “But there is good news. He is not possessed. There is no jinn inside him. He does not need ruqya. It seems our Zouhri blood carries some resistance to direct possession.”
He looked back at the boy.
“His soul is not infected,” he said softly. “It is shattered.”
Then he faced the father.
“I have a request. Let the boy come live with me for a while. With time… I believe he can recover.”
Silence filled the room.
His mother immediately shook her head.
“No — he is too weak — I cannot let him out of my sight—”
“I agree with the Cheikh,” the father said gently.
She looked at him in shock.
He continued softly, “Look at him… he has lost so much weight. He does not sleep. He does not play. We are losing him.”
He lowered his voice.
“…Do you remember what happened to Khalid’s son when they waited too long?”
Her face went pale.
She stopped arguing.
As the parents whispered, Cheikh Salah looked back down.
Youness’s small hands were still gripping his stomach.
“What do you say, Youness?” the Cheikh asked gently. “Will you come stay with me, my child?”
The cave flashed again in Youness’s mind.
The fear.
The weakness.
The running.
He didn’t want to be that boy anymore.
Slowly… slowly… his fingers loosened.
His dry throat worked.
His first words in thirty days came out as a whisper.
“I want…”
His voice cracked.
“I want to become stronger.”
For a long moment, Cheikh Salah said nothing.
Then the old man smiled.
Not with pity.
With ancient approval.
“Then prepare yourself, my son,” the old man said softly as he stood.
“Tonight… you begin walking a different path.”
