Volume One
I came empty-handed, yet from the darkness I received the light of giving.
Even in the pain of not receiving, the silence of the night brings me peace.
Every morning begins with a new hope.
You, in silence, mend my broken life.
Even in my mistakes, some hidden good unfolds.
Though I lack much, You fill me with boundless mercy.
Even in darkness, I discover a new light of hope.
O Al-Rauf, like a river You give without end.
Today my heart overflows with quiet gratitude.
— Karam Shah
Leader of Roham's band in Wolengrad
Chapter One: Shadows of Midnight
For millions of years, countless wars have scarred this world. Yet in the slow turning of time, all things return again to a state of calm. The present Astralind continent is proof of that truth. At its heart lies the city of Joremir. In this age, no sorcerers remain, and the chaos of war has long vanished. People live here in peace, untouched by magic. Those old memories survive only on the brittle pages of history.
But tonight, at the forested edge of Joremir, something is about to stir—something that may shatter this fragile peace.
The sky stretched above like a forgotten book of God, the stars scattered across it like torn letters of an ancient story. Moonlight fell in silver streams through the gaps in the leaves, painting the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow. The forest itself felt like a long breath held, silent, waiting, yet heavy with menace. Every tree stood as a witness to untold secrets, their trunks shedding the dust of centuries.
Amid this hushed mystery sat a young soldier in uniform. His name was Mun. Nineteen years old, with sharp jawline, deep black eyes, and a tall, well-built frame that made his military dress seem all the more striking. But tonight, restlessness haunted his gaze. Beside him sat Corporal Rajib of the Bajuka Army. Rajib was only a year older, twenty, taller, broader-shouldered, and in his eyes flickered an intelligence that felt far too seasoned for his age.
The boy wondered—why was he here? In this dead of night, in this forest, among the calls of unseen creatures. Somewhere far off, an owl hooted, its cry echoing through the trees. Mun's heartbeat quickened. He did not know why he had been brought, but every nerve told him that tonight something would happen.
The cruelest kind of captivity is not knowing why you are bound. To ask for reasons? In the army, there are only orders. To feel unease? Yet be unable to voice it. Mun stood in that silence of unspoken fear. His heart begged to question Rajib, but discipline held those words back like chains on his throat. The corporal had dragged him here without explanation. For what? For whom?
In the stillness, it seemed the entire world had halted. Mun could hear nothing but his own breath—and the calm, controlled exhale of Rajib beside him. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, the green tang of trees, and something else—an unfamiliar, unsettling odor that whispered danger.
Through the moonlight, a six-storied house loomed in the distance. It stood like a haunted fortress in the heart of the jungle. Every window lay drowned in darkness, yet now and then it felt as if shadows shifted behind them. Vines curled thickly along its walls, as though nature itself conspired to hide it from the world. Rajib's eyes stayed fixed on the house—unyielding, intent. There was no fear in them, only the iron focus of a man long prepared for this moment.
Mun's thoughts spiraled. How was this possible? Rajib was his peer, only a year older, yet already a corporal. Promotion so swift? Yes, Rajib had always been the most skilled, the sharpest mind at the training camp. But could skill alone bring such rank? Or was there another secret hidden within him?
Mun let out a sigh—louder than he intended, breaking the silence like a crack in glass. And as if the forest itself sought to cut off his thoughts, a branch snapped loose in the wind and fell against his head.
"Ah!" he cried softly, clutching his forehead, his handsome face tightening with pain.
At the sound, Corporal Rajib slowly turned his head. For a heartbeat, his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. In the moonlight, they looked like two dark lakes—deep, still, and unfathomable....
Mun glanced at Rajib and gave a crooked smile—an uneasy grin where pain and embarrassment mingled. It was the kind of bitter, self-mocking smile that came only when something trivial interrupts a serious moment. Whether Rajib noticed the smile in the darkness was impossible to tell.
After a while, Rajib turned his gaze back to the house. But something in his posture had changed. His shoulders seemed a little looser, as if Mun's small accident had quietly released some of the tension within him. The fragrance of night flowers floated on the air, and somewhere far away, the soft murmur of a river drifted through the silence. The whole scene created an unreal atmosphere, where dream and reality blurred into one.
And so, in this mysterious night, the two young soldiers waited—for something one of them did not yet fully understand, but both knew was coming.
The house loomed behind high walls, as though built like a fortress from some forgotten age. Iron spikes lined the top of the walls, glinting in the moonlight like a thousand tiny blades, silently warning any intruder. Around them spread only dense jungle, as if nature itself conspired to hide the house from the eyes of the world. Behind the thick canopy lay secrets untold, mysteries older than a thousand years.
Strange… what was happening? It was as if a veil of dust settled upon a war-torn city, weighing down on Mun's very existence. His eyelids grew heavy, as if some unseen power had cast a spell of sleep over him. Sleep—unexpected, unwanted. For a soldier, to grow drowsy at such a moment was unthinkable. And yet his body betrayed him. Why? Then he remembered—last night he had only slept two hours, wasting the night away in laughter and chatter with his friends. Now, at the worst possible time, he was paying the price.
His head felt like lead. His handsome face showed clear signs of exhaustion—dark circles beneath his eyes, dry lips. And yet, even in weariness, his youthful beauty did not fade. In fact, the fatigue lent his features a strange, mysterious depth. Finally, unable to hold back, Mun asked, his voice trembling slightly, carrying both curiosity and fatigue in equal measure:
"Corporal Rajib, here we are, sitting among snakes and scorpions in the middle of the night. Are we waiting to meet some animal, perhaps?"
His words carried a hint of humor, but beneath it lay unease and irritation. His eyes searched Rajib's face, probing, as though trying to uncover the secrets buried deep inside him.
At that moment, Corporal Rajib raised his long, well-built arm and swatted a mosquito with swift precision. The motion was sharp, clean—like an archer loosing a perfect arrow. The insect died instantly. For a brief second, a faint satisfaction flickered across Rajib's eyes, as though even this small victory pleased him. Then, in his deep, steady voice—each word deliberate, balanced, and calm—he spoke:
"That house belongs to a powerful man. The leaders of the Roham band are coming here tonight to steal. We must catch them."
His words hung in the air like prophecy. There was no doubt in his tone—only conviction and iron resolve.
Mun froze in shock. His eyes widened as if he had just heard the impossible. For this? For a mere gang of thieves he had been dragged from his bed, forced to sit in a jungle in the middle of the night, sleepless and restless? The thought burned him. Anger surged inside, twisting his handsome face with rage. He felt like a volcano waking after centuries of slumber, ready to erupt with fire. His jaw tightened, his fists clenched until they trembled.
But suddenly—he stopped. One word from Rajib's lips had struck him like a bolt of lightning.
Roham.
Roham Ankuno.
The name thundered in his mind. One of the most feared bands in the continent—men whose very name froze blood in the veins of common folk. And Rajib? Before joining the army, he had once been a leader among them. The thought sent shockwaves through Mun's mind. They were coming here—to steal?
It was as though raw electricity surged through his body, racing through his veins with violent force. His heartbeat pounded faster, blood roaring in his arteries. In that instant, a fierce thought echoed inside him like thunder:
Nothing will stop my promotion now.
Mun swore he would capture Roham's leaders—and beat them senseless. Beat them until they would never again dare to steal under the cover of night. Not just steal—even stepping outside their own homes would fill them with fear.
A fiery determination blazed in his eyes, burning like twin coals. The drowsiness of moments before had vanished completely, replaced by raw energy and restless excitement. His body trembled, not with weakness now, but with the drumbeat of war pounding inside him. His muscles were taut, ready for battle.
Beside Rajib, he too fixed his gaze upon the house, his eyes sharp and fierce as a hawk's.
In the silence of night, two warriors waited. One—calm, seasoned, and mysterious. The other—young, fiery, desperate to prove himself. Between them, an unspoken bond had formed, a silent vow binding them to the same goal.
For Roham, tonight would bring sorrow.
The night was at its peak—an arrogant, suffocating darkness. It was as if some ancient demon had spread its black cloak over the earth. The stars were hidden behind thick clouds, the moon had lost its silver glow. Silence ruled, and darkness reigned. On such a night, it felt as though nature itself had joined the conspiracy.
Three shadows stood still, like three pillars of time—past, present, and future. They waited at the edge of a forbidden boundary, where dreams and reality touched but never blended. Each breath felt like a countdown, each heartbeat like an oath.
At the front of the mansion, Corporal Rajib and Mun waited for the thieves. Both armed, both alert. Their eyes carried the weight of their duty as sentries. But they didn't know that danger was approaching from another direction. They stood at the main gate, under the glow of a faint circle of light.
Far behind the house, in the deepest stretch of darkness where shadow and reality merged, stood three leaders. They looked like ancient spirits, as if they had waited for centuries for this very moment. Their plan was to dig a tunnel under the wall and slip inside. It was a plan that demanded patience, strategy, and bold courage.
Two of Roham's leaders were young men, hearts burning with fire.
Salih Han—barely nineteen—looked like a statue carved from marble. His bronze-brown skin glowed like sunlit metal. His square jaw and sharp chin carried the mark of determination, proof that he was no ordinary man. His black, slightly messy hair curled at the top, like poetry dancing with the night breeze.
And Usuf—steady, clever, disciplined. His pale skin shone like soft moonlight. His dark brown hair was carefully combed back, his eyes alive with determination. The two had grown up together, dreamed together, and tonight, they risked everything together in this dangerous mission.
They were ready to dig the tunnel, carrying the tools they needed. Their other leader, Hamad—tall, striking, with eyes sharp as a hawk—stood a short distance away, watching carefully. He was like an ancient guardian, alert to every sound, every movement, ensuring nothing would go wrong.
Their hearts thumped like war drums. Blood rushed like a wild river through their veins. Each breath felt like a prayer, each step like a vow. Every movement was cautious, as if they were walking on an invisible bridge between life and death.
Usuf gripped two shovels—one heavy and powerful, the other lighter but just as effective. His muscular arms showed the strength of endless hard work. He handed the lighter shovel to Salih with a quiet gesture, a look of friendship in his eyes. Then he took the heavier one for himself and began digging, each strike a rhythm, a silent music of determination.
But doubt began to creep into Salih's mind. His pride whispered that Usuf was deceiving him. Why should he take the lighter shovel? Was Usuf trying to make himself look stronger? Salih's eyes narrowed, suspicion filling his thoughts.
He grew convinced. Fire lit up his gaze.
"This traitor took the lighter shovel for himself and left me the heavy one. Yes, that's what happened," he muttered to himself.
Breaking the night's silence, his voice rose:
"Usuf, give me that shovel."
Usuf froze. His hand stopped mid-movement, his eyes wide in disbelief. Shock flickered across his face. Still, without a word, he handed the shovel over.
Salih grabbed it like a victor. His lips curled into a smile of triumph. But the moment he felt its weight, the smile disappeared. His mouth fell open. The shovel was heavier—far heavier. Pain shot through his arms. Disaster. His pride crumbled in a second, leaving only disappointment and regret in his eyes.
Usuf smiled—not with cruelty, but with gentle affection. His voice carried a soft scolding tone:
"I gave you the lighter one, Salih. But you didn't want it. Now you must work with the heavy one. This, I won't give back."
In the pitch-black night, without the moon to witness, Usuf returned to digging swiftly. Each strike of his shovel was a vow, a silent promise that he would reach his goal. His eyes blazed with determination, his movements sharp and precise, every motion echoing his relentless will.
Meanwhile, Salih's condition had become pitiful. In the depth of night, when he should have been resting in peaceful sleep, he was instead digging through hard soil. His body was weary, drenched in sweat, his heart burning with regret. Again and again, thoughts of home returned to him—his bed, warm, soft, and inviting, now lying empty. It was waiting for him with the promise of undisturbed sleep.
But here he stood, facing the stubborn earth with a heavy shovel in his hands. His spirit sank under the cruel irony of life. With slow, hopeless movements, he pressed the shovel into the ground, every breath carrying a sigh of sorrow.
Usuf, watching Salih's sluggish pace, was nearly bursting with anger. He stood still, staring at his friend with eyes full of disappointment and impatience. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he snapped. His voice cut through the silence, sharp with authority.
Salih answered with a voice that was heavy with exhaustion and despair. After being scolded, he muttered,
"I'm tired before I've even started. How much harder do you expect me to dig?"
Though Usuf's temper flared, his friendship held him back from saying anything cruel. In his heart was an ocean of patience and forgiveness. Instead, he chose to teach Salih directly. With strong, precise movements, he showed how to strike the earth with full force and skill, each blow firm and effective.
"Now you try," he said, his tone carrying encouragement.
This time, Salih felt a surge of energy. He held on to the technique his friend had shown him and put his focus into the work. Strength flooded his muscles, as though some ancient, sleeping power had awakened inside him. His eyes burned with determination—he would prove that he was no less than anyone. With one great swing, he slammed the shovel into the ground with such force it seemed he might split the earth in two.
But then—a piercing metallic cry split the silence of the night. The shovel had struck a massive stone, buried deep for centuries, waiting for this very moment to reveal itself.
Cruel fate turned his effort into disaster.
Both men stared in shock at the unbelievable sight. The iron head of the shovel—the strong, solid steel they had depended on—snapped clean off. The fragments scattered onto the soil like the broken weapons of a battlefield. All that remained in Salih's hands was a useless wooden stick.
Usuf's lips curved into an astonishing smile. His handsome face lit with humor, and mischief sparkled in his eyes. The ridiculousness of the situation delighted him. He burst out laughing—a sound like the silver song of a waterfall, breaking the heavy silence and filling the night with melody. His laughter echoed around them, light and contagious.
With that same playful tone, but carrying a hidden warning, he said,
"Hamad will hang you upside down and make you pay for this."
Salih's whole body trembled. His face turned pale with fear. For a few moments, no sound came from his throat. At last, he gathered himself and, in a trembling voice, tried to defend his honor. His words shook with the weight of shock, but then he forced a proud, rebellious tone:
"You bring me old, broken tools, and I'm the one to pay for it? Let him come collect his money—then we'll see."
But fate was not finished with its tricks. At that exact moment—as if the lead actor appeared right at the climax of the play—another of Roham's leaders, Hamad, silently arrived behind them. His presence was felt even before it was seen, as though nature itself announced his arrival.
Hamad—a strikingly handsome young man whose very presence transformed the atmosphere. His skin carried a light bronze glow, like honey bathed in golden sunlight. His tall, well-built frame radiated a regal aura. His thick, dark hair was artfully tousled, as if painted by a master's brush. A few loose strands fell across his forehead, adding to his allure. His eyes gleamed with leadership, and his voice carried the weight of authority.
His deep, commanding tone pierced the silence of the night. His words carried power, edged with a hint of threat. He said,
"What was that you just said about me?"
Salih's heart froze, as though struck by lightning. He turned and saw Hamad's piercing gaze, his commanding presence towering over him. Terror surged through him—the same fear a small prey feels when cornered by a predator.
Quick-thinking and desperate to save himself, Salih spun a lie, shifting all blame onto Usuf. His voice quivered with cowardice and deceit as he said,
"Look! It was Usuf—he's the one who broke your shovel."
Usuf's face flushed red with rage. Fire blazed in his eyes. In an instant, he slapped Salih hard across the head, releasing all his anger and frustration in that single blow. His voice thundered with fury:
"I broke it? You're the one who smashed it, and now you blame me?"
Salih's voice cracked into a sobbing whimper, like a child about to cry. Tears welled in his eyes. Yet instead of owning his mistake, he twisted the truth even further, stammering,
"You're the one who showed me how to strike the stone and break the shovel!"
Usuf's patience shattered. His powerful arm rose again to strike, rage burning through him like a wild beast ready to pounce.
But Salih's instinct for survival was sharp. With quick cunning, he dodged and slipped behind Hamad, hiding in his shadow like a frightened rabbit escaping a hunter. Shielded by Hamad's tall figure, he clung to safety, trembling yet relieved.
Taking advantage of Hamad's strong presence, Salih tried his dull diplomacy once again. His voice carried the tone of an actor, like his friend Mir—full of exaggerated drama. Turning to Hamad, he pleaded,
"First he broke your shovel, and now he's hitting me. Hamad, you must judge this fairly!"
Hamad understood the situation in a split second. His sharp, experienced eyes needed no explanation. He had no patience left for such childish arguments. Showing his natural leadership, he quickly found a solution. Hamad handed them two spare shovels—kept ready for emergencies. His voice was firm, carrying both authority and irritation:
"Stop the chatter and get to work. Do you plan to spend a whole year digging one tunnel?"
Then, like a silent guardian, Hamad walked back to his post to keep watch. His steps were so quiet it was as if he had vanished into the night like a shadow.
Salih grabbed the new shovel and reluctantly began digging. He muttered with disdain, as if challenging the whole world,
"It's only been ten minutes since I started."
Meanwhile, Usuf carefully carried the dug-up soil away, dumping it far enough to avoid suspicion or noise. Every move he made was sharp and practiced. When he returned, he warned Salih, his voice carrying both friendship and threat:
"Work properly. If you break this shovel too, Hamad will make you dig with your bare hands."
Salih's arrogance returned. He laughed, filled with overconfidence, and declared,
"How can anyone possibly break a shovel?"
But when he glanced at Usuf's work, he froze in surprise. Usuf was digging with all his might, every strike powered by the strength of his muscular arms. His movements were precise, his body steady—like a sculpted warrior carved in stone. Watching this raw power, fear crept into Salih's heart.
Under his breath, almost whispering to himself, Salih muttered with awe and dread:
"But this monster might actually break it… you never know."
Usuf suddenly stopped and glared at him with piercing eyes, glowing with warning fire. That look was enough—Salih felt the threat in his bones. Terrified, he bent down and resumed digging with all seriousness, his shovel trembling in his hands. Fear pushed him forward.
Above them, the moon looked down like a silent witness. Its pale light poured over their struggle, freezing each breathless moment in memory. Usuf's heavy breathing mixed with the steady crash of his shovel against the earth. From a distance, Hamad stood like a shadowy sentinel—present, silent, watchful.
Somewhere in the night, an unknown bird cried, deepening the darkness. The smell of raw soil filled the air, mixed with a strange metallic scent—like some ancient secret was buried below, waiting to be found.
Sweat dripped from Salih's forehead, but he didn't stop. Every strike of his shovel carried both reluctance and obligation. Usuf's eyes still burned with unshakable determination—the same fire found in great explorers and warriors of old.
Silence stretched. Under the moonlight, their shadows grew long and merged with the earth. The distant forest swayed gently, as though whispering hidden warnings through the wind.
Moon and Corporal Rajib had no idea that digging had already begun behind the house. The robbery was in motion. In the moonlight, the earth itself seemed to breathe quietly, holding its secrets close.
And in that darkness, three shadows carried out their secret mission. Every moment was a test. Every breath was a risk. But within their hearts, the fire of unyielding resolve burned bright.