When a voice is held captive for too long, it does not return as an echo, but as a destiny that explodes with its first breath.
Inside the vast chamber glowing with light reflected from its stone mirrors, Aram sat facing Ronen, while Solan stood beside them in silence, watching the maps spread across the table as if they were living beings breathing, their lines crossing and intertwining like fates no longer separate from one another.
Ronen spoke in a deep voice, steady as the mountain itself.
"Before you save your son…
you must free the jinn."
Aram lifted his head sharply, a spark of refusal flashing in his eyes, mixed with a deep, restrained unease.
"How?" he asked.
Ronen answered, pointing toward the depths of the mountain drawn on the map, where the passages branched like dark veins.
"The jinn in Saba are not free.
They are prisoners…
bound by words, by sigils, by ancient seals.
Their prisons are not made of iron or stone,
but of voices trapped in depths whose gates open to only one sound."
He paused, then spoke a single word, like a hammer striking stone.
"A horn."
Aram's eyes widened.
His hand moved instinctively toward his leather satchel, where the horn from the Mountain of Stars rested an object he had never fully understood, yet never doubted was carried without purpose.
Ronen noticed the movement. He looked at the satchel with the gaze of one who knows the secret before it is spoken, then continued with calm certainty.
"A horn unlike any other sound.
A sound created to break bindings… not doors."
Aram spoke firmly, regaining his balance.
"Even if I can use it…
I cannot do this with Solan alone.
What you ask requires men,
it requires my caravan,
it requires those waiting beyond Saba's walls."
Ronen studied him for a long moment the look of a man who understands the weight of what is being demanded then said simply,
"I know."
He fell silent, then added,
"But not today.
Tonight, you rest…
and tomorrow, we draw the path to the palace."
At first light of dawn, Ronen summoned them again to the same chamber.
But the maps were no longer the same.
Finer details had appeared hidden corridors, tunnels carved deep within the mountain, symbols visible only to those who know how to truly look.
Ronen pointed to the palace and said,
"It was built upon the mountain's shoulder.
Beneath it lie layers of passages.
Above it stand watchtowers that never sleep."
He explained the guards,
commanders who knew only fragments of the truth,
passages that opened only in the presence of specific individuals,
and doors that responded only to those whom Saba itself acknowledged.
Aram studied the map for a long time, then spoke in a low but resolute voice.
"I can reach it…
but not alone."
Before he could continue, a small bell rang beside Ronen.
A side door previously unseen opened.
They entered…
one by one.
Najjar.
Argos.
Solan recognized them before turning.
Marana.
Siham.
The two bondsmen.
The warriors gathered by deserts, oases, and blood.
Aram froze in place.
He stepped forward, his eyes filled with a kind of astonishment he had not known for a long time.
They were all there…
except one.
Tavar.
Aram lowered his head for a moment.
No explanation was needed.
He knew that this absence carried a price
a price that could never be reclaimed.
Ronen spoke quietly.
"I brought them through passages no one sees.
Saba is not as closed as people believe…
it simply chooses who it allows to pass."
They gathered around the table.
Each spoke in turn.
Argos explained the routes of approach.
Solan spoke of movement and surveillance.
Siham of distraction and stolen whispers.
The bondsmen of strength and breach.
The desert men of deception.
The rope-men of ascent.
As for Aram…
he listened.
Then he spoke, his voice ending all doubt.
"Our target is not the palace…
but what lies beneath it."
Preparations began.
Weapons inspected.
Sand mixtures tested.
Ropes adjusted.
Tools examined.
Within the mountain, there was a workshop
where each man trained for his role,
as if the entire journey, from the moment Aram rose from the ashes of his tribe,
had been nothing but preparation for this moment.
And in the corner of the chamber…
The horn waited.
Silent.
Heavy.
But this time…
it was no longer merely a tool.
It was a key
one that would free the jinn,
release a sound
that could not be broken,
and ignite a war
that had not yet begun…
but had become inevitable.