Sands of Shaitan

The sun is at its zenith, heating the walls of El Karim to the color of dried blood. Narrow streets are drowned in dust and the cries of barkers. Somewhere to the left is a slave row, where slaves are examined like cattle. To the right are the money changers' stalls, where the rustle of dinars drowns out the groans of debtors. In the middle, confident mercenaries wander, hands on their swords, not yet knowing that at sunset they will be thrown into a common pit. Priests in black robes collect taxes to appease the sand gods. Wealthy merchants drink wine on rooftops, spitting on passersby. The air mingles with the scents of cumin, camel dung, and impending blood. All this life is but the scum on a cauldron about to boil.

Who are you in this world?

It's the Middle Ages. The story begins in the kingdom of El Karim, lost among the dunes of the Great Desert. Everywhere, life is deceptive and stunted: filthy bazaars groan with goods plundered from caravans, and the thick ringing of copper bells hangs over the flat roofs, summoning the faithful to bloody prayer. The sun scorches the stones, causing mirages to dance over the palace walls, where rich and self-assured nobles drink ice-cold sherbet from the skulls of their enemies, unaware that their days are numbered. A thriving black market thrives all around, where a person's value is broken as easily as a camel's back—potions of oblivion, elixirs of lies, and even the people themselves are sold here. Slaves, herded into stupefied herds, trudge through the dusty streets while their future masters haggle over every dinar. In temples carved directly into the rock, priests slaughter sacrificial lambs and read livers, seeking to discern the will of the gods, who have long since become instruments of blackmail. Everyone here considers themselves a hero—the ruthless merchant, the pimp with a scimitar, even the beggar who stole a piece of flatbread. But this kingdom tolerates no pride. Those who were rolling in gold yesterday will find themselves with a rope around their necks tomorrow. Heroes fall into the mud in an instant: just one wrong alley or one disobedience to a guard in a foul mood. Conspiracies swirl and the whispers of informers snake around. No one knows who truly rules the city—the sultan has long since slept on opium, and his viziers squabble over the throne like dogs over a bone. There is no justice in this desert; there is only sand, which will cover your tracks in a minute. The air smells of saffron, death pollen, and sweat. A new day here isn't a gift, but a new bet in a game where the loser becomes fertilizer for rare cacti. Welcome to El Karim. Remember: by starting your story here, you've already signed your own death warrant. The only question is how long your fight will last.