His mother wept, but she did not stop him.

  When Youness’s frail, cracking voice finally broke a month of silence to say he wanted to become stronger, the last of her resistance faded. She had seen the truth in his hollow eyes. Keeping him locked in his bedroom was not protecting him. It was slowly burying him alive.

  With a heavy heart, his father packed a small bag of clothes, kissed his son’s forehead, and entrusted him to the Cheikh.

  The Cheikh lived far away, in another village beyond the dry hills and scattered olive trees. It took almost half a day by car to reach it. The world there felt quieter. Older.

  His home was a modest traditional riad at the edge of the village. Thick clay walls protected it from the desert heat and held a deep, comforting silence inside.

  That night, the house was calm. Aya and her mother had already gone to sleep in their room across the courtyard.

  The Cheikh led Youness to a small guest room. Inside was only a thin mattress on the floor, a woven rug, and a small wooden window slightly open to let in the cool night breeze.

  “I know what you feel,” the Cheikh said softly. His voice was raspy but steady, like wind over stone. He closed the door and sat down on the rug, gesturing for Youness to sit across from him.

  “I know how the memory keeps returning. I know the fear that freezes your body.”

  He paused and looked at the boy carefully.

  “I also faced something similar when I was young.”

  Youness looked up, surprised.

  “But before I teach you anything,” the Cheikh continued gently, “you must understand what we are.”

  He folded his hands.

  “There is something many scholars discuss, but few truly understand. Some say that poverty and suffering are only punishment. Maybe sometimes they are. But there is another truth.”

  His voice lowered.

  “When life becomes tight, when food is less, when rain is withheld, when people feel cornered... that pressure itself can be used as a weapon. The shayatin, the demon jinn, use it. They hold back rain. They cause crops to fail. They whisper between husband and wife until trust breaks. They stir conflict between villages and even nations. They push men into desperation. And desperate men are easy to corrupt.”

  Youness listened without moving.

  “But through centuries of darkness,” the Cheikh continued, “the shayatin discovered something that disturbed them. Some children were resistant. Harder to corrupt. Clearer in mind. Their spells became unstable around them.”

  He looked directly at Youness.

  “They called this bloodline the Zouhri.”

  Youness slowly looked at his palms.

  “The straight line...” he whispered.

  The Cheikh nodded. “Zouhri began as a classification, a tag for a rare kind of child with unusual resistance and spiritual traits. Later, sorcerers noticed repeated physical signs linked to that blood: unusual eye color, hair, marks of the tongue, and more. But the rarest sign is this straight line across the palm.”

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  “Yes,” he added. “To sorcerers, people like us are priceless. To demons, we are a flaw in their system.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “That is why they took you and Anwar into the cave,” the Cheikh said gently. “Not only out of cruelty. But out of fear.”

  He stood.

  “Now lie down. On your back.”

  Youness obeyed. His body was tense, waiting for prayer or verses.

  Instead, the Cheikh picked up a heavy, smooth river stone from the corner, the same kind used for tayammum. It was the size of a melon.

  “The mind thinks. The heart beats,” the Cheikh said slowly. “But the center of emotion is here.”

  He tapped Youness’s stomach.

  “When the trauma happened, the shock struck your core.”

  Without warning—

  The stone dropped onto Youness’s stomach.

  Air exploded out of his lungs.

  The weight crushed him. Panic burst inside his chest. His diaphragm was pinned. His heart raced wildly.

  For a moment, he was back in the cave.

  “You see?” the Cheikh said calmly. “Fear is like this stone. It breaks your breathing. It weakens your body.”

  He lifted it away.

  Youness inhaled sharply, shaking.

  “I understand,” he whispered. “But how do I become strong enough?”

  The Cheikh did not answer.

  Instead, he lifted the stone and hovered it above Youness’s stomach, as if he were about to place it again.

  Youness braced himself.

  But the stone did not come down.

  The Cheikh watched carefully.

  Youness’s stomach had tightened instinctively.

  And his breathing had stopped.

  “Right now,” the Cheikh said quietly, “what did you do?”

  “I... I don’t know.”

  “You tightened something.”

  Youness frowned. “Maybe... my stomach?”

  “Good. Try to do it again. On purpose.”

  The Cheikh slowly placed the stone on him again.

  This time, Youness contracted his abdominal muscles deliberately.

  The stone landed.

  It hurt.

  But it did not crush him.

  “How do you feel?” the Cheikh asked.

  “It hurts... but it’s not suffocating.”

  “And your breathing?”

  Youness realized.

  He was holding it.

  “Ah...”

  The Cheikh nodded.

  “And there is the problem. A shield is useless if the warrior suffocates behind it.”

  He removed the stone.

  “Be strong like armored steel at your core, but keep your breath flowing like a calm river.”

  They began again.

  Stone.

  Tension.

  Breathing.

  Slowly... slowly...

  Youness learned to separate his core from his lungs.

  Firm stomach.

  Soft breath.

  The Cheikh’s eyes showed quiet approval.

  “You learn fast,” he said. “Now... close your eyes.”

  Youness felt something new.

  Pride.

  He was holding the stone.

  And breathing comfortably.

  For the first time since the cave, he felt capable.

  “Good,” the Cheikh said. “Next phase.”

  The stone rested on him again.

  “Now... remember the cave.”

  Cold air.

  Darkness.

  Whispers.

  Anwar.

  Youness’s heart began to race.

  The stone trembled.

  “Hold the rock by tightening your core,” the Cheikh’s voice guided him. “Like you hold those memories. Do not let them crush you.”

  Youness fought.

  He fought the memory.

  He fought the weight.

  In... out...

  Slow breath.

  The panic rose—

  —but it did not drown him.

  The memory stayed.

  But it no longer controlled him.

  The Cheikh watched carefully.

  “I see you have stabilized,” he said softly. “Now relax inside. Let the thoughts pass like clouds. Do not chase them.”

  Time blurred.

  Minutes became an hour.

  The stone remained.

  His body remained firm.

  But inside—

  A deep calm appeared.

  Warmer than sleep.

  Safer than silence.

  His mind slowly drifted... and without realizing it, Youness fell asleep.

  Still holding the stone.

  Still breathing steadily.

  Morning light filled the room.

  When Youness opened his eyes, golden sunlight covered the floor.

  He felt light.

  Rested.

  Calm in a way he had not felt since before the cave.

  He relaxed his stomach.

  Oof!

  Pain shot through him.

  “Do not lose your tension,” the Cheikh’s voice came from the doorway.

  He entered holding a wooden breakfast tray.

  “The stone is only a teacher,” he said. “But the weight of the world is always there. If you forget your center, it presses down.”

  Youness quickly tightened again.

  Despite the sting, he smiled.

  “I feel better,” he said. “Calm. Focused.”

  The Cheikh placed the tray down and removed the stone.

  “I saw when you became relaxed while facing the memories,” he said. “So I left you. You fell asleep in balance. That is rare.”

  He looked at him carefully.

  “You are learning fast.”

  Youness hesitated.

  “Do you do it too?”

  The Cheikh did not answer.

  “Then... who taught you?” Youness asked.

  The Cheikh stayed silent.

  He simply set the food before him and said,

  “Eat. You have not eaten properly in a month. This training requires energy.”

  Youness’s stomach growled loudly.

  For the first time since the cave—

  he was truly hungry.

  Keeping his core steady,

  Youness took a slow breath—

  and began to eat.