Part 9

Usuf walked back to Salih’s side.
Salih was smiling.

Usuf paused, looking at him. His eyes no longer carried exhaustion, but that strange fire—the same fire that had silenced the so-called kings of the streets moments ago.

He gave Salih a light slap on the head. Not out of anger, but in the teasing way only brothers do, where worry and affection are hidden under the gesture. Then he sat down on a chair.

Usuf’s voice came low, rough like a growl.
“Who told you to cry?”

Salih grinned. “Just felt like it.”

“They didn’t even touch you—so why start crying first?”

Salih scratched his head, thinking for a moment, then muttered softly,
“I was alone. They were staring so close… so fierce. What else could I do?”

Usuf let out a long, heavy breath. The heat of his anger seemed to melt away, little by little, from his eyes. He said,
“Look, there’s no shame in fear. But from now on—when someone stares at you, you stare right back. Don’t lower your eyes. We are leaders of Roham Ankuno.”

Silence hung for a heartbeat.

Then Usuf added, his voice grave—
“And next time you cry when I’m not around, I’ll tear your ears off.”

Salih forced a grin.
“Your threats are always strange. Once you told me if I cried, I’d have to buy you five eggs.”

Usuf chuckled, sinking into his chair.
“You were a kid then. Now you’re grown. It’s not five eggs anymore—it’s a month’s worth of meals.”

Salih’s chair rocked back with a creak, but he caught himself, exhaling softly and tilting his head to the side.
“I’ll take the money from Hammad and give it to you.”

Usuf burst into laughter.
“You crumble before anyone even says a word. That’s not right.”

Salih bit his lip.
“I try. But my body freezes up. My throat dries. The tears just come on their own.”

Usuf studied him, then spoke slowly, each word like an anchor—
“Let them come. But you stand tall. Keep your chest straight. Even if your eyes water, let your face carry courage. As long as I’m beside you, anyone who dares stand before you will know exactly who they’re facing.”

From across the room, a voice called out—
“Hey! Send two sherbets to their table!”

Usuf smiled faintly.
“Hear that, Salih? Even in Mahadi Dadu’s tavern, no one can deny our presence.”

Salih managed a more natural smile this time.
“This is our territory anyway. And besides—Hammad pays for the food!”

“Shut up, or you’ll get another punch.”

Laughter spilled across the table. Light, free, like the splash of a spring.

Inside the tavern, the air swirled with the scents of hot dishes and the drifting steam of half-broken soup bowls. The spices of coral fish seemed to swim in the air itself, mingling with the sound of bread breaking and the chatter of the crowd. Sweat glistened on Mahadi Dadu’s brow, shimmering in the torchlight.

Usuf’s fists were still warm, his breath still heavy with the storm of the fight. Salih’s faint smile lingered, carrying both relief and defiance.

And in the air—still hanging—remained the unspoken story: a tale of broken bones promised, of oaths left unfinished.

Outside, the night deepened. Stars flickered overhead, silent witnesses. Tonight’s clash would soon become whispers in the alleys of Joremir. And like the smell of food that clung to the streets, the memory of it would drift through the city for a long time to come.

The noise of the tavern slowly returned, as though after some strange duel the city was once more slipping back into its natural rhythm.