The Souk
Fresh from their nights under the endless desert sky with the Scarabo tribe, the team had returned to Marrakech—trading the silent vastness of the dunes for the chaotic heartbeat of the ancient city. Their mission had taken a new turn. The Black Tide was hunting something.
Word in the souks was that Wolf’s operatives were shaking down antique dealers, searching for an artifact lost to history—the Zah’nadr, a legendary Berber dagger. Said to have been forged in fire and cooled in the blood of warriors, legend claimed that if the blade so much as broke a man’s skin, the wound would never stop bleeding. A weapon of both myth and terror—exactly the kind of thing Wolf’s men would kill for.
Judd, Cindy, Ava, and Mary had checked into a traditional 200year old riad in the heart of the old Medina - Riad Bindoo. The courtyard was a mosaic of deep blues and reds, lined with intricate zellige tilework, while carved cedarwood beams and silk curtains adorned their rooms. Cindy made a mental note—one day, she’d furnish an entire room back home with Moroccan pieces.
For her, this was the third time in Marrakech. For the others, their first. And the city was an assault on the senses.
Over breakfast on the riad’s rooftop terrace, they sipped strong Moroccan coffee under the stretched shade cloth. The air was heavy with the scent of orange blossoms and freshly baked m’smen, the flaky flatbreads served with honey. Below them, the city hummed with life—the distant echo of the call to prayer mixing with the sounds of merchants setting up shop, motorbikes zipping through impossibly narrow alleyways, and the constant chatter of bargaining in a dozen different languages.
By mid-morning, they left the riad and stepped into the madness of Marrakech’s streets—a river of movement where scooters weaved between donkeys, hawkers pushed carts of mint and spices, and stray cats lounged in the sun as if they owned the place. Mary and Ava stopped at every single animal. If their hearts had their way, the team would be leaving with two adopted dogs, a three-legged cat, and a goat.
Led by their guide, Youssef, a wiry man in his fifties who moved through the souks like flowing mercury, they pressed deeper into the maze of alleyways. Though they didn’t need him for navigation, Youssef provided something far more valuable—cover. Wealthy antique collectors were a familiar sight in Marrakech, but flashing too much interest in the wrong places could draw attention from pickpockets… or worse. Judd’s concern wasn’t the merchants—it was The Black Tide.
They moved past stalls piled high with handwoven carpets, brass lamps, and bowls filled with saffron and cumin. Mary haggled with a young carpet dealer over a red woven rug, while Cindy stopped to capture the vibrant pyramid-shaped sacks of spices through her trusty Leica
Then Ava noticed something.
The men in the shadows.
They didn’t look at her directly. They barely moved. But she saw it.
Each of them bore a small, triangular scar on their cheek.
Youssef noticed too. He murmured something to an elderly man in a flowing black djellaba, his hood pulled over a lined, sun-weathered face. The man studied the group carefully before slipping Youssef a folded card. No words were exchanged—just a nod, and a direction.
The trail led them to a tiny wooden door, hidden within a crumbling alley. Youssef knocked once. Twice. Pause. A third time.
The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit shop packed with artifacts. At the back, an old man and his even older wife sat side by side, their eyes reflecting a lifetime of stories. There was a twinkle there. And something else—caution.
The old woman took her time serving them coffee, while her husband slowly laid out trinkets, daggers, and Berber jewelry onto the table. Beautiful, but not what they had come for.
Judd leaned in. “We’re looking for your rarest items,” he said. "Ones that tell a story. Ones that have been hidden for years.”
The old woman stiffened. Her eyes flickered to her husband. Their exchange was quiet—tense. She whispered something, but the old man shook his head, his face hardening.
Youssef sighed, turning back to them. "They say they have nothing for you."
It was a dead end. Or so it seemed.
Ava had been quiet the entire time. Watching. Listening.
She stepped forward and reached for the small lump of charcoal resting in the old fireplace. Without hesitation, she pressed it against her skin, drawing a small triangular mark on her cheek.
The old woman gasped.
Ava took another step forward and, with the softest breath, spoke in fluent, Tamazight—the tongue of the Berber tribes, except the words the came from her mouth, were an ancient dialect, long forgotten.
The old man stumbled back into his chair, his eyes wide with disbelief. He turned to his wife, his hands trembling.
His voice cracked. "She speaks the silent tongue."
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears as she cupped Ava’s face with a trembling hand.
“You… you shouldn’t know those words,” she whispered.
Ava tilted her head, confused. “But I do.”
The old couple exchanged a look of pure understanding.
Without another word, the old woman turned. She shuffled toward a dusty wooden cabinet in the back of the store. Her fingers trembled as she pulled open the door.
And there, nestled within the shadows, was the Zah’nadr.
The blade was unlike anything Ava had ever seen—jet black, with veins of silver twisting through the metal like frozen lightning.
The old woman ran a gentle hand over the blade, as if saying goodbye, before pressing it into Ava’s hands.
“This was never meant for them,” she murmured, referring to The Black Tide.
Her fingers curled over Ava’s. "It was meant for you."
