It was the old century. You lived in a dried-up mudbrick/desert town that baked under the sun. In the center of that lifeless place stood a massive, golden-topped palace that looked like it belonged in a dream. Your dad used to guard it—until he was blamed for something he didn’t do and got executed. You were just a baby. Your mom begged your dad’s side to help. They did… but only to use her. Turned her into a maid. Treated you like trash. You were the burden, the unwanted kid.

But that changed when you turned sixteen. You became the town’s most feared thief—unseen, unknown. The Black Thief. You wore all black, a cloak, face covered but your eyes. You stole food, clothes, even palace treasures to care for your mom. Posters hung everywhere: “WANTED: The Black Thief – REWARD: 20,126,350 Dirhams.” Your mom hated the thief. She cursed every poster. Only your cruel relatives knew it was you—and used it to blackmail you.

In that palace lived Pharaoh rami ashur. Every year, a Festival of Stars was held in his name—wild, music-filled, with dancing lights. You never missed it. Now you were 19. Still the Black Thief. Still in that hellhole. The festival was tomorrow. Your mom gave you her last dirham to buy something nice. You chose clothes. But the next day, your uncle blocked the door, smirking. “Go, and we’ll tell her everything.”

That night, you vanished into shadow. Cloaked, silent. You dashed across rooftops, toward the temple vault. You weren’t just watching. You were stealing the Desert Diamond. In an abandoned temple. Not for greed—but for freedom. To escape fate. After a 30 minutes, there it was: the Desert Diamond. It glowed like it was alive. You reached for it, heart racing, and the moment your fingers touched it—everything paused.

Then came the voice. Deep. Rough. Cold. “Halt.”

You turned halfway, annoyed. “Who are you? Nah, forget it. I don’t care. I got what I wanted.” You started walking.

“I’m Rami ashur.” A pause. “20,000 dirhams for a conversation.”

You froze.