Malik sighed, casting a glance over his shoulder.
Sure enough, Sinbad stood there, grinning like he'd just won something.
Malik rolled his eyes but didn't stop him as Sinbad grabbed one of the neatly bundled silks and double-checked the knots.
The kid always did this—followed him around, stuck to him like a shadow.
It was almost funny. Almost.
"You know, you don't have to be my personal assistant."
Sinbad hummed, shifting the bundle over his shoulder.
"Nah. Gotta make sure you don't mess things up."
Sinbad grinned, easily balancing the bundle in one arm.
"I can't let you suffer alone."
"It's silk, not boulders."
"Ah, but you know..."
Sinbad adjusted his load dramatically.
"A true little brother stands by his elder in all things."
Malik glanced at him, unimpressed.
"So where were you this morning when I was unloading the steeds?"
"Moral support is just as valuable as physical labor."
"So you were sleeping?"
A laugh rang out from behind them.
Malik groaned the second he recognized it.
"Oh look, it's Mother Hen."
Safira, now sitting before the campfire, smirked. Layla and Jasmine did so as well.
And from the way they were giggling, Sinbad's teasing was about to get worse.
"He's glued to your side, Malik. I'm starting to think you hatched him."
Layla snickered, tossing a date into her mouth.
"He won't leave the nest."
Jasmine added, nodding sagely.
"I bet if Malik tripped, big brother would dive under him like a cushion."
Huda giggled a second time as she stirred the stew.
Sinbad grumbled, done adjusting the bundle.
Safira's face turned dramatically serious.
"Do you squawk when Teach's gone? Do you cry when he leaves?"
Sinbad lifted his free hand and, without hesitation, flipped them all off.
Malik barked out a laugh, shaking his head.
Safira clutched her chest dramatically.
"Truly, your words cut deep."
"I don't know who my brother is anymore~."
Layla and Huda added, mock solemn.
Sinbad ignored them, plopping the silks down next to the wagon.
"You're all just jealous 'cause I'm his favorite."
That earned him a chorus of groans, and even Jasmine, usually the quiet one, rolled her eyes.
"Okay, that's enough."
Malik said, shaking his head.
"Let's sit down before we get roped into more work."
Ali Baba sipped his tea.
"You heard the man, enough of your squawking. Get over here before the stew gets cold."
Malik and Sinbad dropped the rest of the silks in the right place before making their way to the fire.
The desert night had settled in, bringing the kind of cold that bit through clothes if one wasn't sitting close enough to the flames.
And so, the group huddled close around the fire, hands stretching out to the warmth.
Huda ladled out stew, handing bowls to each of them.
"The silks are packed?"
Ali Baba asked lazily.
"...We'll be good to go by first light."
Jasmine tilted her head and asked:
"The village we're heading to—what's it like?"
Ali Baba replied, rubbing his chin.
"But good people. They'll trade fair."
"And they've got a damn good spice market."
Layla added, winking.
"You're gonna love it."
Layla leaned back, propping herself up with her hands.
"We expecting anything interesting?"
Ali Baba took a slow sip of the broth before responding.
"Depends on what you call interesting."
"Oh, that means yes."
"What is it? Bandits? A festival? Someone got a price on Teach's head again?"
Jasmine corrected, grinning.
"But who's counting?"
"Nothing so dramatic. Just an old friend of mine running a few stalls in the market. Good man, but he drives a hard bargain."
"That means Layla's up."
"Time to make those merchants cry."
Layla smirked, lifting her bowl.
"Don't worry, I'll make sure we leave with full pockets and empty theirs."
Ali Baba laughed, clinking his bowl against hers.
The fire crackled, the warmth and laughter filling the space between them.
Tomorrow, they'd be back on the road, dealing with negotiations, merchants, and whatever unexpected trouble came their way. But for now, they sat in the quiet of the desert, enjoying each other's company.
This place was loud as Hell. Smelled even louder—roasting meat, spiced honey, fresh bread, all mixing together like they were fighting for space in Malik's nose.
People were everywhere, shouting over each other, arguing, laughing, cursing. Merchants damn near singing their prices like they were calling troops to battle.
And the copper—always moving, always clinking, changing hands so fast one'd think it was burning holes in people's pockets.
Malik had been through markets before, more than he could count, but this?
This was chaos. The best kind.
Almost—almost—enough to rival Suq Al-Khamis back in Zawaya. Almost.
Safira hissed, elbowing him in the ribs as she pushed past.
"You're standing like some lost lamb. If you don't move with purpose, someone's going to rob you blind!"
"You're stealing my words here, but whatever..."
Malik scowled but picked up his pace.
He knew the market was more than just trade; it was war.
One had to walk fast, look sharp, and never, ever show hesitation.
Layla was already ahead, her hands gesturing wildly as she argued over the price of a bolt of deep red silk.
"I'm not paying ten silver for that!"
The merchant, an old man with a long beard and sharp eyes, shook his head.
"Then walk away, girl, but you won't find this quality anywhere else."
Layla scoffed, running her fingers over the fabric.
"You think I was born yesterday? This isn't Eastern silk, it's a blend. Five silver."
"Six, and I don't walk away—I run straight to your neighbor over there... I'm sure you don't want him bragging about this later."
The merchant hesitated, and Malik grinned. He knew that look. Layla had him.
The old man tried one last time.
Layla held up six fingers.
He exhaled through his nose and nodded.
She smirked and tossed him the pouch before gesturing for one of their men to pull up with the cart.
"Load twenty of them on there; my people have an eye for quality, so don't try to cheat us, alright?"