Chapter Eight: The Third Guardian
Three days after the First Blood Ritual, Majid stood before his grandfather's old house,
now owned by Ibrahim Al-Zahrani. The morning sun cast long shadows across the
renovated facade, giving the modern structure an almost ominous appearance despite
its elegant design. Beside him, Rana and Layla waited patiently as he focused his newly
enhanced senses on the temporal signature he had detected during their nighttime
drive-by.
"It's stronger in daylight," Majid murmured, his amber eyes—now concealed behind
colored contact lenses to hide their changed appearance—narrowed in concentration.
"Whatever my grandfather left, it's responding to my presence."
"Can you pinpoint its location more precisely?" Layla asked, her voice low to avoid
attracting attention from passersby.
Majid closed his eyes, extending his perception beyond normal senses. The temporal
currents around the house were complex, layers of past and potential futures
intertwining like a tapestry. But beneath them all was a steady pulse, a beacon calling
specifically to him.
"There," he said, pointing to the eastern corner of the property. "Beneath that part of the
house. It feels like... a room. A sealed space that wasn't touched during the renovations."
"Now we just need to get inside," Rana said, glancing at the security gate that protected
the property. "Layla's plan should work, but remember—we're just interested visitors
inquiring about architecture. Nothing suspicious."
Their cover story was simple but plausible. Layla, posing as a professor of architectural
history, was researching the evolution of residential design in the Eastern Province. Rana
was her assistant, and Majid a student interested in the subject. They had called ahead,
and Ibrahim Al-Zahrani, flattered by the academic interest in his home, had agreed to
give them a tour.
The security guard checked their names against a list, then waved them through. As they
approached the main entrance, Majid felt the temporal signature growing stronger,
pulling at him with an almost physical force. He had to consciously resist the urge to veer
off toward the eastern corner of the house.
Ibrahim Al-Zahrani greeted them at the door—a tall, distinguished man in his fifties with
a neatly trimmed beard and the confident bearing of someone accustomed to success.
"Professor Idrissi," he said, shaking Layla's hand. "Welcome to my home. I must admit, I
was intrigued by your interest in the property."
"Thank you for accommodating us," Layla replied smoothly. "As I mentioned on the
phone, I'm documenting the transformation of traditional Eastern Province architecture
into modern forms. Your home is a perfect example of this evolution, preserving some
original elements while embracing contemporary design."
Al-Zahrani nodded, clearly pleased by the assessment. "The original structure was quite
old, built in the 1950s I believe. When I purchased it fifteen years ago, it required
significant renovation, but I was careful to maintain certain traditional features."
As he led them through the house, pointing out architectural details and explaining the
renovation process, Majid struggled to focus on the conversation. The pull of the
temporal signature was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, especially as they
moved closer to the eastern section of the house.
"And what was here before the renovation?" he asked when they entered a large,
modern kitchen that occupied the eastern corner—directly above where he sensed his
grandfather's safeguard.
"Ah, this was originally a much smaller kitchen and a storage room," Al-Zahrani
explained. "We expanded it significantly, removing a wall and raising the ceiling."
"Was there a basement or cellar in the original structure?" Majid asked, trying to keep his
tone casual despite the intense temporal resonance he could feel beneath his feet.
Al-Zahrani looked surprised by the question. "Yes, actually. There was a small cellar
beneath this part of the house. Quite unusual for homes in this region. I had it sealed
during the renovation—it was damp and impractical, and we had no need for the space."
"Sealed, but not filled in?" Layla asked, picking up on the important distinction.
"Correct. The structural engineer advised against filling it, something about potential
settling issues. So we simply sealed the entrance with concrete and built over it." Al-
Zahrani looked between them curiously. "Why the interest in the cellar?"
"Subterranean spaces are a fascinating aspect of architectural adaptation to climate,"
Layla improvised smoothly. "In a region as hot as the Eastern Province, any traditional
use of underground spaces represents an important cooling strategy."
Al-Zahrani seemed satisfied with this explanation and continued the tour, moving
toward the living areas at the front of the house. As they followed, Majid exchanged a
significant glance with Rana and Layla. The safeguard was indeed in the sealed cellar,
and now they knew exactly where it was located. The question was how to access it.
The rest of the tour passed in a blur for Majid, his mind racing with possibilities. They
would need to return, to find a way into that sealed cellar without alerting Al-Zahrani or
damaging the property enough to attract attention.
As they were preparing to leave, thanking their host for his time, a unexpected
complication arose. A young man entered the foyer, stopping short when he saw the
visitors. He was perhaps a few years older than Majid's current physical age, with sharp
features and intense dark eyes that immediately fixed on Layla with an expression of
recognition and alarm.
"Father," he said to Al-Zahrani, his voice tightly controlled, "I didn't realize you had
guests."
"Samir, yes, these are the architectural researchers I mentioned," Al-Zahrani replied,
seemingly oblivious to his son's tension. "Professor Idrissi, her assistant Ms. Al-Saeed,
and their student Mr. Al-Harthi."
Samir's gaze shifted from Layla to Rana, then finally to Majid, where it lingered with
unmistakable suspicion. "Al-Harthi," he repeated. "Any relation to the previous owners of
this house?"
The question caught Majid off guard. He had assumed Al-Zahrani knew the connection
when he agreed to the tour, but apparently not. Before he could formulate a response,
Layla intervened.
"Mr. Al-Harthi is a distant relation, yes," she said smoothly. "Which is partly why he's
interested in our research project. Family history intersecting with architectural history."
Samir's expression darkened further. "How fascinating," he said, his tone suggesting he
found it anything but. "Father, may I speak with you privately for a moment?"
As Al-Zahrani excused himself and stepped aside with his son, Rana leaned close to
Majid and whispered urgently, "We need to leave. Now."
"Why? What's wrong?" Majid asked, confused by her sudden alarm.
"That's Samir Al-Zahrani," she hissed. "The Third Guardian of the Door Keepers. He can
sense what you are."
Majid felt a chill run through him. The Door Keepers—the society Layla had warned him
about, dedicated to preventing temporal manipulations. And one of their high-ranking
members was the son of the man who now owned his grandfather's house. It couldn't be
coincidence.
Layla rejoined them, her expression carefully neutral but her eyes conveying urgency.
"Thank you again for the tour, Mr. Al-Zahrani," she called to their host, who was still
engaged in what appeared to be a tense conversation with his son. "We've taken enough
of your time. We'll see ourselves out."
Al-Zahrani broke away from his son long enough to bid them farewell, but Samir's eyes
never left them, tracking their movement with predatory focus as they exited the house.
Once they were in Layla's car and driving away from the property, the tension broke.
"That was too close," Rana said, her hands gripping the dashboard. "If I had known
Samir Al-Zahrani was connected to that house, I would never have suggested this
approach."
"You couldn't have known," Layla replied, her eyes checking the rearview mirror
frequently. "The Door Keepers keep their identities well-hidden from the general public.
And the connection to Majid's grandfather's house... that can't be coincidental."
"What does it mean?" Majid asked, still processing the revelation. "Why would a Door
Keeper's father own my grandfather's house?"
"I suspect your grandfather was on the Door Keepers' radar," Layla said grimly.
"Remember, he disappeared after attempting the Fourth Level ritual. They may have
been monitoring him, and after his disappearance, they would have wanted to secure
any temporal artifacts or knowledge he left behind."
"But Al-Zahrani doesn't seem to know about any of this," Majid pointed out. "He talked
about the cellar as if it was just an architectural quirk."
"The father may be unaware," Rana agreed. "But the son... Samir recognized Layla. He
knows she's a Balance Keeper. And I'm certain he sensed your temporal signature, Majid.
The First Level ritual made you visible to those with the ability to perceive such things."
"So what do we do now?" Majid asked. "The safeguard is still there, in that sealed cellar.
We need to access it."
"We'll need a new plan," Layla said, her expression thoughtful. "One that doesn't involve
approaching the house directly, at least not while Samir is likely to be present."
"Could we wait until he leaves? Monitor the house?" Majid suggested.
"Too risky," Rana replied. "Now that he's aware of our interest, he'll be on alert. And the
Door Keepers have resources—they could have the house under surveillance within
hours."
They drove in silence for a while, each considering the problem from different angles.
Finally, Layla spoke. "There might be another way to access the safeguard. Not
physically, but temporally."
"What do you mean?" Majid asked.
"As a First Level Traveler, you have the ability to perceive temporal currents, to see
echoes of the past in locations with significant personal connection. Your grandfather's
cellar, containing something he specifically left for you, would qualify. With the right
focus, you might be able to perceive the safeguard without physically accessing the
space."
"Is that possible?" Majid looked between Layla and Rana, hope mingling with
skepticism.
"Theoretically," Rana said cautiously. "But it would require intense concentration and a
strong temporal connection. And we'd need to be close to the location, though not
necessarily inside the house."
"The park," Majid said suddenly, remembering. "There's a small park behind the row of
houses, backing onto my grandfather's property. I used to play there as a child. We could
go there after dark, get close enough for me to attempt this... temporal perception."
Layla nodded slowly. "It could work. But Majid, you need to understand—this kind of
focused temporal perception is taxing. It will accelerate the burn rate of your First Level
anchoring. You might lose months of stability for a single attempt."
Majid considered this warning. The First Level ritual was supposed to anchor him for
approximately five years. Losing months of that stability was significant, but if his
grandfather's safeguard contained crucial information, it might be worth the cost.
"I understand the risk," he said finally. "But we need to know what my grandfather left
behind. Especially now that we know the Door Keepers are involved somehow."
That night, under the cover of darkness, they returned to the neighborhood. The small
park behind the row of houses was deserted, the play equipment casting strange
shadows in the moonlight. They positioned themselves at the point closest to the
eastern corner of Al-Zahrani's property, hidden from view by a cluster of ornamental
bushes.
"Remember what we practiced this afternoon," Rana said softly, placing a steadying
hand on Majid's shoulder. "Focus on the temporal signature you sensed earlier, but
instead of just perceiving its location, try to see into it, to connect with the moment your
grandfather created the safeguard."
Majid nodded, closing his eyes and focusing his concentration. The pendant at his throat
grew warm, responding to his intentional use of his new abilities. He reached out with
his enhanced senses, feeling for the pulse of the temporal signature beneath the house.
It was there, stronger than before, as if it had been activated by his earlier proximity.
Majid focused on it, trying to penetrate beyond its current state to the moment of its
creation. At first, there was resistance, a barrier between present and past that his
consciousness couldn't breach.
Then he remembered Layla's instructions about using personal connection to
strengthen temporal perception. This was his grandfather's safeguard, created
specifically for him. Blood calling to blood across time.
Majid focused on his memories of Abdul Karim Al-Harthi—the stern but kind old man
who had told him stories of ancient civilizations, who had taught him to observe the
stars, who had sometimes looked at him with an intensity that had frightened his
childhood self but now made perfect sense. His grandfather had recognized something
in him, had perhaps foreseen his temporal sensitivity.
The barrier thinned, became permeable. Majid pushed his consciousness through, and
suddenly he was no longer in the park but in a dimly lit cellar. The walls were lined with
bookshelves filled with ancient tomes, tables covered with strange instruments and
maps marked with symbols he didn't recognize. And there, in the center of the room,
was his grandfather—younger than Majid remembered him, but unmistakable.
Abdul Karim was performing some kind of ritual, drawing symbols on the stone floor
with what appeared to be his own blood. He worked methodically, his movements
precise despite the obvious pain he was experiencing. As he completed the complex
pattern, he placed an object in its center—a small wooden box carved with the now-
familiar spiral symbol.
"For my grandson," Abdul Karim said, his voice echoing strangely in the temporal
perception. "For Majid, when he awakens to his heritage. Blood calls to blood across
time. Only he can open this, only he can use what it contains."
The vision began to blur, the connection weakening as Majid's strength waned. But
before it faded completely, he saw his grandfather look up, as if sensing his presence
across time.
"Majid," Abdul Karim said, his eyes seeming to look directly at him. "If you're seeing this,
you've begun the journey. The box contains what you'll need for the Second Level. But
beware—the Door Keepers watch. They took me before I could complete the Fifth Level.
Don't make my mistakes. Trust only the Balance Keepers, and even them not completely.
The Observer is the key to everything."
The vision collapsed, and Majid found himself back in the park, gasping for breath, his
body drenched in cold sweat. Rana supported him as he swayed, nearly falling.
"What did you see?" Layla asked urgently.
Majid described the vision—the cellar, the ritual, the wooden box, and his grandfather's
warning. "He mentioned someone or something called 'the Observer,'" he concluded.
"He said it was the key to everything."
Layla and Rana exchanged a significant glance. "The Observer is a figure in temporal
mythology," Layla explained. "Some believe it's an entity that exists outside normal
time, observing all timelines simultaneously. Others think it's a metaphor for a state of
consciousness that Travelers can achieve at the highest levels."
"My grandfather seemed to be referring to it as an actual entity," Majid said. "And he
warned me about the Door Keepers. He said they 'took him' before he could complete
the Fifth Level."
"That confirms our suspicions," Rana said grimly. "The Door Keepers intercepted your
grandfather during his attempts to advance as a Traveler. And now his son owns the
house where your grandfather left his safeguard."
"Not his son," Layla corrected. "Ibrahim Al-Zahrani is not a Door Keeper, from what we
could tell. He may have purchased the house at their direction, unknowingly serving
their purposes, but Samir is the actual member of the society."
"We need to get that box," Majid said, his determination hardening. "My grandfather left
it specifically for me, and it contains something I'll need for the Second Level ritual."
"But how?" Rana asked. "The cellar is sealed with concrete, and now that Samir knows
about our interest, the house will be watched."
Majid thought for a moment, then smiled coldly. "We don't need to break into the cellar.
The box will come to us."
"What do you mean?" Layla asked, her expression cautious.
"My grandfather said 'blood calls to blood across time.' The safeguard is designed to
respond to me specifically. In the vision, he used his blood to create the ritual pattern
that contains the box." Majid held up his hand, examining it in the moonlight. "What if
my blood can call the box through the barriers? A reverse summoning of sorts."
Layla considered this, her expression thoughtful. "It's possible. Blood rituals are among
the most powerful in temporal manipulation. If your grandfather designed the safeguard
to respond to your blood specifically, it might work."
"We'd need to create a ritual space," Rana added, warming to the idea. "Something that
mirrors what your grandfather created in the cellar. And we'd need to be close enough
for the connection to establish, but not so close that we're detected."
"The park is perfect," Majid said, looking around at the deserted space. "We can return
tomorrow night with the necessary materials. If it works, we retrieve the box without
ever entering the house. If it fails, we've lost nothing except a little blood."
"And potentially alerted the Door Keepers to our specific interest in the safeguard," Layla
cautioned. "But I agree, it's our best option given the circumstances."
As they left the park, Majid felt a strange mixture of emotions—excitement at the
connection he had established with his grandfather across time, determination to
retrieve the box and continue his journey as a Traveler, and a new wariness about the
Door Keepers and their apparent interest in his family line.
The game had become more complex, with new players and higher stakes. But Majid's
core motivation remained unchanged—to reshape his destiny, to avoid the failure and
betrayal that had led him to that balcony in Riyadh. And now, it seemed, to complete the
journey his grandfather had begun but been prevented from finishing.
Whatever the Observer was, whatever secrets the wooden box contained, Majid was
determined to use them to further his plans. The revenge he sought against Zuhair and
the others who had betrayed him was now intertwined with a legacy that stretched back
to his grandfather's time—a legacy of temporal power and hidden knowledge that was
his birthright to claim.
As they drove away from the neighborhood, Majid glanced back at his grandfather's old
house, now owned by the father of a Door Keeper. Somewhere beneath that modern
facade, in a sealed cellar untouched by renovations, lay a wooden box that had waited
decades for him to claim it.
Tomorrow night, blood would call to blood across time, and the next phase of his
journey would begin