The sun rose over Casablanca like a blade unsheathed. The city trembled under its sharp glare, its streets tense with the scent of oil, sea, and powder. Today was not like other days.
Today, the war came to the heart of the empire.
Strike at the Threshold
It began with a whistle.
Not of a bird or kettle, but of a signal launched from the rooftop of a school in Derb Sultan. A shrill, unnatural sound.
Within seconds, the city cracked.
Explosions shattered rail lines outside the Gare Voyageurs. Columns of smoke rose over the naval yard. French soldiers scrambled, but the chaos was already blooming across their maps. Coordinated sabotage ruptured the French grip on Casablanca like glass under pressure.
Yassin and Samira led the charge at the southern munitions depot. Dressed in stolen uniforms, they walked past the outer gates like ghosts in daylight. Once inside, they split—Yassin to the storage cells, Samira to the control room.
Alarms blared. Shots rang.
But by then, fire had taken hold.
The Salt March
Khalid's team marched along the coastline toward the customs headquarters, detonating explosives along the supply road. It was a slow burn—block by block, turning the familiar landscape into a smoldering resistance mural.
Children threw stones at trucks. Women poured boiling water from balconies. Old men who had never fired guns in their lives pulled triggers for the first time.
Casablanca had erupted—not just in fury, but in purpose.
A city that had slept too long now woke screaming.
Losses Measured in Heartbeats
But victory never comes without toll.
Idris fell near the train station, struck by a sniper before he could ignite the last charge.
Nour died shielding a child from falling debris.
Even Abbas, the one who always whispered prayers, was found clutching his radio, silent at last.
Their names echoed in Yassin's mind as he and Samira fled through smoke-choked streets, the watch in his pocket ticking with a hollow rhythm. Not of time, but of cost.
Collision of Fates
At the heart of the city, De Lassalle had barricaded himself in the Governor's Palace, guarded by colonial officers and Moroccan collaborators.
Yassin knew they had to end it here.
A final confrontation.
He entered the palace alone. Not because he was brave, but because he was already bound to this moment.
Inside, De Lassalle waited.
"You again," he said. "The ghost of Derb Sultan."
Yassin leveled his pistol. "This city will never be yours."
De Lassalle smiled—sadly, almost wistfully. "It never was."
They shot at the same time.
Only Yassin walked out.
Ashes and Salt
By nightfall, French forces began to withdraw from key sectors. Not defeated, but scattered. The city bled, but it breathed.
Samira found Yassin atop the lighthouse hill.
They watched smoke curl over the Atlantic. Ships departed like retreating ghosts.
"It's over," she whispered.
Yassin shook his head. "It's beginning."
She took his hand.
The watch in his pocket grew still—its glow fading.
For the first time, Yassin wasn't in two times.
He was finally here.
To be continued in Chapter 11: Letters in the Dust