Touggourt Treasure
"Louiza guards the Old Ksar of Touggourt. When archaeologist Nils arrives excavating forgotten palaces, she shows him ruins that archaeology can't reach. 'El qsar y'aref' (القصر يعرف) - The palace knows."
Touggourt's old ksar crumbled majestically—palace walls returning to sand.
"Site interdit," Louiza announced.
"I have permits."
"El permit ta' el ghir." Outsider's permit. "El qsar 'ando permits khrine."
She was substantial—guardian for three generations, body solid as the mud-brick she protected.
"The palace has permits?"
"El qsar y'aref." The palace knows. "Man ydkhol. Man la."
His permits meant nothing. Days passed outside the walls.
"Please."
"Alache?"
"I want to understand what was here."
"El understand machi excavate."
She told him stories instead—sultans and slaves, poetry and politics.
"Hna 'aych el malik."
"Which king?"
"Koulhoum." All of them. "El qsar y'aref koulhoum."
"How do you know these stories?"
"El qsar yehkilji."
"Palaces don't speak."
"Ma tesma'ch."
Night brought her to his camp, starlight on sand.
"El qsar qalli."
"Said what?"
"Belli tesma'."
That you can hear.
She led him inside—ruins nobody else entered.
"Hna," she said. "El mahal el khass."
The private place.
"Private for whom?"
"Lina tawa."
Moonlight revealed splendor—mosaics intact, carvings untouched, beauty preserved by sand.
"Ya latif."
"El qsar y'aref," she said. "Y'aref man yestahel."
She kissed him in sultan's chambers.
"Louiza..."
"El qsar wafeq." The palace agreed.
"Agreed to what?"
"Hada."
She undressed in palace ruins, curves ancient and modern both.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El qsar," she said. "Ana el qsar."
He worshipped her like restoring ruins—carefully, completely, piece by piece.
"Nils," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her throne room. "El 'arsh."
She ruled beneath his attention, pleasure sovereign.
"Dkhol," she commanded. "El dakhel."
The interior.
He entered her sacred space, and understood what palaces held.
"El qsar y'aref," she cried.
"Wach y'aref?"
"Hada. Dima hada."
Their rhythm was dynasty—building, flourishing, eternal.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into history. "El qsar y'aref."
They came together like empires cresting, pleasure monumental. Nils held her through the ages.
"El excavation?" she asked.
"Abandoned."
"Alache?"
"Some things shouldn't be dug up."
His papers described findings without excavating—walls heard, stories recorded, palaces respected.
"El methodology?" colleagues asked.
"Listening."
Now he returns yearly, learning what picks and shovels miss.
"El archaeologist w el gardienne," locals say.
"El qsar jab'na," Louiza smiles.
"El qsar ykhallina," Nils adds.
Some palaces guard themselves.