Nomasir had imagined exile would be loud.

He had imagined shouting, or a crowd, or his father’s voice raised at last in anger. Instead, Arkad spoke softly, as if discussing the weather, as if sending his son away were no heavier than sending a servant to market.

“You will take this bag of gold,” Arkad said, placing it in Nomasir’s hands. “You will take this tablet of wisdom. In ten years, you will return. If you have multiplied the gold and learned its meaning, you will be my heir. If not, you will have learned what you are worth.”

No blessing.
No warning.
No embrace.

Nomasir felt the weight of the bag immediately. It was heavier than he expected. Not with gold — but with expectation.

He left Babylon angry.

He told himself the test was cruel, that his father was withholding what was already owed. He told himself that cleverness alone would be enough, that fortune favored boldness, that restraint was a virtue for old men who feared loss more than they loved life.

The first city welcomed him.

There were men who spoke quickly and smiled too easily, men who praised his confidence and proposed ventures that promised wealth in weeks rather than years. Nomasir listened just enough to believe he was choosing wisely, not enough to hear what was missing.

The gold disappeared beautifully.

It went into caravans that never returned, into ships that sank quietly, into partnerships that dissolved without shame. Each loss felt temporary — a setback before the inevitable correction of fate.

By the time he reached the next city, the bag was lighter. By the third, it was nearly empty.

Hunger does something strange to pride. It sharpens it at first, then hollows it out.

Nomasir sold his clothes. He sold his horse. He told himself this was still part of the test, that suffering was merely seasoning for the triumph to come. But when the gold was gone entirely, there was no triumph waiting.

Only work.

He carried stones. He slept badly. He watched men with fewer advantages live better lives because they feared loss enough to respect what they earned. He remembered the tablet, still wrapped and unread, and hated it for its patience.

One night, with nothing left to trade but humility, he broke it open.

The words were simple. Almost insulting.

Save before you spend.
Make gold work for you.
Seek counsel from those who protect wealth, not those who promise miracles.

Nomasir laughed — a thin, cracked sound. This was what he had been judged by? This child’s wisdom?

But the hunger did not argue.

He began again.

He saved small amounts. Painfully small. He refused ventures he did not understand. He asked questions that made faster men uncomfortable. He watched where money went, not where it was promised to go.

Years passed.

The gold returned slowly — not in floods, but in accumulation. What changed was not his fortune, but his posture. He no longer reached for wealth as if it might flee. He built space for it to remain.

When he returned to Babylon, he did not announce himself.

He stood before Arkad thinner, quieter, carrying two bags: one heavy with gold, the other heavier with restraint.

Arkad listened as Nomasir spoke. Of loss. Of arrogance. Of rebuilding. He did not interrupt.

When his son finished, Arkad nodded once.

“You have learned,” he said, “that wealth without discipline is already lost.”

Nomasir waited for praise.

It did not come.

Instead, Arkad gestured to the city beyond them — bustling, indifferent, alive. “Now,” he said, “you are free to keep what you have earned.”

For the first time, Nomasir understood:
The inheritance had never been gold.

It had been the ability to keep it.