Sand Of Deception

The desert stretched before them, an endless ocean of shifting dunes. By night, the sands gleamed silver under the pale light of the moon, but Sayid knew that beauty in the desert was always deceptive. Beneath the surface, danger lurked—scorpions hidden beneath the sand, ruins buried beneath history, and men who hunted in the shadows.

They had left the caravanserai an hour ago, but Sayid still felt the weight of unseen eyes upon them. He cast a glance at Mehri, who walked beside him with practiced ease, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her gaze flicking toward the horizon.

"You're quiet," she murmured, breaking the silence. "That's rare for a scholar."

Sayid adjusted the strap of his satchel, feeling the reassuring weight of the manuscript pressed against his chest. "Thinking."

"About what?"

"About why you helped me," he admitted. "You had no reason to."

Mehri smirked, but there was something guarded in her expression. "Maybe I just enjoy making Imperial dogs chase their tails."

Sayid arched an eyebrow. "Or maybe you know more than you let on."

She didn't answer right away. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of distant fire and dust. Mehri pulled her scarf higher, covering the lower half of her face.

"You're not the only one running from something, Sayid ibn Rahman," she finally said. "And if you think that manuscript is the only secret worth killing for, you're more naive than I thought."

Sayid frowned. He had suspected that Mehri was more than just a wandering merchant. She moved too carefully, spoke too deliberately. She carried herself like someone accustomed to danger.

Before he could press further, Mehri suddenly halted, her hand moving instinctively to the dagger at her hip. Her eyes narrowed.

"We're being followed."

Sayid tensed. He turned his head slightly, scanning the dunes behind them. At first, he saw nothing but shifting sand and the deep, endless darkness beyond. But then—there. A flicker of movement, a shadow slipping between the ridges of the dunes, keeping its distance but never straying too far.

"How many?" Sayid asked, keeping his voice low.

"One, maybe two," Mehri muttered. "Too cautious for bandits. Too quiet for soldiers."

Sayid's grip tightened on his satchel. "Bounty hunters."

"Or something worse."

Then it came—a sharp whistle through the air. The unmistakable sound of an arrow slicing through the wind.

Mehri moved first. With a sharp shove, she pushed Sayid aside just as the arrow buried itself into the sand where he had stood. Before he could react, she was already sprinting toward the source, her dagger flashing in the moonlight.

Sayid stumbled to his feet, heart pounding. He wasn't a fighter—never had been—but he knew better than to stand still in an ambush. More figures emerged from the dunes, their faces hidden behind cloth masks. Their weapons gleamed—curved blades, light and fast.

Not Imperial soldiers. Not Mongols.

Assassins.

Mehri reached the nearest one first. The man swung his scimitar, but she ducked low, twisting beneath the arc of the blade before driving her dagger into his shoulder. He let out a strangled cry, but another was already moving behind her.

Sayid didn't think—he acted. He grabbed a handful of sand and hurled it toward the assassin's face, blinding him for a split second. It was enough. Mehri spun and slashed her dagger across his throat.

The remaining assassin hesitated, his gaze flickering between them. Then, without a word, he turned and vanished into the dunes.

Mehri didn't chase him. Instead, she crouched beside the fallen man, yanking down his cloth mask.

Sayid felt his stomach turn. The man's lips were marked with ink, symbols carved into his skin. A sigil he had seen before—long ago, in the burned halls of Baghdad.

"The Order of the Black Flame," Sayid whispered.

Mehri frowned. "You know them?"

"They're more than assassins," Sayid muttered. "They're hunters. And if they've found us, it means someone sent them."

Mehri wiped her dagger clean and stood. "Then we need to move. Fast."

Sayid nodded, his mind racing. Someone wanted the manuscript badly enough to send the Order after him.

And whoever it was… wouldn't stop until he was dead.