Footsteps In The Sand

The wind howled across the dunes, erasing the footprints of the fallen assassins as if the desert itself wished to bury their existence. Mehri wiped her blade clean against the dead man's tunic before rising to her feet. She cast one last glance at the retreating shadow of the assassin who had escaped, her expression unreadable.

Sayid swallowed, still feeling the ghost of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had never been one to hold a blade, never trained in combat like the warriors of his homeland. And yet, for the first time in his life, he had fought. It was a desperate act—throwing sand, nothing more—but it had bought them a moment.

He looked down at the corpse, at the inked sigil on the man's lips. The Order of the Black Flame.

He hadn't heard that name in years—not since his days in Baghdad, when the caliphate still stood. Whispers of the Order had passed through the city like smoke, spoken of in fearful murmurs by scholars and merchants alike. They were not mere assassins; they were the unseen hand that worked from the shadows, striking down those who threatened their master's ambitions.

And now, they had come for him.

"We need to keep moving," Mehri said, her voice sharp. "The longer we stay in one place, the easier it will be for them to track us again."

Sayid nodded, gripping the strap of his satchel tightly. "Do you know where we're going?"

Mehri shot him a look. "Do you?"

He hesitated. The truth was, he didn't. He had only one objective—keep the manuscript out of the hands of those who would abuse its knowledge. But that wasn't a destination. It was merely a goal, and goals didn't keep a man alive in the desert.

"We head east," Mehri decided, adjusting her cloak. "Toward the city of Al-Qadira. There are places to hide there."

"Al-Qadira?" Sayid's brows furrowed. "That city is under heavy Imperial watch."

"Which is exactly why they won't expect us to go there," Mehri countered. "The Black Flame operates in secrecy, not openly. If we disappear into the chaos of the city, they'll lose our trail."

Sayid considered her words. It was a dangerous plan—but so was wandering aimlessly through the desert with assassins on their heels. He let out a slow breath.

"Fine," he said. "Lead the way."

They moved quickly, their footprints disappearing behind them as the wind carried grains of sand across their path. The desert was a cruel place, but Sayid had learned its rhythm well enough. The shifting dunes could be both an enemy and an ally—one just had to know how to use them.

For hours, they walked in silence, the only sounds the whisper of the wind and the crunch of sand beneath their boots. Sayid kept his thoughts to himself, but questions swirled in his mind. Why now? Who had sent the Order after him? The Imperials? The Mongols? Or someone else—someone he hadn't yet considered?

"You've seen their mark before," Mehri said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Sayid glanced at her. "What?"

"The assassins." She nodded toward him. "When you saw the sigil, you recognized it. How?"

Sayid hesitated. The memories were buried deep, but they clawed their way to the surface now, demanding to be acknowledged.

"When I was young," he began slowly, "I studied in Baghdad. In those days, knowledge was power, and power attracted danger. I heard stories of scholars who vanished without a trace, of books that were stolen and never seen again."

Mehri listened, her expression unreadable.

"One night, there was a fire in the Grand Library," Sayid continued. "Many of us escaped, but others… others were not so lucky." His jaw clenched. "I saw them that night. The ones who set the flames. And I saw that same mark on their lips."

Mehri frowned. "You think they were responsible for the fall of Baghdad?"

Sayid exhaled slowly. "I don't know. But I do know they wanted something from that library. Something important enough to kill for." He glanced at his satchel. "And now they want this."

Mehri didn't reply right away. Instead, she looked ahead, scanning the horizon. The moon hung low now, and in the distance, Sayid could see the faintest glow of torchlight.

"Al-Qadira," Mehri murmured. "We're close."

Sayid's body ached from the journey, but he forced himself to stay alert. The city's towering sandstone walls rose before them, a stark contrast against the vast emptiness of the desert. Smoke curled from distant chimneys, and the murmur of life echoed even at this late hour.

"Once we're inside, we find a place to lay low," Mehri instructed. "I know someone who can help."

Sayid nodded but remained uneasy. Al-Qadira was a city of merchants, thieves, and spies. It would provide cover—but it would also be a place where the wrong whispers could reach the wrong ears.

As they approached the gates, Mehri pulled her hood lower, motioning for Sayid to do the same. The guards were alert but uninterested, barely glancing at them as they slipped into the crowded streets beyond.

The city was alive even at night. Lanterns flickered in shop windows, and the scent of roasted lamb and spiced wine filled the air. Sayid's stomach twisted—he hadn't realized how hungry he was. But there was no time for food, not yet.

"This way," Mehri muttered, leading him through a narrow alley. The walls closed in around them, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and dust.

Sayid followed, but every nerve in his body was on edge. Something felt wrong.

Then—a shadow moved.

Before Sayid could react, an arm shot out from the darkness, seizing Mehri by the wrist. She barely had time to reach for her dagger before a second figure emerged, pinning her against the wall.

Sayid spun around, his heart hammering. Another man stepped into the dim light, his face obscured by a cloth mask.

"You shouldn't have come here," the stranger said. His voice was low, roughened by years of command.

Mehri gritted her teeth. "Let me go."

The man's grip tightened. "You have something that belongs to us." His gaze flickered toward Sayid's satchel.

Sayid took a step back, his mind racing. They had barely entered the city, and already, the Order had found them.

Or perhaps…

Sayid's blood ran cold.

Perhaps they had been waiting.

Mehri met Sayid's gaze, her expression warning him to stay quiet.

But the man's next words sent a chill down Sayid's spine.

"The manuscript, scholar," the stranger said, his voice smooth as silk. "Hand it over, and we will spare your lives."

Sayid's fingers curled around the strap of his satchel. He knew one thing with certainty.

If he gave them the manuscript, they would kill him anyway.