The Weight Of Secrets

The manuscript burned against Sayid's chest like an ember that refused to cool.

For weeks, he had carried it across deserts, hidden it in the folds of his robes, and clutched it in the dead of night, afraid that if he let go, the truth within would slip away.

But now, in the dim candlelight of a rented chamber above a spice merchant's shop, he stared at the brittle parchment and wondered—was the truth worth the price it demanded?

Outside, Al-Qadira pulsed with life. The city never slept. Even at this hour, the streets hummed with distant voices, the clatter of hooves against stone, the occasional burst of laughter from the wine dens.

Inside, the air was still.

Mehri leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with sharp, unreadable eyes. "You haven't slept."

Sayid didn't look up. "Neither have you."

She didn't deny it.

Silence stretched between them. Then, after a moment, Mehri pushed away from the wall. "Are you sure about this?"

Sayid exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. He wasn't.

But he had no choice.

Ardashir had named his price: break into the Sultan's palace and retrieve a single page—one that had been torn from a greater manuscript, hidden away in the royal archives.

Sayid didn't know what was written on it.

Only that men had killed for far less.

Mehri was watching him. "You don't have to do this."

Sayid's fingers tightened around the manuscript. "If I don't, we'll never know who's after me."

"Or we'll die trying."

Sayid looked up at her, and for the first time since they had escaped the assassins in the alley, he saw something in her gaze that unsettled him.

Fear.

Not for herself.

For him.

He forced a smirk, though it felt hollow. "You almost sound like you care."

Mehri rolled her eyes. "Don't be stupid." But she didn't move away.

Sayid let out a slow breath.

The game had already begun.

And the next move was his.