Chapter 7: First Kill
The ship arrived just before dawn.
From the deck, the city shimmered like a mirage. Sirin-Hal, the sailors called it — The City of Smoke and Gold. A desert jewel where markets breathed, towers leaned, and danger dressed in silk.
Golden walls circled the port like arms hiding secrets. Domes of copper and marble pierced the sky, their green patina catching the sun. Calloused hands lifted sails, traders shouted from boats, and seagulls cackled over salt-stained piers.
Mikael stood at the rail, quiet. This city wasn't his destination. Just another stop on the long road to Takhbay.
But the wind whispered: Not everything here wants you gone. Some want you caught.
Below deck, he found a rusted knife and stared into a cracked mirror.
With steady hands, Mikael sliced away the shoulder-length hair that had clung to him since Azan's crew fell. Each lock that fell felt like memory being shed.
He dressed plainly — layers of tan cloth, a faded robe, a frayed scarf slung over one shoulder. A wandering merchant. No red coat. No sword flashing in the light.
He stepped onto the dock as no one important.
No one worth chasing.
But the knights of Sirin-Hal had already been warned.
In a quiet office near the city's barracks, a commander read the sealed letter from Gabin-Jaba.
"Mikael. Late teens. Scar on shoulder. Associated with known outlaws. May be armed. Suspected in the possession of cursed relics."
The commander nodded once. "Circulate his face among the rooftop scouts. Quietly. No alarm. We catch him before he knows he's prey."
Mikael entered the city like a ghost.
He kept to the shade of awnings, the edges of market stalls, his eyes always moving. The bazaar of Sirin-Hal was no place for stillness.
Crowds pushed through narrow stone alleys, where towers loomed so high the sun barely reached the ground. Merchants shouted in five languages, selling spices, amulets, salted meat, and stolen gods. Silk banners fluttered above windows. Lanterns swayed. Somewhere, music played — and a thief's hand moved too fast for old eyes.
Mikael moved like someone with a destination. But he didn't even know the city's name until a boy begged him to buy roasted dates.
"Where am I?" Mikael asked.
"Sirin-Hal, master," the boy grinned. "The city that forgets what's behind you… and sells you what's ahead."
He paid the boy two copper and kept walking.
Mikael purchased supplies: dried fruit, a spare shirt, leather gloves, water skins. Things that would help him on the long road to Takhbay. A small compass caught his eye, and he tucked it into his pouch.
But then — something cold brushed his spine.
He looked up.
A knight. White-cloaked. Watching from a rooftop.
Mikael turned away calmly, heart suddenly heavy.
He needed to move faster.
To avoid the crowd, Mikael ducked between two butcher stalls and crossed into a narrow alley lined with broken crates and hanging laundry.
He didn't expect to see the samurai there.
The man stood at the far end of the alley, half-shadowed, his muffler trailing in the wind like a blade waiting to be drawn. Their eyes met for a heartbeat.
No words.
Then the samurai turned and walked away.
Mikael, still caught in the moment, followed him.
He stepped into the alley.
And froze.
Two bodies lay sprawled on the ground.
Both men headless. Their blood pooled under them, still fresh.
Mikael staggered back instinctively.
A rustle above.
On a nearby rooftop, a knight had taken position — bow drawn, horn in hand. His eyes locked onto Mikael standing alone with the corpses.
"There! He's here!"
Mikael ran.
Boots pounded the stone behind him as he cut through side paths and stairwells. His cloak caught on a splintered post. He yanked it free and darted into a side door — ducking into the back of a spice stall.
Then —
A hand grabbed his arm.
He spun, ready to strike, but stopped when he saw the man's face — older, calm, sharp-eyed.
"Easy," the man said. "I saw it all. You didn't kill them."
Mikael hesitated.
The man stepped back and bolted the door behind him.
"They'll be back," he added. "Those knights don't forget faces."
Mikael kept a wary eye. "So why help me?"
The man looked at him without flinching.
"Because it's right."
He moved to a hidden hatch behind a crate. "Stay here with me till night. It'll be safer then — the search will quiet down. Or maybe those bastards will blame someone else by then."
Mikael nodded slowly, a quiet breath of relief escaping him. "Thanks."
At that moment, the door creaked open.
A girl stepped in, no older than Mikael, carrying a satchel and wearing a determined expression.
She greeted Mikael with polite curiosity, then turned to the man.
"Father, everything's ready. As soon as night falls, we leave."
The man — now clearly her father — gave a small nod. "Good."
Mikael looked between them, curiosity piqued. "Where are you headed?"
The man glanced at him. "Maltoon. A quiet island, far from eyes like these."
He added, "You can come with us — pose as a guard. It'll be safer than running alone."
Mikael nodded again, the tension in his shoulders easing, just a little.
Outside, the city returned to its rhythm.
The alley had been washed clean. The bodies gone. But the memory remained — whispered under market tents and passed over tea.
And far above, on a sun-warmed rooftop, the samurai stood alone.
He looked down at the sealed alleyway where the boy had vanished.
Wind danced around him. His eyes narrowed.
Then — with a flick of his scarf — he vanished once more.
To be continued...