In another corner of Zarifal, far from the quiet shared by Jora and Saliri, a shriek pierced the darkness.

A few corners from the quays, in a tucked-away alley near the black market, a merchant pulled her cart. Its wheels clattered over cobblestones, the air thick with the smell of dust and salt. She had to get through this alley before reaching the wider paths of the quays. She liked these early hours of dawn. The streets were empty, the ladies of the night and their clientele left the streets, the peddlers had yet to stir.

Yet that morning, something felt wrong. She could feel the charge in the morning dew filled with a metallic tang sharp enough to raise the hair on her arms. Yet she packed her wares, and pulled her cart across the alley. She kept her eyes down, watching the cobblestones roll beneath her feet – until the shape ahead broke her rhythm.

A heap.

A man.

She slowed; breath caught between heartbeats. The closer she came, the clearer it became: fine clothes, a noble’s crest, and a glint of steel. An ornate dagger buried deep in his chest. Blood pooled dark around the stones, reflecting the dim glow of lantern light.

The cart slipped from her hands. Her scream tore through the alley, scattering the dawn silence like glass.

A small crowd gathered before the Zarifali guard arrived. Other peddlers stood around the corpse, wide-eyed, bewildered. Some were trying to comfort the weeping woman who stumbled upon the man, clearly still shocked by the unusual sight of a nobleman stabbed in front of a whorehouse, right behind the – illegal – slave market.

The first light hit the alley in a low angle, the shadow of the houses still long. In the shadows, quiet behind the corner, Marji stood, dark eyes observing the scene. He leaned against the cool stone wall of the house, just peering over the corner, letting the shadow conceal him. His eyes narrowed. That blade was out of place – as much as the nobleman himself in the city’s underbelly. Both far too shiny and foreign in this dusty alley.

Breeze carried the low thud of boots. From the far end of the alley, a group arrived, clad in the uniform of the Zarifali guard. Shiny bronze plates reinforced the hardened leather vest under the cloak pinned at their shoulders. Blades hung at their hips, bronze plated boots clicked against the cobblestone.

The man leading the group of five stepped forward, leaning over the corpse. He wore his black shoulder-length hair in a half-updo. Marji recognized him right away. Azahir – his old friend. Marji’s brows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. He never thought Azahir would be in the guard one day. He didn’t remember when he became a captain. As kids, he was the rebellious one. The troublemaker. And now look at him, he thought. Wearing the Zarifali guard’s uniform as if it belonged to him.

Azahir’s face did not show any emotion, even when he recognized the dead man. He turned to one of his men.

“This is Zyandir Amma. Notify his wife.”

Marji’s face changed the moment he uttered the name. He turned on his heel and left: he knew exactly where to go.