By the time the sun climbed higher, the alley was already a hive of murmurs. Azahir crouched beside the corpse, his shadow long against the cobblestones slick with blood. His men kept the crowds away, but could no longer stop the rumor from getting out.

Zyandir Amma had been known as a man of wealth and indulgence, yet of a very few vices. He moved in the upper circles, gave advice to the councillors and handed out charity like coin from an bottomless purse. On occasions, he was seen gambling, but was known to lose with dignity. His wife, Saliri, was a well-known beauty of Zarifal, young and influential, coming from a noble family herself.

He was dressed in fine Zarifali silk, embroidered with the crest of the house Amma: a white falcon clutching a ruby. The blood soaking through his clothes dulled the shimmer, leaving the cloth heavy and stiff.

Azahir didn’t touch the dagger at first. He only looked. The hilt was ornate, made of blackened metal veined with gold — too fine for common make. The guard was etched with a spiral sigil that glinted faintly, as if catching the breath of dawn.

His gloved fingers hovered over the hilt for a long moment. He finally grasped it and pulled. The metal slid free with a whisper. The edge gleamed, sharp and hungry, but what caught his eye wasn’t the weapon itself: it was the mark on the tang.

“Get the body to the undertaker's,” he said to his men standing behind him. “Have someone check for magical energy residue.”

Azahir’s jaw tightened. If the blade was what he thought it was, no ordinary smuggler would carry a weapon like this. And no nobleman should have had one. Especially not in their chest.

He wrapped the blade in linen and stood. “Find me a scribe,” he told one of the guards.

“No one touches the blade until I say.”

The guards obeyed, lifting Zyandir Amma’s corpse with care. Only once they were gone did Azahir breathe. Men like him rarely wound up dead near a pleasure house, he thought. Wealthy merchant, philanthropist, court whisperer, now a heap of bloodied silk.

He crouched again, fingers tracing the pattern the blood had made. It wasn’t splatter: it was drain. The cut was clean, precise. Whoever had done this knew how to kill.

The whole scene didn’t make sense. Why would he be in this area? Did he come here, or was he placed? The pool of blood around the body hinted that he was murdered at the spot. So did he come on his own, or was he lured here?

And where was here? The quays? The whorehouse? The slave market?

What was the offense he laid here for?