Phoenix From The Shadows

02• Rooftop

THE SUN HAD FINALLY WOKEN THE KINGDOM OF Derjan from its slumber, as the sky danced in shades of apricot and lavender. The distant sounds of the awakening city gradually swirled themselves into a subtle melody. Vibrant alleys, usually bustling with life, were now silent, bathed in the tranquil glow of the impending sunrise. Shadows stretched across narrow alleys and hidden courtyards, revealing glimpses of the city's secrets.

His eyes, however, remained focused on the eastern skyline, where the first golden fingers of light began to breach the darkness. Perched on the edge of a weathered rooftop, the cobblestone felt cold beneath his palms as he watched the ancient city slowly awaken.

The morning radiance softened the eyes many would consider lifeless. It was as if the canvas of a walking dawn painted his features alongside its wake. His topaz orbs were like never-ending pools of water, with a depth one would never know, yet mixed with the strangest colors of honey at the moment. They were an ocean where tides arose, and the wildest waves crashed, but for now, they were simply currents in a mere symphony.

The wind battered its wings, blowing leaves off their branches and then changing its course to ruffle his raven hair. He ran his fingers through them, yet the breeze messed them up again, this time tickling his forehead. If one looked closely, they could've almost sworn the ghost of a smile almost appeared at the corner of Deyyar's lips. It was as if for a moment, he felt for himself to be a man with more than just a fate among blades and blood.

But only for a moment.

He twirled yesterday's note between his fingers: This very rooftop, at the break of tomorrow's dawn.

The sun had risen a quarter more since the promised time, nonetheless. Luckily, he had heard footsteps approaching behind him moments before he decided to leave. He dropped the note from his hand as it swirled down in circles and finally met the floor three stories below the roof. "Not as fast as the one you sent after me last night?" He asked without turning around.

The man laughed, appreciative of the joke as he crouched and sat next to Deyyar, mimicking his pose. "Well, I suppose. Had to stop at a few places."

Silence had befallen once more.

"The graveyard. But this time it wasn't for digging a grave, but rather digging someone out of it." He laughed once more as Deyyar stared into nothingness, unamused at his sense of humor.

"I'm joking, son. My humor isn't that bad, ain't it?" He sighed, "But let me tell you what is bad, Khalifa Marhab ibn Mansuri ruling over us like we're dogs."

"The heir he leaves is even worse." He retorted.

"It is true Prince Daryush Al Mansuri is a man who knows nothing other than brothels and bottles." He laughed once more.

Deyyar turned towards the man and looked him into the eyes for the first time since their encounter. "What do you want from me? To kill that bastard of a caliph?"

"You'll need an army for that, unfortunately. So, no, not that."

The man was somewhat in his mid-fifties, distinguished features of a life well-lived. His skin bore the warm hues of light tan, a testament to days spent beneath the sun's gentle caress. Hazel eyes, deep and contemplative, held the weight of countless stories unknown to the onlooker.

Upon his face, faded scars told silent tales of battles fought and victories earned, their presence softened by the passage of time. A gray beard, adorned with threads of white, cascaded down from his weathered countenance, framing a visage that spoke of wisdom earned through the passage of years. Atop his head, a bald crown gleamed under the copper rays of the morning sun.

The latter felt like a silhouette one could see but not make up the details of the figure. A faded memory. Just like it's right before the eyes, yet felt like a haze with no details, a mere outline of what could be. The man took Deyyar back many years. Of days when the air smelled like chrysanthemums and tulips. Though he may have never known him, those earthy eyes dug out every single corpse of Deyyar's past, making blinking away almost impossible.

"A gravedigger you truly are." He whispered, his voice almost lost in the breeze.

The man competed his staunch gaze, "Do I remind you of someone, perhaps?"

"No." He lied effortlessly. "I'm only trying to memorize your face."

"Ah, very well. Then memorize it for good."

A beat of silence passed between the two until the man spoke once more, "I need you to get your hands on a special type of document."

Deyyar hummed for him to continue.

"It contains every single piece of information needed to get the king on his knees. Marhab's not a simple man, and if that paper is exposed, he'll earn himself a thousand more enemies thirsty for his blood. It's a list of every single aristocrat the king wants dead, including his most beloved finance minister, and the Qadi of Huwaira. The truth is, he fears for the people on this list to overpower him if he ever loses grip on the throne. And there's nothing more I want than a thousand men wanting to slay his head."

"What's the catch?"

"Twelve thousand dinar." He placed a sack of heavy gold coins on the floor and pushed it towards Deyyar.

Deyyar pushed the sack away, and the man's smile faded. "Do you have any plan in mind?"

"The Veiled Crescent festival's next week. Infiltrating it is your best shot. The document can't be hidden anywhere other than the palace's storage room. I bet all my years on that." He looked at Deyyar with anticipation for him to accept the offer. "But there's one thing, you're not the only one who'd be wanting to have that document."

"So I've got myself some competition, now. It's been a while." Deyyar nodded, signing a silent agreement. "You've got yourself a deal." Yet only if the man knew, it wasn't money that had convinced him for the task, for he had himself loads. Rather, it was the familiarity in his gaze that haunted him, compelling Deyyar to trace every single outline of the silhouette he could see. He turned to him once again, "You never told me your name."

"Ibrahim, Ibrahim Hanover."

He hummed once more, as he got up, signaling an end to the conversation. He began walking without looking back, yet he stopped midway as the man called him by his name.

"Don't deprive yourself of the right to have a soul, son."

At this, he laughed devoid of any humor. His eyes turned into a bottomless pit of nothingness, "Men like me were never given a soul to begin with, Ibrahim." And with that being said, he turned and walked away once more.

As Deyyar vanished into the morning shadows, Ibrahim's eyes lingered on the retreating figure, a spark of connection flickering in their depths. The cold morning breeze carried with it an unspoken secret, a thread woven through time.

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A/N

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