Chapter 1

There it was. The faint glow on the horizon that seemed to chase away the stars like agitated birds. Mero grimaced as his eyes beheld nature’s spectacle. Where were they? They had promised to meet him before dawn. He leaned on the sandy colored archway that overlooked the entrance to the square and scanned the area carefully. From the small alleyway he could make out the red marble fountain and the merchants setting up their market stalls. A slight breeze from the east carried with it the scent of baked pastries and rose water. It was too silent.

“Mero.” His shoulders reflexively twitched and he whirled around and saw a hooded man hanging upside down from the rafters of the building.

“Ah… Iskander?” Mero stammered when the man pushed off and landed on his feet gracefully. “Walk with me. I’ll fill you in on our herb order.” The man’s heavy leather boots crunched on the sandy gravel as he led the perplexed alchemist away from the square, deeper into the alleyway. Mero shouldered his caftan and hesitantly followed the assassin. It was a strange sight: the hooded black-robed figure leading a scrawny old alchemist by the hand.

A few minutes winding through alleyways in absolute silence led Mero to panic. Maybe their order had caught wind of what his alchemists were doing. His other hand grabbed the capsule in his caftan’s pocket. Iskander’s hand didn’t give anything away and the alchemist breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“Here we are. Sit on that bench there, the order is on a parchment on the table.” The assassin’s gravelly voice ordered.

The pair had arrived in a small garden adjacent to the alleyway. A single bench and table were set up amidst the palm trees and the flowers. The bench curved elegantly and was made of tortoiseshell and mother of pearl, with a sturdy ebony frame. A single orange cushion was set in line with the table. Mero did as the assassin commanded him to and sat down as quickly as his back allowed him to.

“Iskander where should I…?” the alchemist mused, but the assassin was nowhere in sight. With great relief he eyes the sealed parchment on the glass table. The red wax seal had the assassin’s sigil on it: a hand over a mouth, apt for their profession.

His fingers opened the still fresh seal and his eyes scanned the message

Mero,

We know of your dealings. The price will be paid.

M.S.

With eyes agape and hands at his own throat, Mero died on that bench.