A Glimpse of Night

One: Finn

Warning: Mature concepts and themes are suggested.

The desert was a sweltering prison of heat and sand. Even as the sun sat low upon the horizon, the feverish breeze swept over the smooth dunes of Jahar and through the narrow streets of Aja, stifling the air for the commoners. Lanterns were slowly being lit throughout the town. Merchants were setting up their tents, stocked with meats, troves, antiques, clothes, and medicine. The streets were filling with people, their pockets full in hopes of making a decent trade. From afar, through the mirage of the heat waves, Jahar looked like the kingdom where fallen stars came to rest.

This was when Aja was most beautiful–when night fell and the lights of the city twinkled. When the moon, stars, and city lights refracted off the Viper Sea. Lively music would blend with the commotion of the crowds, its echoes drifting through open windows and bouncing off walls and pillars.

Had the assassin not taken a job tonight, perhaps he'd have taken his time strolling through the markets. But he was scraping his pockets for coin again, and Neema was pestering him for rent at the inn once more. A beautiful, middle-aged woman with the temper of a senile witch–all except to him, that is. He had never understood why her heart had softened towards him–that is, until he heard though rumors she had lost her son a few years back. A picture of him sat upon a small alter within her room. A portrait, he realized, of a young man who looked strikingly similar to him minus a few details.

Regardless, he knew that instinctive maternal instinct was what helped him get off the streets. Had she not seen him shivering in that back alley six years ago, gaunt and bony, had she not pulled him to his feet scolding him of the dirty floors and taken him back to the inn, he'd have been dead. He would forever be grateful for her.

He shifted in his crouched position. From his spot on this particular roof, he could see the main streets merging and splitting. The paths here were all so intricately woven, yet haggard from the years of harsh weather. Heads of bypassers were shuffling from below, eager to find a cart to purchase from or a place to eat. He sat cloaked by the palms surrounding this particular building, their fronds swaying slightly from the wam breeze. But he could not move yet. The sun had yet to sink behind the dunes.

He reached into his pocket to observe the small picture once more. A man, square-faced, beady eyes, and thick lips that pertruded though his cleanly cut blonde beard. He studied the details closely, then when the image solidified in his brain, he tucked the photo away.

Wretched bastard, he thought to himself. They all were.

It made the job easier. Not a single fiber in his body regretted nights like these.

He adjusted the hood around his head, the cloth large enough to shadow almost his entire face. No one could know his identity, though his reputation had exceeded him. The Nightwalker was the name coined to him. Though he found it rather tacky at first, it seemed to stick over the years.

His eyes scanned the crowds, searching, assessing, plotting. The man in the photograph was named Heiman Yoara, a filthy rich man who often traveled from Bazzal to Aja to have discreet meetings with business partners. He was known for exquisite offers–all illegal, yet resulted in glorious amounts of riches among his clients. Aja held many desperate business owners, all  eager to collect coin and finally move to the city of riches. Yoara knew this. Came solely for them. Of course, the cheap booze was a plus. That, and the vulnerable he loved to prey on.

He was just about to jump to another roof when he spotted a group of men making their way down to the port. Dressed in the finest black silks, with intricate deisigns and shapes woven on the cuffs of their sleeves, they strided past the merchants and crowd with natural ease. Like they were used to people parting for them.