Prologue

Night lay heavy over the city, obscuring view of everything outside the warm circles of lamplight. Beneath a layer of half-light and dust sat five figures, seated around an upturned crate upon which sat a checkered game board. Intricately-carved pieces were arranged in complicated patterns, occasionally rearranged by the hand of one of the two men seated closest to the crate. One was an older man, with a turban crowning his head, and faded robes serving as pitiful protection against the chill descended upon the city.

The other player was tall, and appeared thin beneath heavy, hooded robes—just as each of his three companions, spread out behind him. The robes were dark ones; similarly-toned cloths covered the bottom halves of their faces, almost completely obscuring identities. The hand that reached out to adjust his playing pieces was gloved, but appeared almost skeletal nonetheless.

Each four pairs of eyes that stared at the old man glittered inhumanly.

As the skeleton-like hand pushed a particularly large piece across the board, his eyes flicked up to the old man with a dangerous gleam. “Ana’an-katesh, old man,” came the serpent-like hiss, and though his lips could not be seen, one could hear the smirk in his voice.

Bushy grey brows arched upwards, and then old lips curled in a smile. “Indeed,” he murmured, milky eyes meeting those of the hooded man and peering into them, as if possessing of sight. The old man did, in fact, appear to be possessing of a vision not unlike that of normal men, though the color of his eyes suggested blindness—as did the knobbed stick leaning against his perch upon the low wall.

“My game,” the man hissed. “You recall our stakes, no doubt?”

“Of course,” answered the old man, leaning against the wall to his right and smiling again, as if he had all the time in the world at his disposal (though the murderous eyes of the four men opposite him suggested otherwise). “How could I forget? Such high stakes do not depart from mind easily, gentlemen.”

“I would think not.” There was a pause, and those thin hands met in a graceful steeple before their master’s chin; the forefingers tapped absently against that covered chin. “So then, it would seem you have something to tell me?”

“So it would seem,” countered the old man amicably. “Though first I must admit my curiosity. For what purpose does this matter interest you? So long, you have strove to find the answer—now that you have it so neatly within your grasp, surely it would not hurt to divulge why you sought it out so desperately?”

Carelessly, a hand swept the game board and all its pretty pieces into the street. “You play at intrigue as badly as you play this game!” the man snarled. “Tell me of that which I seek!”

Unfazed, the old man barely blinked; instead, with a quiet nod of the head, he said, “Very well.” Hands clasped before him, he allowed his eyes to close, and his head to raise towards the star-strewn sky. “Da’naha Griisca—the Desert Rose.” In his voice was echoed both awe and adoration. “In desolate lands, in a rich palace, the Bloom resides. Petals unfurled, moonlight dancing upon dew and causing the light of the stars. In her center lies the sun of our people, and in her soul exists the people themselves.”

The man had leaned forward unconsciously; now, with hands reaching out, he hissed urgently, “Tell me of her power...”

“Great power rests within that flame, power only the worthy can touch. It is power that could destroy our lands, and destroy even the Bloom herself.”

“What can it do, old man? Tell me!”

“Anything,” was the simple reply.

---

To the east, in the white palace of the sultan, upon a balcony adorned with many vines bearing blooms of the most beautiful sort, a woman stood bathed in moonlight. Her features were beautiful ones, though cold and hardened, which seemed an unfortunate flaw on one so young—she appeared barely in her prime. Sweat glistened on her golden skin, glittering in that soft light. As her countenance tipped upwards towards the sky, tattoos upon her cheeks flared to life; black though they were, they caught the moonlight and seemed almost to dance beneath that goddess of the sky’s loving attention.

A voice called from the curtained room behind her; almost unwillingly, her head turned to allow dark eyes to look over her shoulder. A short reply was made, before her gaze returned to the moon. Features that had for a moment been softened now went steely again, all emotion disappearing though obvious hatred glittered within her eyes.

Grudgingly, the lithe, muscular body retreated from the balcony, the jangle of her bracelets drowned out by the jangle of the iron chains around her ankles. Moments before parting the gauzy curtains, she allowed a last look at the moon. Breathing a slight sigh, she pushed her way into the lamplight of the sultan’s bedchamber, vanishing as the curtains fell shut again. Only her graceful silhouette could be seen, as it stalked lazily across the chamber floor and towards the bed upon which her sultan lay.

Only her silhouette could be seen, as she lay down upon the bed with him.

Only silhouettes, as the sultan mounted her.

Only silhouettes, as she drew the knife across his throat.