The echo of the convoy's collapse had not faded when new ripples stirred across the city. Word spread quickly—temple coin gone missing, guards humiliated, ledgers vanished. The Templars' machine creaked, and for once, the people whispered of cracks in its iron skin. For the Assassins, it was a small victory. For the enemy, it was provocation.
Arkan woke to the sound of distant bells. The city stirred below the mountain as sunlight touched its roofs, gilding domes and crooked alleys. He sat at the edge of his cot, still tasting the iron of fear and adrenaline in his mouth. He had been part of something larger than himself—and the realization filled him with equal pride and unease.
At the morning assembly, Sheikh Nasser's voice was calm, but his eyes bore weight. "The convoy was not an end, brothers. It was a thread. Follow it, and you find the loom. Tug it carelessly, and you snare yourself."
Beside him, Idris unrolled a parchment. The ink was fresh, sharp strokes naming officials, merchants, and guild masters—figures who profited under Templar patronage. "Your task," Idris said, his gaze settling on Arkan, "is to watch. Not to strike. Not yet. One man in particular feeds the Templar coffers with taxes wrung from the poor—a merchant named Faraj ibn Rashid. He is not soldier, nor zealot, but he serves them. We must know how deep his roots spread before the blade is drawn."
Arkan bowed his head. Observation. Patience. It seemed less glorious than the sudden cut of steel, but perhaps more dangerous. A wrong step in daylight was more perilous than a dozen blades in the dark.
---
The bazaar was a storm of colors and voices. Arkan moved through it as any other man—cloak hooded, hands empty, eyes restless. Spices burned the air with saffron and cardamom, vendors called in singsong tones, children darted between stalls like sparks. Yet beneath the vibrancy pulsed another rhythm: guards with polished breastplates, eyes scanning too sharply, hands resting too comfortably on their hilts.
He found Faraj ibn Rashid easily enough. The man's stall towered above others, an island of silk banners and polished bronze. Customers bent before him, not from respect but necessity. His clerks tallied weights with stern precision, their ledgers fat with names of debtors.
Arkan lingered nearby, pretending to inspect figs. He caught the merchant's laughter—rich, guttural, carrying the arrogance of a man untouchable. Beside him, a soldier in Templar colors whispered into his ear. Faraj nodded and sealed a scroll with wax, passing it off as though it were no more than a shopping list.
The boy inside Arkan, the one who had once starved in alleys, wanted to leap forward, to sever that smug throat. But the brotherhood had tasked him with more than vengeance. He was a pair of eyes, a vessel for memory. He breathed slowly, fixing every detail: the guards' rotation, the hidden compartments in the stall, the sigils pressed on wax.
A voice broke his focus.
"You stare too long for a man with empty hands," an old woman muttered beside him, her shawl frayed but her gaze sharp.
Arkan startled, but the woman only clicked her tongue. She pressed a small bundle of herbs into his palm. "If you watch wolves, child, learn to wear a shepherd's skin. Else you'll be meat before the moon rises."
He tucked the herbs away with a murmur of thanks. In her words he heard more than wisdom—he heard the city itself speaking, raw and weary.
---
The hours stretched. He followed Faraj discreetly through winding streets, watched him bribe guards, heard him curse a debtor until the man wept openly in the square. At dusk, the merchant retreated to his home—a villa guarded by high walls and men with crossbows. Arkan scaled a nearby rooftop, crouching against the call of the muezzin echoing across the stone.
From above, the villa unfolded like a map. Courtyards filled with water, lamps blooming gold, shadows pacing in patterns. Arkan's breath slowed until the night became a single frame. He committed it all to memory—the blind corners, the weak spots, the moments when laughter rose above the clink of chains.
Yet in the silence, anger gnawed at him. He watched servants beaten for dropping a jug, children sent away with scraps. This was not mere commerce; this was domination, cruelty painted as order.
By the time he returned to the mountain, the stars had wheeled across the sky. His report was simple but precise. Idris listened, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed.
"And what did you learn?" the elder asked.
"That Faraj serves the Templars willingly," Arkan replied, "and that his greed bleeds the people dry."
Sheikh Nasser leaned forward. "And what did you learn of yourself, Arkan?"
The young Assassin hesitated. He saw again the boy driver's eyes from the convoy, the old woman's warning in the market, the hungry children outside the merchant's door. At last he said, "That patience is not weakness. It is a blade that waits its moment."
The sheikh smiled faintly. "Good. Then you are ready for when that blade must fall."
---
That night Arkan dreamt uneasily. He saw Faraj's villa again, only this time it burned. Voices cried out—not just guards, but innocents within. He woke with a start, breath raw in his chest. The dream left him shaken, as though the Creed itself whispered: Your path is chosen, but mercy and cruelty walk side by side. Which will you feed?
In the darkness, Arkan sat awake long after the others had slept. The city below glimmered with lanterns, oblivious to the silent war above. For the first time, he understood: the Convoy was a skirmish. The Bazaar was prelude. The real war was only beginning.