When he opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was. He grunted and sat up, wincing at the pain in his stomach.

"You're awake?"

He turned to see a young man with short-cropped black hair standing in the doorway. The room was small and heavily shadowed, the last beams of sunlight streaming in through a window. He was laying on a simple mat, a thin blanket across his waist. There wasn't much in the room.

"You had me worried."

His eyes grew wide when the man stepped forward, more or less dragging his leg with him. It still worked slightly—it looked as if he could put his weight on it—but seemed like dead weight for the most part as his foot scraped the floor as he walked over. The man sat down with some difficulty, reaching out and touching his chest before finding his way down to the bandages.

"A-are you…"

The man looked at him, and Kadar inhaled sharply at the scarred-over eyes. They were sunken in and paler in comparison to the rest of his skin.

"Yes, I am blind."

He watched as the man undid the bandages and felt along the jagged, healing wound gently.

"It seems to be healing well."

Kadar squirmed at the fingers touching him. "I hope. So, uh, where am I?"

"You're in Acre. A friend of mine found you and brought you here. Said you were dressed like an assassin, so you'll be safer with me, here, in the poor district."

"What happened?"

"You were attacked in the Temple a ways from here."

"I meant…"

"Oh, to me?"

"Yes?" he said, giving him a hopeful look and feeling a little bit sheepish for asking. He didn't even know his name.

"Ah, torture," he smiled, and Kadar was surprised, "but I still get paid for various work, so I'm not dead yet."

"Oh…"

"So tell me, what's your name?"

He paused, watching the man place clean bandages on his wounds. His eyes were scarred and mangled, and he could envision the way the blade (or hot metal) pierced his skin and burned clean through. He looked so young. The question buzzed in the back of his mind, and he pursed his lips.

"I think… It's Kadar?"

"Kadar, a fine name. Do you have a last name? Don't strain yourself if you can't remember. You sustained heavy head trauma."

He thought about it, trying to recall his last name. He couldn't remember anything of his past, really, save for his name. He thought there was someone he needed to speak to, but he couldn't figure it out. His memory was fuzzy, and he wasn't, really, even sure that was his name. Better than nothing, he supposed.

"What's your name?"

"Zachariah Angel."

"An English name."

"Yes."

Unable to help himself, he lifted his hand slowly, hesitating as he debated touching the marred skin. He hadn't seen anything like it. Hell, he hadn't seen anything he could remember. Finally, he gave in, watching as Zachariah tenses momentarily as he felt the scars over his eyes, running his thumb along the gnarled tissue. Zachariah sat there patiently, relaxing slowly, letting him touch them.

"You're pretty open with telling me about your scars. Someone I once knew wouldn't let me touch the finger he lost."

Wait—he had no idea where that came from. He didn't know anyone. He couldn't even remember his own personal name with clarity. He could hear the amusement in his caretaker's voice when he spoke.

"Is that so? Well, I came to the conclusion a long time ago, in my three years out of torture, that I could either accept it, or let it beat me."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't let it beat you."

"At least one of us is. Are you hungry?"

Kadar let his hand drop as his stomach answered for him. Zachariah laughed: it was a coarse, gravelly laugh, probably from the effects of the torture he had said he had gone through. He almost didn't catch the "one of us is," but he did, and his heart jolted. He hoped life wasn't too hard for the poor man. He'd have to protect him and help him. After all, he had given him a place to stay while he healed.

"I don't keep anything to be cooked in here—if my hands are reason to go by."

He looked at one of Zachariah's hands, gasping at the number of scars and burns over them. The blind man laughed again. Surely his reactions weren't so out of the ordinary. Or perhaps it was because they were so ordinary. Either way, at least he had the man laughing as he rose.

"Well, Kadar No-Last-Name, now you have a name, and I'm certain you have no memory of your past, why don't we go get you something to eat? Can you cook?"

"Uh… I dunno. I can learn, surely."

Zachariah nodded, adjusting his weight. "Good. Earn your keep while we figure out where you need to go. That is, of course, assuming you can walk."

"Ah! I think I can. May I borrow a hand?"

Zachariah turned around and, carefully, extended a hand. Kadar was impressed he was pointing straight at him. Carefully, Kadar took the hand and rose. It was a slow process, and he had to carefully tuck his legs beneath his body before he could rise, and he noticed many, many, scars on his own skin. He wondered if he had been attacked before he had been brought there. There were bandages on his stomach and on his arm and one of his legs. He winced once, eventually steady on his feet.

"Can I ask a favor?"

Kadar nodded slowly, then caught himself. "Uh, yeah."

"May I feel you? I haven't actually taken the time to get to know what you look like, touching simply to check that you weren't bleeding out."

Kadar blushed, ducking down slightly. "Uh… I guess?"

He watched as his new friend carefully reached out, feeling his way to his body, and ran his hands up his arms and over his chest slowly. He felt embarrassed as the man touched him—the poor man had been reduced to feeling since he couldn't see. He couldn't see anything. He trailed his fingers lightly over the muscles on his arms, and Kadar tensed when he felt his fingers move from his arms to his shoulders, then over to his chest, feeling slowly, taking in each scar until he reached the bandages. With a hum, he let his hands drop.

"You're certainly built to be an assassin."

"I-I, uh…"

"Come. Let's go."

Kadar, still blushing, trailed behind him timidly. They walked to the door, and Kadar caught a shirt that he had thrown with remarkable accuracy for a blind man. He took a stick by the door and opened it, feeling around briefly to grab a basket.

"Why don't you live with someone else?"

"I've got no one else."

"What about your friend that brought me here?"

"Away with King Richard, fighting. Our king, is off waging war against the Muslims."

Kadar stepped beside him on the side with his bad leg. They walked slowly as they made their way to the market, and he looked around, taking it all in, listening as Zachariah filled him in on the latest politics. He felt as if he should remember this place. The man knew his way around, to say the least, and he walked with assurance through the dark and grimy streets. There were bodies waiting to be buried, ridden with plague and stored in burnt out buildings for burial. The aura of the entire city seemed defeated, the citizens walking around with their heads lowered, many beggars at the street corners. Even the noise seemed to have a muted quality to it, even though it got loud occasionally.

"Tell me," the man murmured, and Kadar looked, expecting to be drilled on what he could remember. "What color is the sky?"

"I don't remem—what?"

"The sky. It has been so long since I've been out of the house since my friend is gone. The guards on their breaks bring me food. I try not to walk alone since the guards who do not know me enjoy harassing me."

Kadar blinked, then looked up. What a silly question. "Well, it's blue."

"What shade? Are there any clouds? Are there birds?"

He pursed his lips, studying the sky. It seemed really mundane—it was just blue. As he looked, he began to quickly pick up on things. There were birds, and clouds, and even the smoke of a fire burning rising into the sky. The clouds were thin as if someone had smeared them across the sky. It was incredible, really. He never would've noticed those things if Zachariah hadn't asked.

"Well," he chirped, "it's a brilliant blue, like the white of the sea tides mixed with the deep blue of the ocean. There isn't a big cloud in sight, but it looks as if there's little wispy trails of clouds going through the sky like worms after a rainstorm. They looks really cool, and there's a flock of birds flying toward the sun. There's smoke rising to the east, and it's crawling almost lazily into the sky. It must be from a large fire. It stretches on for miles, I think. It's beautiful."

Zachariah was smiling warmly as they reached the marketplace. "It sounds beautiful."

He smiled. The man sure seemed easy to get along with. Perhaps he knew that he couldn't be off any worse by not trusting him. Kadar certainly liked Zachariah. Although, it wasn't as if he could go to anyone else. Then he blinked. He couldn't really remember where those comparisons were from. Perhaps, if he just kept talking, he'd figure out who he was. Temporary memory problems, hopefully.

Kadar took his arm to steady him as they made their way, occasionally purchasing something. A fowl, some vegetables—everything Kadar would need to cook with over a fire. He found himself describing the condition of the fowl, even catching one for Zachariah to touch. They limped through the marketplace once and back before they had a full basket, and Kadar was in charge of holding the squawking, flapping bird. There was a small breeze that blew over them, and he smiled as they made their way back to the small, dinky house. Once inside, Zachariah showed him how and where to cook, and he took to it like a fish to water. It all felt natural. He was beginning to suspect that he didn't forget everything.

When it was done, he brought it over to the man, and he accepted it graciously.

"A cooked meal. It's been weeks since I've had one. Thank you."

Kadar smiled. "I'm not sure it's any—"

"Even if it was nothing more than burnt mush, I would love it. I'm sure it tastes good."

He laughed, and when Zachariah commented that it was the best food he had ever had, he found himself blushing.

"It-it was nothing."

"Are you sure you don't remember anything of your past life?"

He nodded and looked at the man. There were some things that were coming back to him, but it wasn't memories. More like… skills. Which was good. Which was excellent. It would serve him well when he went to get a job to help the poor man.

"I'm going to take your silence as agreement?"

It hit him like a hammer when he remembered Zachariah was blind and couldn't see his nod. He blushed in embarrassment. "Y-yeah."

The man nodded, eating slowly. The silence stretched on as Kadar let the man think, unsure of what to do. The city was in pieces, and he had seen the dead bodies lining the pathways, the people ridden by plague and famine. There had been guards everywhere as they walked to the marketplace, and he would nod back at the guards as they passed. They all seemed to acknowledge Zachariah, as if he held some sort of secret. He wondered if whomever the guards were fighting against, if they had captured him and tortured him for the secret.

He let his eyes roam over the multitude of scars. The sunken in tissue of where his eyes were—of where his eyes should be—made his heart go out to the man the most, and he couldn't imagine what it was like to live without vision. He looked at the crooked nose (a clear sign it had been broken and healed wrong, although where he learned this from, he was uncertain—perhaps it was a part of his past) and the scars of a jagged wound peeking out of the top of his ratty shirt. His hands were tough and callused, burn marks and slightly crooked fingers from broken bones (from the torture, a typical method, but once again, he didn't know why or how he knew this) healed wrong.

Without thinking, he reached out and took one of his hands. They were thick and callused. He could feel Zachariah's nonexistent gaze on him, but the man said nothing. Kadar turned it over to trace the burns on his palm, letting his fingers touch lightly. There was a small, puffy burn mark on the edge of his hand, just below the thumb, and it traveled around to the back, trailing around his wrist and slowly tapering off. There was an ugly mark just below his forefinger, out of place even against the out-of-place scar tissue. Zachariah's fingers curled slightly, and he move his fingers up to feel the bones. He could feel the joints in place, and in between the middle joints, there was a slight bump where the bone had healed out of place. He wondered if there were scars on his legs and feet.

He looked at the man, who seemed to be staring back, despite the lack of eyes, and he exhaled softly before looking back down and running his fingers over the ring finger again. He noticed a small iron band around it, and he eyes opened a little wider as he touched the ring. He hadn't even noticed it before. It seemed to almost blend in with the scar tissue around it, dark and grayish.

"She died, shortly after we were moved here to let my friend help take care of me. Diseases run rampant through the ruins of Acre."

Kadar closed his eyes, covering his hand with his own. "I'm so sorry. You've lived a horrid life."

"So do many of us."

"You aren't even that old."

He chuckled. "I have been blessed. Despite my injuries, everything God has done has done has a purpose."

"God?"

"That's right," the man murmured. "The assassins are Muslim."

Kadar bit his lip, waiting for a response. He desperately wanted to know whom the assassins were, and why Zachariah kept referring to them, but he figured it may have something to do with who the guards were fighting, and he didn't want to open old wounds. God forbid he be one of the guards' enemies.

Nevertheless, Zachariah smiled. "The day is still young: let's go to the docks, and I'll tell you how I am blessed."

Kadar nodded, but before he could agree, a knock came at the door. Zachariah pulled his hand back, scowling as he struggled to rise. Kadar popped up and gave him a hand, wincing from the pain from his wounds.

"Damn guards. Bet they're here to offer to take me to that damn Garnier man."

"Who?"

Zachariah limped over to the door, and Kadar waited at the entrance to the other room. Zachariah seemed mad. "Garnier is a twisted man, a psychopath who claims to heal. He experiments on the lame and the injured. My wife told me to refuse, and I have. I've seen the place he works. That man will burn in Hell for his transgressions when he dies—may it be soon, too."

He threw open the door.

"Zachariah Angel?"

"Yes?" he barked.

Kadar was hanging back in the other room, watching the three guards carefully. The bright, burning cross on their uniforms gave him the undeniable feeling they were his enemy. Come to think of it, he mused briefly, he had gotten that feeling from the rooftop guards, too, but had been too at ease with Zachariah to notice it.

"Garnier de—"

"No. I told you: I have no interest in what he's doing. I have survived three years with my limp, two without my wife, and I will continue living just fine. Tell your demon possessed fraud to leave me be."

"You haven't even seen what he plans to do," one of them said. "The man is a miracle worker."

"The man is a sadist. I have no wishes to let him work on me."

Kadar stepped forward, surprising the guards when he appeared, taking Zachariah's hand. "Perhaps you should just go… see. Listen to him."

Zachariah turned, and he looked furious. "Really? I will not go into Hell's lair—"

"Listen!" Kadar tugged him further inside, and he gestured for the guards to wait as he closed the door. "Please," Kadar whispered. "I know you don't know me, and I don't know who the assassins are, or if he's one of them, but if we go, if we see what it is like, we can report him."

"He will pay the guards off. The man is possessed by a demon sent by Satan himself. There is nothing good in that man. Just approaching the castle he works in makes my skin crawl."

Kadar fell silence, his mind churning. He knew he had to do something. Zachariah knew he had been an assassin. Perhaps he was still retaining some of that knowledge, too. After all, he had killed the fowl so easily that surely he could kill a man that wouldn't seem human. "Maybe in a few days… I can kill him?"

Zachariah was quiet. Kadar squirmed—maybe he had reached the boundaries of their friendship, what little there was. He looked at the ground, toeing the dirt and letting go of his hand and clasping his hands together behind his back. Maybe he was asking too much, but Kadar felt confident he could kill the man. It was the getting out that would need more planning.

"You seem like a good man, Kadar. I don't want to risk your life. You haven't even healed yet."

"I can be stealthy. I promise. You yourself said I had been an assassin."

"That was months ago."

"Look, I can do it. I promise. I'll complete it just like if I was killing the bird from earlier."

He wondered where these words were coming from, why he was saying them. They felt familiar. He knew he could do it. The silence dragged on for ages, and under Zachariah's powerful gaze, which sounded like an oxymoron to Kadar, he felt as if he had just ruined everything the past few hours had been for. He hoped he hadn't ruined their seedling of a friendship. He knew he could do this, though. He felt confident in himself. He was still young, and perhaps it would take a bit of training to remind himself, but he could do it.

"I want to repay you somehow. I can do this."

"Well," Zachariah began, pausing in his speech long enough to make Kadar shift again, "perhaps I could give the assassins a chance to redeem themselves."

Kadar offered a sheepish and hopeful smile before opening the door again and peeking out. "He's coming in a few days. Give us till the end of the week?"

The guards looked surprised, then the leader nodded and smirked. "A good man, you are. We'll tell Garnier you're coming in a week's time."

Kadar offered a smile and watched the men walk off before he ducked back inside and closed the door, squirming under (what he felt was) an intense stare-down from Zachariah.

"I hope you know what you are doing."

He offered an apologetic smile. "I do know. I promise."

Zachariah looked at the door, frowning, and Kadar shuffled in his spot.

"Look, I'm really sorry. I don't want to—"

"Save it," Zachariah sighed, turning and dragging himself back into the other room.

Kadar followed, feeling slightly ashamed at asking him to do that, and watched him sit down.

"I have been praying for forgiveness for the assassins for several years now. Perhaps my answer has finally come," he said.

Kadar sat beside him on a separate bed mat. "Who are the assassins, anyway?"

And he certainly got an explanation—one that took well into the night. Zachariah told him everything he knew, and Kadar took it all in, listening to how the men in the hooded robes were always causing problems here in Acre, disturbances, and how Zachariah just knew they had some sort of base here, but no one in Templar ranks could find it. He talked about how, before he was crippled and blinded, he searched for it on his own, and he knew he was close, but then six of the assassins had jumped him, and he had been captured and ruined. If he could've found it, he would've saved the people a lot of grief, and many families with children, husbands, and parents as guards would still be together. He would've had the entire assassin gathering in Acre wiped out, and King Richard's men would be safe once more to focus on the Muslim armies.

He spoke of how there was a mysterious assassin, known through the ranks and the people as the "Great Eagle" that would sometimes come, and he could always tell because there would be one screech, slightly different from all the rest of the eagles' cries around Acre, that would ring out over the city. He told Kadar how to know where he was in Acre based on the sound of the call and the resonance of the shrill call. He talked about how the Templars knew this also, but they lacked the intelligence to notice, and how the Eagle would swoop in, murder his target, and disappear in a flash of white. He also spoke about how much different his attire was, but those idiot guards were never attentive enough to pick him out of a group of scholars, and Kadar jumped when Zachariah told him about how, if he still had his sight, he would look for the Eagle and gladly shoot an arrow through that damned neck of his.

The moon was high in the sky before he stopped talking, and Kadar was appalled to know that he had once been a part of the assassin ranks. He was staring into the scarred eyes, his mouth hanging open as Zachariah fell silent, waiting, for his reaction. It was several minutes before he could speak.

"I-it sounds like none of these parties are good for the people."

Zachariah made a sharp, "Ah!" in the back of his throat and held up a finger. "This is where you are wrong."

"H-how?"

"I believe that King Richard would be good for his people—assuming he would give up this foolish conquest and kill the corrupt officials in his ranks. For instance, Garnier. The man needs to die so a better man can run the hospital. And the assassins would be good for the people, if they would stop murdering guards who have been charged to look for any suspicious men. If they did not leap from the roofs like monkeys, they would be okay. And even the Muslims would be okay, if they were not as blood-thirsty as the rest of the human race."

Kadar blinked, then blinked again. "You make it sound so simple to get along."

Zachariah sighed, lowering his hand. "And that is where I remember that as long as we live, conquest and war will never end. Human nature is nothing more than man's tendency to destroy himself."

Kadar looked at his lap briefly before his eyes were dragged back to Zachariah's hands. The man was a perfect example of everything he had said, and it was no wonder he hated the assassins so much. Still, to be tortured instead of killed meant he was hiding a secret, but he wouldn't press. Kadar reached out, pulling his left hand into his lap and running his fingers over the scars again. He almost felt as if he could extract some sort of comfort from touching the scars. He felt tears spill down his cheeks, and he felt Zachariah jump when one hit his hand.

"Kadar, what's the matter?"

"I-I'm sorry!" he cried, lifting one hand to rub furiously at his eyes. "I-I'm sorry all this happened to you! I'm sorry you were tortured because you were trying to help the people. I—" Zachariah shushed him, turning slightly to pull him close, and he started sobbing. "A-and I'm sorry that it was my people who tortured you, and I'm sorry that you're living in the poor district of a ruined city because of what they did to you. I'm—"

His words turned into nothing more than sobs, and he cried until he was so exhausted he couldn't handle it. He could feel one of Zachariah's arms around his shoulders, and the other caressing his cheek softly, wiping away tears. He could barely hear the sound of the man's voice over his loud, shuddering breaths. He fell asleep in the man's arms as the sun was just peeking over the horizon, his nose runny and his eyes red and puffy.

When he woke, he felt remarkably better. It was well passed mid-day, and he could hear Zachariah shuffling about the house, his leg dragging behind him. He sniffed and sat up, feeling much better as if that cry was all he needed. He got up, careful of his injuries, and walked into the only other room. Zachariah was sitting by a window, his head on his arms as he listened to the sounds of the streets.

"You're up," the man murmured, sitting straight.

Kadar jumped. He had been completely silent in his entry. He came when he saw Zachariah motion for him and knelt in front of him when he reached for his face. His eyes fluttered closed as his hands felt over the baggy skin. The callused, tough fingers trailed over his cheekbones and over his forehead. They trailed over his lips and down to his shoulders, patting them.

"You must feel better after last night."

Kadar smiled warmly. "I feel a lot better."

"Well then, perhaps we should search for a steady job for you today?"

"I can do that."

He chuckled. "You had me worried last night. You're quite an empathetic person."

Kadar smiled and rose, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Come on. Let's get out of this house and go start earning some money."

They set out after a while, walking through the streets of the poor district, Zachariah's cane helping him walk, and Kadar helping guide him along the streets. They quickly fell into a routine over the next four days as they searched for a job he could start up after they visited Garnier. Kadar started praying with the man in the morning and in the night, occasionally picking up a beautiful copy of the religious text from his religion that had been a gift from the king after his torture, and Kadar would read it to him. The man was impressive in his extensive knowledge of the book, and he said his wife helped him memorize much of it.

The day they were to set out, the three guards appeared late morning.

They were quiet as they walked there, and Kadar was by his side, a knife tucked safely into his robes. He still hadn't thought much about how they would get out, but he was confident he could get rid of Garnier. A third of the way there, Zachariah stopped.

"Did you hear that?"

The guards paused. "Hear what?"

Kadar looked at him as he turned to look at the entrance to the city. "What?"

The blind man continued looking toward the opening of Acre's poor district. Kadar watched him study the skyline as if he could see, then abruptly, he turned around and started limping off with purpose. Kadar stepped beside him, looking at him curiously as the guards started off again, muttering about how he was crazy.

"What was it?"

Zachariah looked solemn as he cast a side-glance at him.

"What?"

His voice was low: "The Great Eagle is in Acre."

Right after they stood on the outskirts of the castle, Zachariah stopped again, making the sign of the cross and bowing his head briefly. The guards stopped, looking slightly impatient, and Kadar waited until he was done praying before taking his hand and smiling as warmly as he could.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm sure you'll be okay."

He watched the man shudder. "This is the den of Satan, Kadar. Evil knows no bounds. Listen. He draws closer as he approaches the Bureau."

Kadar looked the skies, tilting his head at the eagle's screech. "H-how did you—"

He followed him into the castle to be met by an old man with bloodstains all over his frock. Zachariah nodded once, stiffly, and followed him, Kadar by his side. His skin began to crawl as he stood by Zachariah, looking around cautiously for ways to get out. It was a giant square, and the guards posted seemed to be busy goofing off.

"Welcome, my children."

Kadar could feel the demented, evil aura given off the man. He followed silently, amazed by Zachariah's high-held posture. They were led through the crowds of men in white shirts and tan pants, the occasional doctor passing by. He gripped Zachariah's hand tighter, walking farther into the "hospital." It reeked of death. They were led to a small room, just off to the side, where Garnier sat at a desk.

"Now that you're here, Zachariah, let's discuss what we're going to do."

There were two guards at the doorway, and he figured he should wait until they were in the main part of the surgery center before he took the man out. There had only been a few guards there, and he could fight them off easily (he knew his skills with a knife were better. Some of them looked no older than him.) He let them talk about how he planned to rebuild the muscles in his leg to grant him the ability to walk, fidgeting in the man's presence. He was creepy. Eventually, they were led to the main halls and seated at one of the tables as Garnier did his rounds.

"Are you going to?"

"Yes. I promised."

There was a loud noise, and the sound of someone screaming as they watched the guards drag a man out to the main courtyard. Zachariah made the sign of the cross and started praying as they waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually, Zachariah held a finger up, and Kadar listened. There, he could hear a screech, and it sounded close, frighteningly so.

"How do you do that?"

"My other senses have made up for the loss of my vision."

"Really?"

Zachariah nodded. They waited in silence until Garnier came back, and Kadar steeled him to get ready to murder the man.

"My apologies, a patient was trying to run away. Now, let's get start—"

The man gagged, and Zachariah looked at him, thoroughly confused. Kadar eyes grew wide when he saw the man behind Garnier. That hood—there was something familiar about it. In a blink of an eye, the body was on the ground, and the hooded man was staring at him.

"Kadar?"

That voice—he knew that voice. "Y-yes?"

The man stepped back, and he looked several shades paler. "Y-you're alive?"

"Y-yes? Who are you?"

He looked when he heard shouts from behind the man, and without thinking, he threw the knife and watched the chandelier fall, crushing several of them. He could hear their groans of pain from the men, the circular bars breaking their bones, but not killing them. The hooded man looked over his shoulder and smirked, pulling down his hood. Those eyes—that face—he knew that he knew that man from somewhere. He was beautiful.

"Kadar? What's going on?"

"Garnier is dead," he said as he looked at his friend.

He seemed to almost have an aura of sadistic grief around him. He was staring straight at the man, and Kadar got the feeling he knew who this man was.

"The man you're talking to killed him, yes?"

"Yes. Funny. I thought there would be more guards."

"I killed them, too."

"And so I look at the eyes of my most hated enemy. You are fortunate, assassin, I no longer have the capabilities to fight."

There was silence as the golden-eyed man looked at him closely, then furrowed his brow at Zachariah as the man got off the table. The man jolted, and his eyes narrowed further.

"You," he hissed. "You're not dead yet?"

Zachariah laughed, cold and cruel, and Kadar stepped between the man and his caretaker.

"It'll take more than torture."

The golden-eyed man snarled and tried to stare Kadar down, but he drew himself up. "Touch him, and I'll kill you."

"Just like your brother," he growled, and Kadar jerked when the man grabbed his arms and kissed him. "Maybe now Malik will forgive me."

And just like that, the man was gone, and Kadar was left reeling as he tried to figure out how that man—that assassin—knew him, and who Malik was. The name certainly sounded familiar. After several minutes of listening to the panicked chaos and trying to figure out what just happened, he sighed.

"Let… let's go. That was anti-climatic."

"Death is often anti-climatic. And now, many more families have lost a member. Tell me, what did he look like?"

He helped Zachariah down from the table, pursing his lips.

"He was an assassin. He was dressed in those robes you described all that time ago."

"He has not changed at all."

They were walking out of the hospital after picking their way through the scramble of "ill" and the guards, and Kadar could feel someone watching him. He turned to see absolutely nothing as he stepped closer to Zachariah.

"It seems as if the Great Eagle knows you. You'd best be on your guard from here on out."

Kadar nodded, helping the man home.