In a chamber adorned with ornate tapestries, Lord Akmar, draped in regal robes, stood awaiting the arrival of the desert guild merchants.
As they entered, their opulent attire glimmered under the dim light, but their leader, furrowed with irritation, stood out among them.
Attempting to diffuse the tension, Jamal, the royal advisor, stuttered, "P-p-please, esteemed guests, Lord Akmar is honored by your presence."
The leader of the merchants, his impatience palpable, raised his voice towards Akmar, "Summoned by the caliph's letter to be received by a youngster and a witch?"
Just then, the chamber's heavy doors creaked open, and a woman, draped in an elegant green gown and cloak, swept in. Her presence commanded attention. "A sorceress, to be precise," she declared, removing her hood to reveal a cascade of red hair. "Maevelynn of Eire," she introduced herself.
The merchants exchanged uncertain glances, their skepticism palpable. Maeve, unperturbed, met their gazes with a confident smile.
The heavy door swung open once more, drawing the attention of the gathered assembly. Maeve, her tone laced with subtle sarcasm, quipped, "Ah, here arrives the 'youngster'..." Her gaze flickered toward the merchants before fixing on the figure entering the chamber. "But customary etiquette would denote addressing him as Your Highness," she added, a playful glint in her eye.
As the royal guard announced the newcomer, "Prince Mustapha, the first heir to the throne," the room hushed, eyes turning toward the young prince stepping gracefully into the chamber. Clad in resplendent robes befitting his royal lineage, he bore an air of dignity beyond his years.
Prince Mustapha scanned the room with a composed demeanor, acknowledging the assembly with a regal nod, right after each of the gathered people bowed low to him. Lord Akmar, seizing the moment, stepped forward to introduce the prince. "Esteemed merchants, may I present Prince Mustapha, whose wisdom and vision align with the Caliph's."
Prince Mustapha, with a composed authority that belied his youth, corrected Lord Akmar. "In the absence of my father and the Grand Vizier, as the first heir to the throne, I hold the most important position in the state. Is this a problem, or shall we proceed?"
Lord Akmar, recognizing the shift in hierarchy, inclined his head in deference, while the leader of the merchants, now further flustered, bowed low in acknowledgment of the prince's rightful authority.
Unfazed by the unfolding dynamics, Prince Mustapha turned his attention to Maeve, gesturing to the seat usually reserved for the grand vizier. "Lady Maevelynn, would you do me the honor today?" His demeanor, a blend of respect and invitation, invited her to take a seat of significance within the council.
Maeve, displaying a graceful confidence, accepted the prince's gesture with a nod. She settled into the grand vizier's seat.
Bagdhad remebers.
Only then did Prince Mustapha take his father's place, embodying the regal presence and responsibility expected of the heir to the throne.
Seated in their respective places, the council assembled around the grand chamber, each individual assuming their designated roles. Prince Mustapha, embodying the gravity of his position, initiated the audience with precision, addressing the arriving merchants with pointed inqueries.
His questions cut through the air, probing into the intricate dealings and intentions of the affluent visitors. Despite their wealth and influence, the prince remained resolute, unruffled by the potential threat posed by these formidable figures. He navigated the dialogue with calculated finesse, aware of their power yet asserting the unassailable might of the royal authority.
The merchants, accustomed to asserting dominance, found themselves under the shrewd scrutiny of the prince. His precise queries left little room for ambiguity, subtly reminding them of the limits to their influence within the caliph's realm.
One of the merchants, adorned in opulent robes, leaned forward respectfully, his tone measured yet earnest. "Your Highness, we assure you, our ventures do not bear ill intent toward the kingdom. We comply diligently with the agreed-upon taxes and regulations set forth by the caliphate."
Prince Mustapha, maintaining a composed demeanor, nodded, acknowledging their words without yielding his vigilant gaze. "Your commitment to compliance is duly noted. However, the realm's security remains a paramount concern."
"Lady Maevelynn," one of the merchants began cautiously, "you, of all people, must understand the complexities of trade. We don't scrutinize every partner or associate…"
Maeve, her expression observant, acknowledged their statement with a subtle nod. "Indeed, the nuances of trade are as vast as the desert itself. However, in matters that concern the realm's stability, every thread of association merits careful consideration, or doesn't it, Lord Akmar?"
As the exchanges drew to a delicate pause, Jamal, the royal advisor, found his voice amid the weighty silence. "Y-yes, of course," he stammered.
Maeve caught a fleeting moment where Jamal's eyes met those of the merchants' leader, a subtle but telling exchange that passed between them.
Prince Mustapha, maintaining his regal composure, delivered his verdict with measured authority. "It is imperative that any information pertinent to the kingdom's crisis be promptly conveyed to the crown. With that, we conclude this audience. Safe travels."
The merchants, their countenances betraying a subtle satisfaction, departed the chamber with an air of triumph. Their leader, his gaze fixed on Maeve, conveyed a silent message—a lingering intensity hinting at undisclosed intentions.
As the doors closed behind the departing merchants, the prince, now shedding the formality of his earlier stance, revealed a trace of melancholy in his expression. "They won't aid us, and we're no closer to unraveling the truth," he lamented, his voice heavy with disappointment.
Maeve, her gaze following the merchants' departure, turned to the prince with understanding and resolve. "They're driven by their greed, but they're not foolish," she remarked,"Their pockets grow heavier amidst this crisis, they will not disclose their sources…"
Amidst the heavy atmosphere of concern, Prince Mustapha sighed, his gaze filled with sadness. "Their pockets are becoming heavier, and my people are suffering," he lamented, the weight of his people's plight weighing heavily on his shoulders.
Jamal, ever stammering, spoke up, "The guards r-reported some new riots in the city today."
Akmar, the royal treasurer, suggested sternly, "We should increase the punishments, My Prince, to deter further unrest."
Instantly, Prince Mustapha shook his head in disagreement, his voice firm. "No," he protested, and Maeve added her voice, "The people are already on the brink..."
"The crown needs taxes in case of war," retorted Akmar sharply, defending his position.
"What war, Lord Akmar?" queried the prince, his brow furrowing in confusion. "My parents are just making a peace pact."
"We we we must be re-ready for any circumstance, my my my prince," Jamal chimed in, seeking to rationalize the need for preparedness.
In the midst of this tense deliberation, the youngest of the royal siblings, four-year-old Prince Salim, dashed into the chamber, followed closely by Prince Osman, second in line to the throne.
"Forgive me, Mustapha, he escaped my watch," apologized Prince Osman.
A fleeting moment of levity softened the gravity in the room as those gathered smiled at the youngest prince's exuberance. Prince Salim, in all his innocence, addressed Maeve with a polite bow. "Lady Marvelynn, is Marina with you?"
Regret touched Maeve's expression as she replied warmly, "Unfortunately not, my prince. Marina is now traveling with her father."
Prince Salim's eyes lit up with excitement, "Have you heard, Mustapha? She will probably have great adventures!"
"I'm sure she'll tell you everything when she returns," reassured Prince Mustapha, scooping his younger brother into his arms. Then, turning to his older brother, he pledged, "Osman, you will go with me to the city streets. I want to ease the tension, connect with the people."
Lord Akmar clearly wanted to protest but Prince Mustapha was faster. "Lord Akmar, your responsibility is to ensure the safety of our desert guests. Report any suspicious activity directly to me."
Lord Akmar, though visibly discontent, responded with a grim affirmation. "Yes, My Prince."
Meanwhile, the youngest Prince Salim, ever eager to assist, inquired about his role. "And what task do you have for me, Mustapha? Can I go with you and Osman?"
With a gentle shake of his head, Mustapha gently denied his brother's request. "No, my brother. Your duty lies here at the palace. Guard the rest of the brothers and Lord Jamal."
"Mustapha, no one knows where Mehmet is," Osman interjected, concern etched on his face.
The weight of responsibility pressed upon Mustapha's shoulders as he sighed heavily. "Find him, Lord Jamal, and keep a vigilant eye on everyone." He then turned to Jamal and handed him the youngest prince. "We all need to be careful"
Addressing Maeve with genuine concern then, "My lady, I insist you accept the royal escort."
Maeve's smile held both warmth and determination. "Thank you, my prince, but I can take care of myself. I will continue my efforts to gather information that might aid us in these troubled times."
As the members of the court dispersed to fulfill their assigned duties, Lord Akmar took charge of escorting Maeve. Walking down the grand palace corridor, he could not contain his comment any longer. "I said it was unwise, summoning the desert guilds to the palace," he remarked.
Maeve responded with a sharpness that cut through the air. "Perhaps, Lord Akmar, and perhaps not," she retorted, her tone carrying an undercurrent of determination. "I shall delve to the root of this problem," she declared, fixing him with a direct gaze that brooked no argument. "And now, please excuse me, I have matters to attend to."
With an air of regal pride, Maeve continued on her path, her strides purposeful and her heels resonating with deliberate echoes against the polished marble floor.
"Damn it!" Maeve's frustration simmered within her as she departed from the palace, grappling with the disappointment of another dead end in her quest for answers. With a deft motion, she removed her heavy earrings. Determined to clear her mind, she opted for a stroll toward the port.
Observing the residents of Baghdad as she walked, she sensed an ominous tension hanging in the air, a palpable unease she could not quite place.
As if something evil really hung in the air.
But what?
Upon reaching the port, Maeve's attention was drawn not to the different cargos but to the flurry of passengers hurriedly boarding ships at several docks.
Were people running away?
Her gaze lingered sadly upon the empty dock where the Nomad usually docked, a stark reminder of the absence that troubled her.
Nearby, a repair crew labored on one of their fleet's ship, but progress seemed stagnant. Parts and tools cluttered the platform, obstructing her path. Carefully lifting the hem of her dress, Maeve navigated the scattered debris, stepping cautiously to avoid disturbing anything. Her voice cut through the chaos as she called out, "Jasir!"—seeking the person in charge of this mess
As the young, dashing captain, Jasir, rushed forward, his surprise at seeing Maeve amidst the chaos was evident. "Maeve! I didn't notice you," he exclaimed, slightly taken aback.
"Not surprising in this mess," Maeve quipped, her expression demanding an explanation for the disarray.
Jasir sighed, leaning his hammer against his shoulder. "It would have gone better if someone had been willing to sell us materials."
Concern etched on her features, Maeve asked, "You can't buy parts?"
"No one wants to help us," Jasir lamented. "People seem to blame everyone for the crisis."
Maeve's disbelief was evident and Jasir continued, "I thought the servant from the palace you sent to help told you."
Maeve questioned, "What servant from the palace?" Her gaze caught sight of a boy in dirty clothes attempting to conceal himself. With a roll of her eyes, she placed her hands on her hips, staring pointedly at the boy. "Prince Mehmet!"
Caught in his falsehood, the boy put down his tools, bowing sheepishly to her.
"Your brother is worried about you…"
"My brother has other responsibilities now," The Prince uttered in a low voice, attempting to justify his actions.
"That's right, and that's why he needs the support of the other princes," Maeve added, her words carrying a weight of importance in the tumultuous times gripping the kingdom.
As the young prince, visibly distressed, hastily departed, promising to return to the palace, Maeve watched him disappear into the throng of people at the port.
Jasir, sensing her disapproval, raised his hands in a gesture of defense. "How was I supposed to know?"
Maevell, feeling the weight of the situation, only let out a heavy sigh, her attention was drawn to a group of merchants moving through the area—a familiar sight. Recognizing them from the audience at the palace, she became intrigued and approached, prompting Jasir to trail a few steps behind her, signaling the crew with a concerned nod.
Before Maeve could interject, the leader of the merchants caught sight of her. "What a meeting…" His tone sharp and direct.
"I was about to say the same," Maeve replied.
"Well, we're just minding our own business." He eyed Maeve pointedly. "As do you, my lady, as I see."
Maeve held her ground, her gaze steady as she scrutinized the merchant in front of her. His words held an air of warning as he continued, "They say one shouldn't look into your eyes, that they carry a curse."
Unfazed, Maeve's response was enigmatic. "So you are risking a lot at the moment," she countered, her tone carrying a hint of mystery.
"I only believe in the magic of money," the merchant retorted.
Maeve's piercing observation cut through the air. "Support for smuggling must provide a lot of it," she insinuated, her words laced with accusation. "To you, the war would also benefit."
The merchant leader, adept at sidestepping direct confrontation, responded evasively, "Everything has a price," and he added in a moment . "Even information costs money."
Maeve's unwavering gaze persisted as he continued, his next words cutting through the tension. "Lately, a good price is for information about the whereabouts of your daughter."
Instantly, Jasir and the entire crew reacted, drawing their swords in a protective stance, poised to defend Maeve at any cost.
But the merchant leader, unfazed by the show of force, maintained his composure. "I have no bad intentions," he assured calmly, seemingly unsurprised by their reaction.
Maeve signaled to her crew to lower their weapons, her hand conveying a message of caution and peace.
The merchant, now adopting a conciliatory tone, sought to clarify, "I am not your enemy, Maeve, but there are many." His voice dropped to a whisper, a cryptic warning lingering in the air. "You're looking in the wrong place."
With a gesture of innocence, the merchants bowed respectfully before departing, leaving an air of mystery and caution in their wake. Maeve stood, her thoughts racing, pondering the cryptic warnings. Her hand instinctively went to the necklace. She touched the tiny gold shell with her fingers, as if to make sure it was still there. As if I could make sure that the owner of the twin necklace was also where she should be.
As Jasir watched the departing merchants with a wary glance, he voiced his unease. "I don't think I like it..."
"They don't pose a threat," Maeve reassured him, her attention diverted to the ongoing repairs on the ship. "And I don't think I like this..." Her gaze fixated on the disarray surrounding the vessel under repair.
Jasir explained, "I don't have the materials or the men. There's still a problem with the broken mast."
Maeve inspected the damage, acknowledging the challenge ahead. "I'll try to get the materials…"
Unexpectedly, a warm and familiar voice broke through the tension. "Maybe I can help?"
Recognizing the voice instantly, though utterly surprised, Maeve turned around to find Adien approaching them. He had likely just disembarked from the ship moored at the adjacent dock. Maeve managed a smug greeting, despite her astonishment at his sudden appearance. "Aiden," she said, a small smile playing on her lips.
Adien, exhibiting his charm, bowed gallantly to her. "You look stunning as usual. Time has stopped for you, Maeve," he remarked before kissing her hand, his manner polished and elegant as always.
Maeve, though inwardly noting the passage of time on Aidan's features, observed a shift in his demeanor since their last encounter. There was something different, an aura of transformation that transcended the physical changes.