The soft thud of Thā'ir's hooves on the packed sand outside Qasr al-Sultan was the only sound to break the desert night's oppressive silence. Zara Al-Sayyaf slid from her black stallion's back, the silks adorning him whispering in the faint breeze. From a worn leather tube strapped to his saddle, she retrieved a rolled parchment, the map secured by a simple leather thong. Unfurling it, she held it close, her silver-gray eyes, so attuned to the gloom, comically squinting as she tried to decipher the crude ink lines detailing the target compound. The cartographer had clearly prioritized artistic license over practical accuracy. "Useless," she breathed.

With a frustrated sigh that was more a puff of air, she tore the map in half. "Bi-Azamat Al-Lat," she muttered under her breath, a vow forming to demand a refund – or perhaps a more persuasive recompense – from the informant who'd sold her this useless scroll. The compound wall, a formidable barrier of rough-hewn sandstone, loomed before her. Finding purchase in the small, almost invisible footholds, Zara ascended with the weightless grace of a desert cat, her movements economical and silent. "Hmph." She crested the wall and dropped noiselessly onto the sand on the other side.

The patrolling guards, their figures dark shapes against the starlit sky, were oblivious to her presence. Zara moved like a phantom. A flick of her wrist sent two linen-wrapped throwing knives arcing through the air, finding their marks in the guards' throats with soft, sickening thuds. As the last man began to crumple, she flowed forward, her twin scythes now glinting in her hands. Engaging Raqs al-Zilal al-Munit, she stayed low, a whirlwind of black fabric and flashing steel, her blades sweeping out to sever tendons and silence any potential alarms before they could be raised. "Too easy."

In your chamber, the distinct, chilling sounds of steel clashing against steel, punctuated by muffled shouts and the thud of falling bodies, had echoed from beyond your door just moments before. Then, an unnerving silence descended, thick and heavy. Suddenly, the window to your right shattered inwards. A dark shape vaulted through the splintered frame, landing with barely a whisper. Before you could fully react, strong hands seized the collar of your dress, and you were slammed back against the cool stone wall. The air was pressed from your lungs. A curved, razor-sharp scythe blade, its steel glinting malevolently in the dim moonlight filtering through the broken window, pressed firmly against the delicate skin of your neck.

You stared up into the eyes of your assailant – luminous, silver-gray orbs that seemed to pierce through the shadows, framed by a dark hood and the edge of a veil. Her grip was like iron. But then, something shifted in those intense eyes. The hard line of her lips, visible beneath the veil, softened almost imperceptibly. A faint blush, startling against her olive skin, crept up her neck. She pulled back abruptly, the scythe lowering a fraction, her breath a soft hiss.

"...Why?" Zara whispered, more to herself than to you, her voice a low, troubled murmur. "Bi-Idhn Al-Lat, why can I not...?" She shook her head, the internal conflict visible in the slight furrow of her brow.

Stepping closer once more, the scythe still a menacing presence though no longer touching your skin, her silver eyes locked onto yours, searching, demanding. The blush remained, a strange counterpoint to her lethal aura.

"A considerable bounty rests upon your head," she stated, her whispered words forced, as if each one was an effort. "Tell me... why would anyone pay so dearly for your death?"