The Setting Sun
Clang—!
The scale layer, deprived of its structural supports, poured onto the floor in a shower of debris. Crimson velvet exposed in ugly patches, jewels rolling across the ground. Justus's face, standing before that pathetic pile of trash, was as pale as a corpse drained of blood.
I casually adjusted the curved sword at my waist, feigning nonchalance, then pulled a few well-dried parchment scrolls from inside my robe. I tossed them lightly to a scribe standing off to one side of the banquet hall.
Inside were the intel Jamal had risked his life collecting at my side, info on the Assassins obtained through Zaid, interrogation results from Hakim on the mercenaries, and testimonies from the apprentices who'd spilled their guts one after another. A comprehensive package crammed with circumstantial evidence, suspicions, and hard proof—a one-way ticket to rock bottom that Justus couldn't dodge, stripping him of his envoy position without a second thought.
The scribe skimmed the contents cautiously, sensed the gravity of the matter, and hurriedly passed the documents to a page. The page rushed straight to Duqaq, and at the malik's cold nod, the herald began reading them out with unwavering dignity.
As the reading continued, the banquet hall's atmosphere froze solid in an instant. Dirty backroom dealings were common enough in noble society, but an envoy representative brazenly hiring assassins and committing arson on foreign soil? And getting caught red-handed? It was way over the line—pure dogshit.
Not just the Damascus nobles, but even his fellow Edessa nobles glared at him like he was a bug infesting the delegation. Most damning of all, this whole mess had been exposed in front of the entire delegation at the official grand banquet.
Led by Guillaume, the rest of the envoys were already treating Justus like a sacrificial lamb, but now that it had escalated to this public thrashing, they couldn't intervene even if they wanted to. Better to make him the real scapegoat. As if on cue, they subtly stepped away from Justus, creating distance—a perfectly timed cut-off, measured to the inch.
Oh, is that the power of noble politics? Or Only one idiot in the bunch. It was that clean.
"Th-this is all a plot! That filthy foreign smith tricked me into a trap!"
Justus let out a scream like his throat was ripping, but no fool bought into his nonsense.
"Pathetic, Justus."
Duqaq's heavy voice crushed the hall. He set down his wine goblet and rose, the title "Sir" already stripped from how he addressed him—staring like a predator eyeing prey.
"Damascus treated you as a guest, yet you committed vile crimes on my territory. This insults my authority and sins against your own faith. Is this the will of the entire delegation, or a challenge to me?"
Duqaq's gaze slid naturally to Guillaume, who—as we'd discussed—hurriedly distanced himself, trembling theatrically. Or maybe not so theatrically?
"Malik! This man's crimes have nothing to do with our delegation's will. It's shameful we ever associated with such a scoundrel!"
Perfect cut-off.
Whether Guillaume's pragmatism felt like betrayal or not, Justus's eyelids twitched in rage. But pinned down by the guards, what could he do? Just flail.
"This man's atrocities have soiled the honor of sacred knighthood and undermined our delegation's purpose. The Kingdom of Jerusalem and County of Edessa will no longer recognize this wretch as one of ours. Here and now, I strip Justus of his envoy position and revoke all his authority."
Duqaq eyed Justus with a smile mixing satisfaction at the good news and smugness at the inevitable dent to the delegation's prestige. Once diplomatic immunity vanished, squashing one knight was his call. Without that shield, even as a Rethel, Justus had no protection—especially not some nobody like him, not Baldwin II himself. The Rethel family in Edessa? In this climate, immunity gone meant nothing. No longer an envoy, he was just prime cooking material with no self-defense.
Bonus for Duqaq: The delegation ditching a Rethel would piss off Baldwin II big time, burdening the whole group. Win-win.
"Very well."
Duqaq's pleased murmur filled the space.
"Hear this, sinner: You have broken Damascus's solemn laws and betrayed the trust of a guest. Even your brothers see no reason to keep you—that's how grave your evil. The honor you cry for is worth less than a handful of sand. You are unfit as a knight."
At Duqaq's gesture, the elite guards slammed Justus fully to the floor.
"Thus, as this land's rightful ruler, I punish you. His knighting is revoked henceforth. His arms, horse, and all property will be seized and given to the wronged industrial district!"
Justus spasmed at that, reduced to plain "Justus" now, but it wasn't over. Duqaq had no intention of stopping—going in hard to break him completely.
"Furthermore, throw this man into the deepest dungeon beneath the citadel to stew in his crimes' weight. Don't think gold will buy you out."
"No! Kill me instead! Stripping a knight's honor and the underground dungeon? Malik!"
Justus thrashed as the guards tore the knightly crest-embroidered surcoat from his chest. The ornate cloak, jeweled belt—all ripped away. For a noble knight who'd lived arrogantly his whole life, rotting as a filthy prisoner worse than a commoner, without sunlight in a shithole, was hell beyond death.
After Justus was dragged out howling like a beast, the remaining envoys scrambled to salvage the mood, eyes darting.
In the silence, I quietly sipped my wine. The pathetic end of an arrogant fool who thought himself the rising sun. What better appetizer?
*
The next day, as if yesterday's bloody storm was a lie, Damascus's morning dazzled with peace.
The rat gnawing at the industrial district shot to the underground dungeon? The artisans were in festival mode. Topping it off, the blacksmith guild that'd hounded us got properly raked over by the watch—minus Jamal's family, of course.
Even without that, our crew's vibe wouldn't change. Sabbath, inspection day, and now today—three straight days off. How could they not rejoice? And on a rest day, the district buzzed for another reason.
October 7th. A day truly needing a celebration party.
Miriam's birthday—the one she'd nagged about for weeks.
Thanks to that, apprentices to master artisans gathered in the yard despite the day off, partying from midday.
"Alright, everything's on me today—celebrate my precious daughter's birthday to your hearts' content!"
Hamza the doting dad bellowed across the vast yard.
And a three-day weekend from Saturday to Monday—all paid vacation, the sweetest perk. The workers cheered and clinked goblets with genuine joy.
At the center, today's star: Miriam. She clinked with us, radiant in festive garb and an even brighter smile, savoring the moment. Maybe because her outfit—dressed to the nines like our last outing—sparkled under the sun. She felt more vivid, more glowing today.
Thanking well-wishers one by one, Miriam kept glancing at me slyly, the protagonist yet cueing me. Hurry up and wish me happy birthday, her pout said.
Her cute glances made me smile faintly as I approached. "Miriam, happy birthday."
I pulled a carefully wrapped wooden box from my robe and handed it over.
"What's this, Baraka?"
"A commemorative gift for your nineteenth year. Open it."
Inside was a stiletto forged from the leftover steel for my curved sword. Its dark steel sheen stayed sharp and fierce, damascus waves rippling the full blade. The olive wood hilt ended in a sparkling amber gem matching her eyes.
Familiar like a card, yet exuding a subtle, frost-like allure. Fitting name: "I called it Saqee. Means anyone stabbed by it will choke out their last like they've been sliced by icy frost."
"Oh my god... it's so beautiful."
Miriam's eyes sparkled like the amber.
"Can I really accept something this precious?"
"It's a weapon to protect you—made from the finest materials. Carry it always."
She smiled shyly, then—no sooner had I finished—slid the sheathed dagger right between her cleavage.
"Hehe, if I'm carrying it always, this is the safest spot, right?"
Her bouncy, innocent laugh fixed my gaze dizzyingly low. I missed it: the sticky, resolute sincerity in her upward gaze, so unlike her usual self.
Only Hasim, watching from afar, caught that dangerous look by chance. But he had no reason to interfere.
It passed like that.
The birthday party raged wildly till the sun set and the moon hung high. Only after drunken artisans started snoring on the ground did quiet finally settle the rowdy district.
To shake off the booze, I stepped into the yard for night air.
By the fountain bathed in moonlight, Miriam sat alone, gazing at the starry sky.
Past midnight now. She was fully an adult.
Suddenly, I recalled the day we met. Her surrounded by thug mercenaries in a back alley. Honestly, till I saved her, I thought she was an adult. Childish face, but her figure and aura were too mature.
So I'd humored her advances moderately—till I learned she was just 18, panicking inside with guilt pangs.
But even that's fond past memory now.
Miriam slowly turned, eyes on me—like she'd been waiting. Her gaze oddly misty.
"Still not asleep?"
My cautious question only deepened the smile on her lips.
The smile of a woman blooming in joy at finally getting the attention she'd craved. Blended with the moonlit night—how beautiful?
Moonlight and that smile seemed to highlight her curves, pert nose, every alluring inch. No words too flowery for this moment.
As I thought that, Miriam approached slowly. Her girlish skips now a mature stride, exuding womanly poise.
"I was waiting."
She closed in till she was chest-to-chest. The rustle of thin fabric and her thick, sweet acacia scent wafted over.
"Midnight's passed, Baraka."
Her whisper as she looked to the western sky evoked oasis memories. Venus then; now the moon together.
Following her gaze to the moon—then her clear, large eyes shifted, staring straight up at me.
No shy innocence from our first meeting—just clear, burning desire filling them.
"Am I... finally a perfect adult in your eyes?"
Her small hands touched my chest, yanking my thobe's collar hard—like she'd never let go.
Our faces drew perilously close. Hot breaths mingled between lips.
In the desert's chill night air, a night for two with no retreat, no thought of it, deepened.