Altan

I’ve never been too fond of the man currently trudging before me.

Or the conspicuous meeting places he favors so.

Today we trudge down a small alleyway, moving sideways to avoid brushing the crumbling walls on either side of us. This place isn’t like the others we’ve toured, full of life and breathtaking architecture. I’m afraid one nudge and they’d collapse over my father as he stops at a small green door, the paint mostly chipped off. He raises a bare hand to it, knocking thrice.

He pauses.

Knocks again.

The stubble on his jaw twitches as he clenches it.

I clear my throat.

“Father, are you sure this is the right place?”

He doesn’t answer. A few more restless moments pass, punctuated with my father pulling out his silver pocket watch and glaring at it. Just when I think we’re a second away from returning home, the door creaks open.

One brown eye peers at us through the sliver of space. Moves up and down, assessing our navy blue getups, my father’s adorned with his pins and badges. At last, the door swings open to reveal a slightly hunched Mateeqi man, one hand on the door while the other clutches a walking stick. It wobbles precariously as he edges away to let us in, and I take a step forward to aid him.

Father grips my arm.

The man’s eyes land on his grip on my sleeve and narrow just the slightest bit.

“Peace be upon you, General,” he greets. “Please, do come in.”

I wait for the clinking of his medals to cease as he climbs the steps and enters, disappearing into the dim residence before following.

“Salam, Uncle,” I murmur.

The interior of this residence is nothing like its crumbling shell, decorated with bright rugs and handwoven tapestries, with odd flower arrangements littering every table. Crystal wind chimes hang from the open window, where a green-eyed cat lounges. Its eyes slide over the new guests as if assessing for a threat. The smell of chai wafts through the space and caresses my senses.

This place is a home, filled with light and warmth. A warmth that my father seems to be expelling as he clears his throat. The house goes silent. The wind chimes stop waving in the breeze. Nothing moves apart from the cat. Its eyes stay fixated on the General.

A middle-aged man limps into the room, a tray in his hand. The teacups on it wobble precariously, seconds away from spilling until he sets them on the table between us.

He doesn’t extend a hand as I expect him to, instead opting to incline his head slightly at my father.

“General Khalil,” he speaks. “It is an honor to have you with us.” His voice is devoid of emotion. “Please, have a seat.”

My father sits on the woven chairs, observing the man as he pours chai into glass cups.

“I appreciate your hospitality Sahil, but pray tell, where is Kaiser?”

Sahil’s face betrays nothing at the lack of title, even as his hands shake. A few droplets of tea fall onto the table.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“The Maharajah should be here any minute now. Perhaps he is running late tonight.”

The General says nothing, eyes singing holes into the tea Sahil has spilled.

I shift my weight onto one leg as minutes pass. Sahil has left the room, and the old man from before is nowhere to be seen. The house seems cold now. Cold and bleak, like my father’s tea sitting on the table, forgotten. I don’t dare to breathe too loud, blinking only when I need to.

I hear something rustle.

Silence.

And then footsteps. Barely noticeable footsteps, coming from someplace I cannot identify. My eyes shift to my father. He shows no sign, no acknowledgment of having heard them.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They’re unmistakable, and this time I’m sure I haven’t imagined them. I look around the room, a hand drifting towards the gun at my side.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They’re not around us. They’re coming from above us.

A knock sounds at the door, and my gun is out of its holster and into my hand, the cool metal biting into my palm. I point it at the door. My heart beats so loud I feel it rushing in my ears. My father still hasn’t moved an inch.

Something is wrong.

The door slams open, navy-clad guards pouring through, guns loaded and ready. A flash of blond tells me that Zaffiel has taken my side, ready to take down whatever threat has presented itself. But there is only silence.

No tapping. Not even the faint sound of breathing.

I can tell the guards are agitated, confused as their arms tire from holding up their weapons. Zaffiel’s eyes meet mine, his ice-blue eyes dark as he quirks a brow. I use one hand to signal to the roof. Two fingers to signal “footsteps”.

He frowns. Signals back.

“No one above.”

I look around once more, scanning the room. The back of my neck tingles, and I know we’re being watched. I turn. My eyes stray towards the ceiling. There’s a small grate there, one I failed to notice before.

Two eyes stare into mine, dark and silent. Something glints near them.

And then it happens.

I hear the blade cut through air before I see it, and it hits my shoulder, a searing pain climbing through my body. Dark spots cloud my vision as I hiss, and all is chaos as I my knees hit the floor, a burning ache reverberating through my legs.

Zaffiel is shouting something I can’t make out above the din, hauling my limp body up roughly. I groan. There’s blood on his uniform. Is it mine or his? His lips continue to move, and bullets clink as they hit the roof.

The home I so admired has now begun to blur around the edges. Wincing, my teeth gnash together as I try to regain my focus. This is a minor injury, and I’ve suffered worse.

Agony laces up my neck in response.

The General has stood now, a crease between his brow the only sign of emotion he shows as he glances at me, his eyes empty. It can’t be concern or worry. Perhaps he is annoyed I have allowed myself to become so fragile and unguarded. It takes me too long to realize his fist is clenched around a spherical object.

No.

My father is holding a grenade.

Zaffiel’s hand tightens on my side. My head lolls towards him. His lips are moving.

“Altan? Can you hear me?”

I open my mouth to respond.

He calls my name again.

I can’t breathe.

And then we’re moving. We stumble down the steps as he drags me, while I struggle to maneuver my shaky legs. I feel useless, like a mere fawn taking its first steps. My navy uniform is drenched in my blood, and it sticks to my skin uncomfortably. I bite my tongue, the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Force my lips to speak.

“The General-” I choke.

Zaffiel says nothing in return, a muscle in his jaw feathering. I want to tell him. The empty pit in my stomach tells me he knows. We keep moving away from the alley, my feet dragging in the dirt. There’s an ache in my chest, and it is not because of the dagger lodged in my shoulder. My mouth is filled with blood as I stop biting down on my tongue.

“Stop,” I say.

He does not oblige, moving even faster than before.

“Zaffiel, stop.”

We skid to a pause in the dirt. I can barely feel my feet, numbness spreading up towards my torso. I take hold of his shoulder, using its weight to support me when I turn back towards the alley. We’re a safe distance from it now, and my father and his guard are nowhere to be seen.

“It’s too late,” Zaffiel murmurs.

My breathing is labored as the ache spreads from my chest to my stomach.

I feel sick.

We wait in silence until it explodes.

The booming sound is a nightmare given flesh as the remnants of the home are set aflame, its walls crumbling like age-old paper. I fall to my knees. There’s screaming. My mouth is open yet I am silent. We watch crushed bodies pulled out, limbs too mangled, and jutting out in odd places to show any sign of life. There is a boy, thin and willowy, holding a small bloody pile of flesh in his arms. Tears roll down his cheeks, streaking through the dirt on his face. It is the cat, I realize. Feeling the weight of my stare, his glassy eyes shift towards us, landing on mine. Bile makes its way up my throat.

His vengeful stare is the last thing I see before the world goes dark.