Samarkand

        The golden twilight embraced Samarkand, draping its turquoise domes and minarets in a supernatural glow. The winding, bustling alleys of the market resounded with the shouts of merchants, the chatter of customers in many tongues, and the metallic clatter of craftsmen at work. The scent of spices, tanned leather, and ripe fruit floated in the air, blending exoticism with effervescence.

As the animated crowd pressed around him, Amatsu, in the guise of Amano Kagaseo, walked with a calm yet assured pace. His dark silhouette stood in stark contrast to the vivid colors of the stalls and the passersby’s garments. Anyone who crossed his path seemed to instinctively move aside, as though an invisible force repelled them. Conversations suddenly broke off, eyes turned away, and a tense atmosphere filled the space.

He stopped before a stall piled high with silks of intricate patterns, brushing the fabric lightly with his fingers. He perceived subtle vibrations, not from the market, but from an underlying energy — a chaotic current he knew was tied to Morriganne. She was here, nearby.

A fleeting shimmer in the air suddenly caught his gaze. A crooked smile touched his lips. He knew she was about to appear.

Morriganne was watching the market from an overhanging terrace, concealed by the shifting shadows of awnings. She had exchanged her contemporary clothing for a flowing black gown threaded with silver, which captured the twilight glow. Her long hair, fiery and free, stood in sharp contrast with her dark attire.

She observed him intently, her sparkling green eyes filled with both fury and wonder. Amatsu was an unfathomable mystery to her, a brutal force she longed to dominate or annihilate. Yet a doubt was growing within her, amplified by the Guardian’s words.

She raised a hand, and filaments of chaotic energy began to form around her fingers, glimmering like shards of glass. The threads danced and swirled, converging into a throbbing sphere of raw energy. She drew a deep breath before releasing her attack.

The sphere crashed onto the ground before Amatsu. A silent, devastating shock followed, overturning stalls and hurling fabrics and precious objects into the air. A thick haze, charged with luminous particles, enveloped the scene, turning the market into a spectral battlefield.

But this was only the beginning. Morriganne began performing a silent ritual. Her hands traced precise arcs in the air, drawing complex sigils that anchored themselves to the symbols woven into the carpets spread around them. The colorful patterns of the rugs seemed to come alive, every loop and arabesque vibrating with its own energy.

— Samarkand truly is a mosaic of stories and emotions, Amatsu! she cried in a cutting voice. But you are losing yourself in its labyrinth!

The carpets began to twist and ripple, as if animated by a will of their own. They coiled their motifs around Amatsu, forming a shifting cage of chaotic symbols. Each inscribed sigil pulsed to the rhythm of an ancient melody, an ethereal chant rising from the depths of the city’s history.

Amatsu felt the pressure mounting. The carpets, nourished by the concentrated emotions of the city, had evolved into a complex web of mystical energy. The feelings deeply embedded in the stones and walls of the market — hope, betrayal, love, and despair — intertwined with the threads of the rugs, forming an inescapable trap.

Yet he was not one to be caged. He was the master of primordial chaos.

— Do you really think I cannot turn your emotions against you, Morriganne? he said, a dark gleam in his eyes.

He closed his eyes and stretched out his arms, absorbing the emotional energy of the carpets, as well as that of the market and its stalls, transforming it into a pulsing wave of shadow. The sigils began to disintegrate, each fragment rebounding toward Morriganne as amplified pain. She staggered back, a rictus twisting her lips, while her own distress merged with that which she had summoned.

But Amatsu did not stop there. He straightened, extending a hand that seemed to draw in all the chaotic energy around him. His fingers closed slowly, as though clutching an invisible substance. Morriganne felt a sharp pain pierce her chest.

— It is over, Morriganne! he whispered in an icy voice.

She choked, clutching her chest tightly, powerless before the elusive presence that crushed her. The rays surrounding her body gradually dimmed, her vital strength dissipating like sand swept away by a sudden wind.

Yet just before the darkness could fully engulf her, a brilliant light burst forth, dazzling and purifying. The Guardian appeared, her ethereal figure radiating a peace both gentle and unyielding.

— That is enough! she declared, her voice resonant like a cosmic chime.

With a fluid gesture, she shattered Amatsu’s grip and enveloped Morriganne in a bubble of light. The pain vanished instantly, leaving her breathless but still fixed upon him. Amatsu recoiled, his dark pupils locked on the Guardian.

— You interfered… That is not your role, he growled.

The Guardian met his gaze directly, a faint smile playing across her almost human features.

— And yet… here I am.

She turned toward Morriganne, inclining her head slightly before speaking softly:

— Sometimes, it is not for us to decide who watches and who acts.

Her gaze drifted between them, never revealing for whom she spoke.

— We will meet again, Morriganne… perhaps sooner than you think! she said.

And before any reply could be made, a burst of light carried them both away, leaving Amatsu alone in the ruined market.

---

The interrogation room was steeped in absolute silence, disturbed only by the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Dave, his wrists still bound to the metal chair, stared at a point beyond the ceiling. The harsh light offered no refuge for shadows.

Suddenly, an unexpected scent filled the air: the fragrance of Turkish tobacco, thick and enveloping, like an echo from another world. Dave smiled almost in spite of himself.

— You smoke, but you don’t show yourself, he murmured. With a sigh, he added: That is so typical of you!

No one dared to speak. Yet the presence was tangible, floating in the charged air. A chair creaked faintly, as if someone had just sat down.

Dave closed his eyes. He thought he heard a distant sound — halfway between a sigh and a smile.

— Sometimes, it is not for us to choose who watches and who acts.

He opened his eyes again, but he was alone. The warmth had vanished, the scent dissipated.

A shiver ran through him. He almost smiled, as though someone were sharing his secret.

He whispered: “Samarkand… the stalls, the carpets… that lingering light…”

A muffled laugh echoed against the spotless walls. Then Dave was left alone, his frail silhouette cut out against the pitiless glare of the neon.