AN: This is a special chapter, featuring some side characters we barely saw -- but that largely influence the story! This is for you all for your continuous support and love, which I can't thank you enough for. There is a ton of hints in here, so keep your eyes sharp! An ancient order of stars, one prisoner of his future, one slave of his past. Who will prevail in their mad chess game? Two devils will rise and a city will burn. Way down we go ~

Special thanks to Bookoholic777 for helping with Persian! You're too awesome.

The Devil was running late.

He should have arrived at the Morosini palace an hour ago, but the sleek black gondolas had kept sliding past the golden gate, until the sky had bled out and Maia felt like she had swallowed a bee hive.

She had dubbed the stranger 'the devil'. Who else would make deals with Antonio Morosini?

Maybe it was the strange Greek? No, still in Florence. He and Antonio must already have a deal -- the Greek visited often. And Antonio did not have friends.

Antonio resided behind his giant desk like a bespectacled falcon, surrounded by a forest of book stacks covering every inch not occupied by inkwells and loose parchment. She tried getting her brothers and sisters attention, letting shadow animals crawl across the wall and gnaw at Antonio's head. Maybe she could innocently walk past and drop some itching powder down his shirt --

He shot her a stern glare, then returned to his writings, the scratch of his quill the only sound. How did he always know when she wanted to do that? Maia tugged at her hijab, pretending to right a wrinkle in the silk. She needed to keep her hands busy, unless she wanted to jump through the study like a bouncy ball.

The night sang of trouble, some nervous note lingering between the slow crackle of the fireplace and the rustle of turning pages.

She was a gremlin of trouble, Izar always said. She knew exactly what brooding chaos felt like.

Who were they waiting for? What was Antonio's plan? Why had only a fraction of them been ordered to wait with him?

Antonio hadn't told them anything. He will sway the tide in our favor, was all he had said after Maia had bugged him for days. His admission had startled her. There were whispers back in Arabia of the wayward prince's strange plans, working like clockwork, unfolding in either seconds or years. There was nothing he didn't know, didn't see.

Sway the tide... it meant they weren't winning. Maia wanted to strangle him, to rally her brothers and sisters -- not sit around and grow roots while Antonio read and wrote and brooded. As if nothing was wrong.

But they had their orders.

But things were wrong. They didn't even know how bad. Alkione had been on a simple mission to Florence, just delivering a letter -- never to return. There was too much Antonio didn't tell them.

He didn't trust them. Maia had asked why he needed this new ally -- he had them. "I have your blades," he had answered, without looking up from his scribbles. I do not have your loyalty. He hadn't needed to say it.

Her cheeks had turned hot -- it was true. They were here on direct orders from Altair herself. Whispers had sickered through, of the Sultana fearing for her son's life. Too many forces were gambling with the kingdom's future.

Antonio may be just half Arab, born of a rich Italian merchant and his beautiful Spanish wife, the youngest princess of the Nasrid Emirs of Granada. She had had four sisters, three brothers. Her claim to the throne had been nonexistent. Until death had swept through the Palace. The Emirate of Granada had been handed to a distant cousin -- but the princess had to remarry, secure the aid of the Mamluk. The largest Sultanate spanned Egypt and all lands from Mekka in the south of Arabia to the northern borders of Syria.

Antonio had grown up in Venice, with his father's fierce love to shelter him, but still he was the sudden Sultana's first born. And his right to the throne in Granada was stronger than that of the cousin. People were whispering.

Trust must come hard to him.

He was a half blood, torn between worlds, an outcast wherever he went. Almagshusha, one of them had hissed -- adulterated, royal blood diluted like cheap wine. They didn't say it to his face.

Alkione had been the only one to trust him. He had gravitated towards her, a servant in the Alhambra of Granada, before she had joined the order. And now she was dead, following his orders. He was supposed to be infallible.

The low toll of bells across the water marked another hour passed. Maia could see her tension mirrored on the face's of her brothers and sisters.

Mura's slim form was a shadow near the window, perched onto a stool like a desert lynx, overlooking the canal glittering in the moonlight. Maia had been next to her, but the way the shadows of clouds had flitted over the dark waters had just made her more anxious. The girl didn't seem to move, but her eerie eyes, unnaturally light against her dark bronze skin, raced through the darkness outside. Maia wasn't sure what the silent Bedouin was looking for. Their supposed visitor, an escape route, the best way to scale the roof of the neighboring palace.

Huge Izar leant against the desk, skin darker than midnight, nimble fingers taking a small bronze device apart and putting it back together at alarming speed. He may look like a brick wall, but he was the most awkward softie around. For their sake, Maia hoped the devil would arrive soon. Izar could build grenades out of flower crowns. They were a great team for pranks.

Ankaa bathed in the flames of the fireplace, long limbs draped over a low settee, her fiery red dress shimmering like a snake's hide. The rows of tight black braids spilling down her back sprang to life in the flickering shadows of the fire and turned the Ethiopian into the mythical Medusa before their eyes.

"Kaa," Maia whispered.

The woman turned her head, slitting her eyes. She had a profile like a queen. A heavy golden disk rested atop her forehead, two twins hung from her ears. She even had beautiful ears. Who had beautiful ears? Thick golden rings were wrapped around her slender neck. When Maia and Izar had been recruits, their peers had whispered the assassin bathed in the blood of men to stay beautiful.

Maia swallowed her question, deciding not to ask how long she thought they'd be waiting. She and Izar were the youngest -- she would sound like a child on a travel. This was their first big mission, they needed to prove themselves worthy!

Antonio was still reading. Kharkhoon, she had decided the first day in the palace. Persian for book dragon. Every day she waited to open the door to his study and find him sleeping on a giant pile of books, spitting fire at intruders.

Izar had grumbled Antonio only allowed her to bug him like this was because she reminded him of his fiancé. Ridiculous – Laelia Contarini was gorgeous, with rosy cheeks and hair like spilled ink. Maia was small and round faced with a button nose, laughed too loud, brown skin darkened by the desert sun. Laelia Contarini wore elaborate dresses and silken slippers, Maia a tunic and trousers -- and her hair hid beneath a silken headscarf.

But their relationship wasn't a good one. Maia had a 'concerning talent for making people run their mouth' as Izar put it. The servants had practically tripped over themselves with gossip. The Arab did not care about his fiancé, he had dropped her like a toy fallen out of favor one day.

Though with Antonio, you never knew if he had just decided books were better than people, or if all was part of a plan.

Antonio's flimsy golden framed glasses seemed like a last sad attempt at trying to appear Italian. Useless. His strong black beard, the dark skin, the prominent hook-nose. She had to giggle at the image of an over-sized falcon with tiny glasses turning pages and sipping tea.

Suddenly Mura perked up, tilting her head.

A moment later, Maia could hear steps sounded down the hallway, two sets of boots striking the marble. It was unsettling how well the girl heard. Some said the desert winds whispered to her, carrying secrets across the night, so she never spoke, always listening.

The door was flung open dramatically. Sirrah grinned her tiger's grin, striding through the room to join Ankaa on the settee, propping her boots onto a small table. The Indian spy had a habit of dressing like a man, in a Kaftan – long sleeves, high collar, the back falling down to her ankles like a cloak, all hems embroidered with gold. The baggy Sirwal trousers worn by -- male -- Arabs, tightened at her waist with a broad silk wrap, the handles of twin sickle swords poking out. Her hair was a blueish black, falling motionlessly down her back. If she was feeling particularly bold, she even donned a turban. The Indian spy must enjoy sending men running and seething.

But Maia's eyes were glued to the stranger. She almost felt disappointed -- he didn't look like a devil at all. He was tall and lean, a fine nose and thin lips, pale skin (European nobility must spontaneously catch fire in direct sunlight) with a myriad of freckles that didn't make him look very dangerous. His hair appeared like spilled blood, long auburn waves pulled back into a high ponytail. Oh no, he's good-looking.

There was something about his red uniform... Maia felt like she should recognize it. But there were dozens of uniforms parading up and down the marble bridges between the palaces every day -- just another city official, no fascinating devil.

Then he turned to scan the room and she saw the rest of his face. His eyes were cold and sharp like ice. There was a unnerving, jagged depth to them, like a yawning abyss with sharp edges. Eyes with history, Izar called it. Twin scars ran from above his eyebrows down his cheek.

Maia had to do a double take. They were nearly identical in shape and size, but one was much younger. It looked more precise than the other, as if it had been carved to match the other. The older one was pale and jagged, Maia recognized a strike of fury. With something very sharp.

She should have known, for the devil had once been an angel. The most beautiful of them all.

Antonio rose. He even dressed like an Italian, as if the Venetians would forget his heretic mother if he just tried hard enough. "Signore Cornaro." He extended his hand – good Italian – but the man ignored it.

"Daniele," Antonio spoke as if they were friends, "Meet my –"

"I have no interest in learning the names of your dogs."

Avazi, Maia thought. Asshole. Maybe she should -- Izar shot her a stern look. Hmph.

For a second, Antonio's eyes darkened dangerously. "Know these dogs will rip your throat out if you bat your eyelash at me the wrong way." He sat back in his chair. "Now, we have much to discuss."

An odd dance of insulting each other with beautiful words ensued. They were children with a pretentious vocabulary.

"Who knew he cared?" Maia leaned to whisper to Izar, switching to Arabic. Her Italian wasn't good enough to understand all ways of people calling each other stupid without actually saying so. Antonio spoke Arabic with them.

"He doesn't," Izar rumbled, "He insults us, he insults Morosini. We're all the same mud-blood to him."

Daniele narrowed his eyes at her. "Why don't you tell your merry band of misfits to move their chitter-chatter?"

Harrom Zade. Son of a bitch. This man. Maia had to stifle a laugh. Merry band of misfits? Each one in their odd patchwork of Africans, Arabs and even an Indian was more dangerous than an entire barrack of his dumb policemen.

They were as old as the Prophet, forged as the blade of believers, but they had long shed its shackles. The Prophet had died, the religion split and its followers no longer feared heretics when they slaughtered each other.

They were known as the Alabad. Evermore. A name whispered in narrow streets and palaces alike, by parents scaring their unruly children and kings clinging to their crowns. Deadly shadows, believed by most to be nothing more than a myth, twisting through starry desert nights with cunning Jinn and the shape-shifting Sa'aali. A ghost story to some, a legend to others.

Some called them the starry folk. Creatures falling from the sky as shooting stars, slipping into the shape of a friend to steer fate.

Some believed they had existed once. An ancient order of wisdom, founded by Muhammad himself. Perhaps elite assassins, like the long gone Nizari of the northern mountains. But they had vanished. Eradicated by their enemies or softened by better times until their children's children were ordinary again. People joked, about a particularly fast racer, a soldier stronger than his comrades or a child smarter than its peers -- this one has the blood of Alabad, they would say.

In a way, they were all right. They were the Order of Alabad -- the Order of Evermore. Eternity was their calling. They were curators of time, with libraries spanning like cities in their desert lair. They collected all knowledge. And they were killers. The fanatic faith of the Nizari assassins had been wiped clean by the blades of Alabad.

They were an order of stars. They carried their names from the moment they were illuminated, until their last breath -- burning out on giant pyres in the desert night, like dying stars. And a new one would rise in their stead, forgetting their parents' name and becoming one with their eternity. Their ranks were constellations.

They were lead by the eagles -- Altair and Vega. Altair -- the flying eagle -- commanded the agents, the recruits, the missions. The order of the living. The Lady of the present. Vega -- the falling eagle -- presided over the vaults of time, collected knowledge and chose their victims. The order of the dead. The Lord of the past.

They served no king, no religion, no race more than another.

Another thing that didn't sit right with her. This mission was too vague. They were killers, spies, keepers of balance. But they had been sent to Antonio to follow his every order and to keep him alive no matter what. But what was Antonio doing? What was the order's interest in him?

Certainly, words of the Italian who collected the souls of people in the pages of his books had reached them years ago. Antonio had an empire of knowledge, where secrets were the currency. Of course Alabad was interested in him. And he could lay claim to two thrones.

The order's goals were always laid open for every member. Now they had been sent in blind.

A wink of light pulled her out of her musings -- but it was just the harmless gold of Daniele's uniform. Suddenly it struck her. "It's the Giant's uniform."

Inspector Steno was sentenced to death. Daniele must be his successor.

Izar gave a grumble. In the years they had spent together, Maia had become fluent in Izar-grunts. He clearly doubted the pretty policeman would be of much use to them.

Antonio righted their assumption the next moment. "You are close to Alessandro Steno."

"I do prefer the past tense here."

"I don't cater to preferences."

"And I don't bow to an Arab and his pets."

A wicked smile curled Antonio's lips, everyone in the room tensing – even ever languid Kaa. "Really? I heard you enjoy bending over."

Oh.

"Don't look so disappointed," Izar rumbled, but Maia could see the amused twinkle in his dark eyes.

"Indeed, your brother is rather vocal." Daniele's smile was venomous.

The room froze. Lorenzo was a taboo. His father loathed him with the hatred of a broken heart. Antonio loved his brother dearly, even if the blond had betrayed him. But Antonio let it slide.

He needs him, Maia realized with a start. He is not infallible.

"Congratulations," Antonio smiled, folding his hands. "You were supposed to become inspector years ago -- not Signore Steno. You must be elated to finally claim this title."

Daniele gritted his teeth, fists curling at his sides. Perhaps that was why Antonio had wanted them here -- to prevent the red-head from stabbing him to death with his own quill. "Absolutely delighted."

"So now Lucio Borroni is your superior. I have a proposition."

"Terribly sorry, not interested." Daniele flashed him a sickly sweet smile.

"It concerns Alessandro Steno."

The air stilled.

"I heard you recently met again. Midnight kisses, very moving. You hadn't seen each other for years." Antonio put a hand over his mouth. "Oh no, my mistake. He didn't see you. You kept a very close watch on him."

"Friends close, enemies closer." Daniele's voice was blank.

"Enemies? My, I must be getting blind on my old days. Here I was, so certain my agents reported you hiring the dumbest criminals you could possibly fish out of the canals."

"Blind and crazy, I'm afraid."

"When he just started as an inspector, they scared a few merchants, threatened a few nobles. So blunt and slow..." Antonio feigned pity. "Leaving traces everywhere. Your inspector could follow them like breadcrumbs, putting them behind bars one by one. You forced the bright little boy into a uniform. And the next thing you do is help him." Antonio sighed.

Maia had been wrong. The devil was Antonio Morosini. And he was playing his own wicked game. With all of them.

"What do you want?" Daniele asked, voice dripping venom.

"You."

Izar grimaced. "Has no idea how he sounds. Too much time alone with books."

Maia snorted.

Daniele laughed, but it sounded like a rain of needle sharp glass shards hailing down on them. "Impeccable taste."

"You have the mind of a common whore." Antonio righted his glasses. "Lucio Borroni was also Signore Steno's superior. They did not get along. I'm sure you know, you pleaded with your father to suspend him."

"Did I?" Daniele laughed. "Must have slipped my memory."

"Indeed, though your father loathes Alessandro. I must admit, you're braver than I would have expected. Or very stupid. I'm surprised you don't have more scars yet." Antonio pursed his lips in mock though. "I wager your inspector would love to find out about them. About everything."

"I would hang him and you side by side before you could get another word out."

"Let's see if you're faster than a falcon." Antonio waved his hand.

Ankaa pulled a sealed envelope from the folds of her dress, lips stretching into a delicious smile.

Maia expected Daniele to surrender.

But he sighed, dropping the act. He held up a large golden coin, then tossed it to Antonio. "How about I send a letter, too. Opposite direction, across the sea."

The air seemed to crackle with lightning waiting to strike when Antonio slowly looked up. He twisted the coin in his fingers -- Maia could make out a labyrinth carved into its back.

"A tiny Greek got in my way. Imagine my surprise to see he's my Prince, hiding under a fake name. Do you know what's even better?"

Antonio waved him on. "Do enlighten me."

"You're the one hiding him."

Wait. The strange Greek.The Lost Prince of Crete. He was said to be on a grand tour of the continent -- but it had been years, rumors had risen. The Prince was dead. The Prince had eloped. The Prince had been dethroned by a coup of the ever ruling regent, fled and slowly raised an army.

But why was he with the others in Florence then?

"I think we have an agreement, Signore." Daniele mock bowed. "It's been an absolut pleasure to do business with you." One step from the door, Antonio's voice called him back.

"Alessandro Steno was scared."

Maia held her breath. This was it, the last gambits. A dark knot had formed in her throat as she watched the cold eyes and words aimed like daggers -- there is no winner in the gamble of hearts and souls.

Daniele slowly turned back. "I am aware." His voice sounded tight. "So was I."

"He thinks you betrayed him."

"Perhaps he is right."

"No, you were played against each other."

Daniele gave his empty laugh again. "How philosophical, riddle me a metaphor. Unless... you did it yourself." He almost sounded hopeful.

Hope was a powerful lever.

"No." Antonio used it well, wearing Daniele's nerves thin.

"Then who?" Daniele snapped.

"I think you know." Antonio ran a finger down his eye to his cheek.

Maia could see understanding, then confusion, then regret chase across Daniele's features. They were all scorched away by bitter rage.

Izar was frowning darkly, Ankaa seemed unbothered, Mura was still as always. Maia's heart hammered in her chest. Then Antonio smiled, turning to the agents. "Now, my falcons -- it is time to go hunting." He held out four pieces of parchment to them. A single name on each of them.

Antonio slowly rose, eyes burning into Daniele. "Alessandro will return to a death sentence. We need Lucio Borroni."

"You'll have him."

And then there were two devils, one bitter and broken by the past, one forgotten and scheming for the future.

Venice would burn.

Oh god, so long. I had so many hints to hide here. We are in the endgame now...

I hope you like this mythical order -- Alabad is a protagonist in book two. What do you think of the agents? They are all stars: The eyes 'Mura', the pheonix 'Ankaa', Altair and Vega.

What are your theories? On Gio, Alessandro and Daniele, Antonio's plans, the order's involvement?

Thank you for reading, for supporting, for being the best!

Avis