The hull groaned as the merchant vessel sliced through the swell, heading south, toward the Nuri coastline. Musyoka stood at the bow, arms crossed, cloak flapping in the salty wind. The sea had become a second home to him—a place of observation, of gathering truths too dangerous to speak aloud.
He remembered the first time they docked at the Red Sea port now bustling behind him. A small place nestled in the arid coastline of what modern men called Egypt. The air was thick with incense and cruelty.
The market was nestled behind the harbor wall, concealed from the front-facing docks by high sandstone buildings. But once inside, the rot hit your nose.
