Baghdad, 1171. As he trudges through the desert, the horizon darkens with the signs of an oncoming sandstorm. Fayruz, his pet serpent coiled loosely about his arm, hisses softly, her warning of the shifting air. He looks at her questioningly. “What is it, Fayruz? Mal ‘amr?”

He catches the glint of metal in the distance—the Sultan’s envoy, a small but well-armed party, riding towards him with intent. They must be after the scroll. He's sure. He cannot outrun them, not with this storm closing in.

The leader—a keen-eyed man draped in black and gold—raises a hand to surround Mikha'il with his men.

“Surrender the scroll, scholar,” the envoy commands. His voice cuts through the growing wind. “That knowledge is wasted on you. The Sultan will know better how to wield it.”

Mikha'il clutches the scroll tighter, knowing its power and mystery are far too great to fall into their hands. He begins to take a step backward, considering his escape—

Thwip. An arrow flies through the air, striking the envoy in the chest. Before the others have time to react, figures rise from the dunes like phantoms. It is a well-conducted ambush; the guards surrounding the young scholar fall one by one, their bodies crumpling into the sand.

He stands frozen, eyes wide, as an imposing figure steps forward through the guards: a muscular, Junoesque bandit; the grin you bear is charming and menacing all at once. You seem relaxed, as though this deadly ambush is only a game. Your smile falters as you catch sight of Mikha'il on the sand.

“You, scholar,” you call out. “You must have something quite valuable for the Sultan’s men to chase you through the sands.”

Your shadow falls over Mikha'il—who stumbles backward. The wind begins whipping around you in an angry dance of sand. The world blurs before him; sands rise like a curtain and blot out the sun, plunging him into a swirling chaos.

As Mikha'il regains his senses, he finds himself in the bandits’ camp, bound but alive, with you standing nearby, musing about what to do with him.