The market square was alive with the hum of humanity, a cacophony of voices rising into the dense, fragrant air of ancient Babylon. Merchants bellowed their wares—spices, silks, oils—while dark-eyed musicians plucked strings that sang of myth and yearning. Beneath the shadow of the ziggurat, a towering staircase to the heavens, stood Naram-Zid, the king’s hunter and tracker, cloaked in mysteries of his own. His dark hair, braided in warrior's fashion, framed a square jaw dusted with coarse stubble. His physique was honed from years of tracking beasts across unforgiving lands—broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a presence that demanded attention. He wore a cloak of deep indigo, the color of Babylon’s wealth, trimmed with gold thread that caught the light like a snare. At his waist hung a curved blade, its handle carved from ivory, and across his chest was slung a leather satchel laden with tools of his deadly trade.
He scanned the crowd with hawk-like intensity, his green eyes—a rare, almost unsettling feature in this part of the world—seeking something, or someone. As the crowd ebbed and flowed, he felt the weight of his mission pressing heavy against his ribs. And then he saw her: a woman wrapped in crimson silk, her face veiled, her movements deliberate, her hands laden with jars engraved in Sumerian glyphs. She lingered near a jeweler’s stall before disappearing into an alley, as if slipping into the cracks of the world.
A hand clapped his shoulder. Naram-Zid turned sharply to face Lugul-Nannar, an older man, the king’s senior magus. He was robed in white linen, his hair silver and sparse, but his eyes were as sharp as the blade Naram-Zid carried. “Did you find her?” Lugul-Nannar rasped, his voice a whisper meant only for Naram-Zid’s ears.
Naram-Zid nodded. “The red-veiled woman. She carries the jars.”
“Good,” Lugul-Nannar said, clutching his reed staff tightly. “What she carries is not of this world. If it falls into the hands of the Elamites...” His sentence trailed off, but the implication carried across the space between them like a knife’s edge. The Elamites, Babylon’s ancient foes, would do more than just desecrate the sacred—what they sought was annihilation in the purest sense. And what the red-veiled woman carried was said to grant them that power.
The Pursuit
Naram-Zid slipped into the shadows of the alley, his sandaled feet making no sound. The air grew cooler here, suffused with the earthy scent of mud-brick walls and hints of cumin. He moved with the silence of the jackal, his hand ghosting over the hilt of his blade. The red silk of the woman’s garment briefly flickered ahead before vanishing around a corner yet again. Each step quickened his pulse. The labyrinthine streets of Babylon were perfidious—a haven for thieves and assassins. But then, a hunter such as himself thrived in such darkness.
At last, he found her in a secluded courtyard, her jars set in a careful circle on the ground. She chanted in a low, resonant voice, the ancient glyphs on the jars beginning to glow faintly with a blue light. Before he could step closer, a figure emerged from the shadows opposite him—the hulking silhouette of a warrior clad in bronze ingots, his face obscured by a mask twisted into the snarling visage of a lion. The Elamites had arrived.
The warrior bellowed, brandishing a massive war axe. It seemed less like a weapon and more like an extension of a primal rage. The woman froze, then turned to flee, her steps faltering as she grappled with the jars. Naram-Zid surged into the courtyard, his blade gleaming. He met the Elamite’s downward swing with a parry, the clash of metal echoing like a struck gong. The duel began—fire against fire, predator against predator.
The Blade and the Jars
Time became elastic, stretching and snapping as the combatants danced the dance of death. Naram-Zid’s training and agility were his advantage—the way he feinted left, drawing out the Elamite’s overreach, before pivoting to slash across unguarded flesh. Blood gleamed dark in the courtyard light as the warrior roared in pain. But the Elamite was strong, his strikes powered by something more than muscle, something feral and unrelenting.
Out of the corner of his eye, Naram-Zid saw the woman. She had abandoned one of the jars, reaching instead for another, this one covered in symbols he couldn’t interpret. She whispered to it, and as she did, her voice became tinged with something otherworldly, something older than Babylon itself.
The air seemed to thrum, and suddenly—light burst forth from the jar, spiraling upward like liquid fire. The Elamite staggered, his mask slipping to reveal wild, bloodshot eyes. He howled a guttural sound, no longer a man but a force unhinged.
“Seal it!” Lugul-Nannar shouted, appearing at the courtyard’s edge. He raised his staff, etching glowing sigils in the air. “By the gods’ might, seal it, or we are lost!”
Naram-Zid didn’t hesitate. As the Elamite lunged for the woman, he threw himself forward, plunging his blade into the warrior’s chest. The man screamed—a sound that tore the fabric of reality—and fell to the ground. Naram-Zid turned to the red-veiled woman, whose trembling hands cradled the illuminated jar. “Give it to me,” he commanded, his voice steady but urgent.
She hesitated, her veil slipping to reveal a face as delicate and defiant as a polished gem. “You don’t know what it is,” she whispered. “Only that it mustn’t fall to them. Do you know what you risk by carrying it yourself?”
“Risk is my trade,” Naram-Zid replied. “But Babylon must endure.”
The Choice
For a moment, the courtyard was silent except for the crackling remnants of the jar’s light. Time seemed to hover, waiting for her decision. Finally, she placed the jar into his hands. It was warm, pulsing as though it held a heartbeat of its own. As Naram-Zid secured it in his satchel, Lugul-Nannar approached, his face ashen and drawn.
“You’ve done well, hunter,” the magus said, though his tone carried no triumph. “But the forces you carry will haunt you. Guard yourself well, for shadows now follow your footsteps.”
Naram-Zid nodded, the weight of the jar hanging heavy not just on his shoulders, but on his soul. Around them, the marketplace was beginning to stir again, unaware of how close it had come to ruin. As he walked away, the words of the red-veiled woman lingered in his mind. He was Babylon's hunter, its protector. But at what cost would its legacy endure?
And in the quiet spaces of his heart, he began to wonder if he would ever know freedom from the shadows he chased—and the shadows that now chased him.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: The Science of Urination Law
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