The Shadow in Obsidian
The streets of Babylon shimmered under the twilight glow of the setting sun. The ziggurats loomed tall, their golden summits catching every last ray of light, while market vendors hustled to sell their wares before darkness fully claimed the ancient city. Among the bustling, sweating crowd, a figure emerged like a shard of obsidian cutting through the dust-filled air.
She walked with a confidence that silenced conversations mid-sentence, her steps echoing against the sandstone roads. Her hourglass figure was wrapped in a revealing yet divine ensemble rarely seen in these times. The garment—a daring fusion of lapis lazuli silk and golden mesh—hugged her form, accentuating her narrow waist and ample curves. Intricate gold threads wove their way through the silk, mimicking the constellations that would soon illuminate the night sky. Beneath the mesh overlays, her smooth, sun-kissed skin gleamed like polished amber, a testament to her highborn status—or her calculated ability to stand out among mortals.
An open-front robe of deep black fabric trailed behind her like a shadow—its edges embroidered with symbols of Ishtar, the goddess of love and war. The robe’s hem barely brushed the ground and revealed a slit in her garment, offering fleeting glimpses of her long legs with every stride. Her anklets, studded with tiny lapis beads, chimed lightly, each sound mesmerizing anyone close enough to hear. Her feet were laced into sandals of black leather with golden vines swirling up her calves. Every element of her attire suggested power, allure, and danger—a woman who could just as easily enchant you as destroy you.
The ensemble was balanced by an ornate belt encircling her hips, a belt that bore an obsidian dagger, its hilt entwined with ruby accents. On her left arm, a golden cuff inscribed with cuneiform wrapped snugly around her bicep. At her wrist, a serpent-shaped bracelet hissed with delicate emerald eyes, while her nails—painted as crimson as freshly spilled pomegranate juice—glided elegantly through the air as she adjusted the drape of her robe.
Her hair was a cascade of midnight black, flowing in silky waves that seemed to defy the warm breeze. It framed her striking face, where kohl-lined eyes bore into people with an intensity that could freeze even the strongest of men. Her lips, painted the hue of crushed rose petals, parted as she greeted passersby with a smile that concealed a thousand secrets. Even her scent—jasmine and frankincense—left a trail behind her, intoxicating the senses of those who dared to follow.
She was known only as Samira, though whispers in the marketplace embellished her identity. Some claimed she was a priestess fallen from favor with the gods; others swore she was a spy, a vessel of forbidden knowledge stolen from ancient temples. A few warned, with terrified gasps, that she carried a curse, a specter of death cloaked in beauty. Whatever the truth, no one dared to challenge her or pry further. Samira moved through the crowd as if she owned the world, and perhaps, in a way, she did.
The Web of Intrigue
Samira arrived at the market’s heart, where towering braziers cast flickering light over an ancient fountain. It was here that her contact would find her—or attempt to. She perched on the fountain’s edge, graceful yet poised like a predator lying in wait. She feigned nonchalance, inspecting the contents of her handbag, from where a peculiar glimmer escaped—an artifact, no larger than an apple, encased in raw quartz. The whispers called it the “Heart of Ziggurats,” an object said to contain the wisdom of the gods. It was the kind of object people killed for—and Samira knew this all too well.
A man in a linen tunic and a turban approached her, his nervous glance betraying him even before he spoke. “You have it?” he whispered, his voice trembling among the laughter and chatter echoing through the square.
Samira tilted her head, her smile sharp enough to cut. “Do you bring what I requested in return?” Her warm, husky voice melted into the air, rich and intoxicating as fermented honey.
The man fumbled with a pouch at his side and revealed a stack of brittle papyrus, bound by a crimson ribbon. The markings on the scrolls were ancient, far older than anyone present, possibly older than Babylon itself. Samira’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, her charming mask faltered, revealing a flicker of something darker—greed, or perhaps anticipation.
“Careful,” she murmured, brushing her fingertips along the scrolls before they reached her hands, “these can be torn like the thin fabric of lies.”
The Twist in the Shadows
But before she could secure her prize, shadows unfolded where there should have been none. Figures with cloaks as black as her robe surrounded the fountain, their ebony spears reflecting the braziers’ light. Samira stood slowly, her movements languid, almost feline, as her fingers brushed the hilt of her obsidian dagger.
“So predictable,” Samira purred, her crimson lips forming a deadly smile. “Did you really think I’d come without contingency?”
The man in the turban darted backward, a traitor revealed, but before he could disappear into the crowd, Samira moved. The flash of her dagger in the firelight was the last thing the man saw, as he fell to the ground clutching a gash at his throat.
The cloaked figures lunged forward, spears jabbing and slicing the air, but Samira danced among them with terrifying grace. Her robe billowed with each spin, her silk dress catching the firelight like a living flame. Each turn ended with a precise, lethal strike—one by one, the attackers fell, their fates sealed by quick cuts and swift movements.
When the square was quiet again, Samira straightened her hair, smoothing her tunic as if nothing had happened. Blood speckled her golden sandals, but she didn’t seem to mind. The scrolls were still safe in her grasp, and as she tucked them into her handbag, she whispered, almost to herself, “The gods will not wait.”
Samira turned on her heel and disappeared into the labyrinth of streets, leaving the crowd to whisper new legends about the woman who walked like death cloaked in silk and shadows.
Some said Samira vanished that night, returning to the gods from whom she had fallen. Others believed she roamed still, a specter caught between worlds. But one thing was certain: to cross her was to invite your own ruin.
And the Heart of Ziggurats? It vanished with her.
But perhaps it was never truly meant for mortals anyway.
Historical Fiction
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Black Double-Breasted Coat with Blue Jeans: Effortlessly Chic Urban Winter Street Style
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