At the crest of a rocky slope, Merlin walks towards Gomorrah, he paused to survey the valley below ... and the fortified, walled city whose structures, humble and grand, were lorded over by a castellated palace.
Before long they were approaching the Gomorrah gate, the hooded cloak obscuring Merlin's face as he walked in. From beneath the hood, Merlin's eyes took it all in: the detachment of red-turbaned guards checking the people as they entered, searching carts, scrutinizing individuals and their baggage alike; and a line of archers on the ledge overlooking the gated entryway—with a nod from the guards below, these bowmen could turn any troublemaker into an instant pincushion.
Merlin looking at warriors with red turbans and muttered."The blood warriors from the The Horde."
Merlin suddenly shimmered and became invisible, he easily walked through the gate without any issue.
Soon the Merlin found himself in a buzzing, bustling bazaar, leading his camel and his stillslumbering companion through an exotic array of belly dancers, flame blowers, snake charmers, fire walkers and sword swallowers, an open-air market where vendors sold fruit and vegetables and woven baskets and fine carpets and every other commodity known to man, and perhaps a few previously unknown as well. Dens of iniquity offered sustenance, if one could survive the clientele, and outside one of these rough bars.
Merlin made sure to do dispell his invisibility spell in a lone alley. Then walked through the whirlpool of commerce, sin and decadence that was the bazaar, making his way toward the palace gates. "Here they are," a seller of swords was saying, "the finest steel in the land . .. You can't get respect in Gomorrah without a quality blade on your hip!"
Merlin though."Atlanta made the best blades."
He strode single-mindedly toward the citadel that was Memnon's palace. Finally he stood, hands on his hips, looking up at the heavily armed red turbaned guards walking the ramparts, guarding the gates of this imposing structure, half castle, half fortress.
And just as he was studying the lay of the land, a brood of street urchins manifested itself out of nowhere—the youngest ragamuffin might have been six, the oldest no more than ten, a blur of dirty faces and nimble feet, swirling around him, stirring dust. "Guide, sir?" one said. "You need a guide, sir," said another. 'To find your way in Gomorrah, sir," yet another bleated.
The Leader of the group had thick, curly, and slightly unkempt, dark brown or black in color, giving a wild, untamed look. A warm, tan complexion, a youthful with strong, expressive eyes, slightly pursed lips, and a determined or defiant expression. Hr wore worn, tattered, and patched-up clothing made of rough, brownish fabric.
Merlin felt latent magic abilities in the boy, so he was curious about him. Also, he already guessed the boys intentions.
Merlin smiled knelt and summoned the leader of the smudged-faced flock with a curl of a finger. "You, lad—are you a smart enough guide to show me a way into the palace?" Dark eyes glittered in the dirty, dark face. "A smart guide wouldn't, sir—or he'd get a tour ... of Lord Memnon's dungeon!"
The little gaggle of urchins laughed like magpies, and Merlin was smiling at them when one alongside him sneaked in and, in a flash of steel, cut the pouch of rubies from the Merlin's belt! The culprit sprinted off,
Merlin laughed and muttered."I knew you would something like this."
Suddenly Merlin disappeared in WHOOSH and blur.
Those urchins tagged along, laughing, running, catching up with the boy who'd snagged the pouch and—in a dazzling display of misdirection—began to hand the booty off between themselves, until it was impossible for the someone to tell which boy had wound up with the rubies.
While the leader was running away looking back and seeing Merlin is following. But before he could sigh in relief he ran into somone and it was Merlin, the child smiled, sheepishly, and held out his hand... proferring the precious pouch.
Merlin took his property back, and put the boy down, the sorcerer's hard gaze instructing him not to run. After Merlin had again tied the pouch to his belt, he gripped the urchin's jaw in one hand, prying it open, and reached the fingers of his other hand in ... to withdraw a ruby. The child shrugged and grinned. Couldn't blame a boy for trying, right?
Merlin grinned back at him and held up the glittering jewel. "How would you like to keep this one?" The boy nodded enthusiastically. Merlin glanced back tellingly at the looming palace. "Then I hope you're a better 'guide' than you are a thief...."
A shimmering ripple spread through the air as Merlin cast the Muggle-Repelling Charm once more, Merlin along with the little guide stepping through the towering palace gates. The ancient spell distorted reality for those untrained to see beyond the mundane, leaving them oblivious to his presence.
Wide-eyed, the little guide gasped and took a step back, his gaze locked onto the robed figure before him. "Are you a sorcerer?" he whispered, half in awe, half in suspicion.
Merlin's lips curled into a knowing smile. He inclined his head.
The boy's expression flickered—first shock, then something softer. Hope. "My mother was one," he murmured, voice tinged with longing. "She healed people. Helped so many."
Merlin studied him carefully, sensing the weight behind his words. He saw the sadness in the boy's dark eyes, a grief buried but never forgotten.
"What is your name?" Merlin asked gently.
The boy hesitated, as if saying it aloud carried some unspoken burden. "Dastan."
A subtle detail caught Merlin's eye—two black tips peeking from the tops of Dastan's ears, hidden beneath unruly hair. The boy flinched as Merlin reached forward, but there was no fear—only curiosity. With a light touch, Merlin swept the strands aside, revealing the distinct markings in full.
A slow exhale left Merlin's lips. "You're a Blackblood."
Dastan's shoulders stiffened.
Blackbloods—descendants of light elves, dwarves, giants from the Nordic realms, or Asuras of the Hindu pantheon....etc.
A race woven from legend, hidden in plain sight. They walked among humans, their features nearly indistinguishable save for subtle signs—their quicksilver reflexes, their unnatural healing, and the unmistakable ink-dark blood that ran through their veins. Blood that could be mistaken for oil. Blood that healed wounds before death could claim them.
Some, like Dastan, were born with an innate connection to magic, a power as ancient as the stars.
Dastan gave a small nod. "My mother was one," he admitted. A shadow passed over his face. "She died when Memnon's men attacked our village."
Merlin saw it then—the ember of rage smoldering beneath his grief, the fire barely contained in his young gaze.
"You're here to find Memnon," Merlin stated.
Dastan clenched his fists. "When I grow up, I will kill him."
The words, though spoken by a child, carried the weight of a vow.
For a moment, there was silence between them. Then, Dastan lifted his gaze, and in his eyes was something else now—something more than anger. A flicker of hope.
He swallowed and asked, "Can you teach me?"
Merlin smiled and gave a small nod.
Dastan's face lit up, excitement flickering behind his grief-stricken eyes. He had spent years dreaming of vengeance, of the day Memnon would fall. But before he could speak, Merlin's voice cut through the moment.
"You know," the sorcerer mused, his tone almost casual, "you wouldn't have to wait until you grow up to see Memnon's death."
Dastan's expression shifted from joy to curiosity, a spark of disbelief in his gaze. "You're here to kill him?" he asked, his voice hushed, as if afraid of the answer.
Merlin gave a small shrug, as though discussing the weather. "More or less."