Chapter 1: The Lighthouse’s Echo

Alexandria awoke in a surge of noise and color. The market near the port echoed with the shouts of merchants, the dull thuds of mallets on barrels, and the cries of seagulls tearing at scraps of fish. The scents of olive oil, coriander, and dried fish mingled with the stronger smell of animals crammed into wooden cages. Between the colorful stalls, Layla and Ilyas slipped through, their faces hidden beneath simple veils, like two anonymous figures in the crowd.

The city buzzed with a thousand languages. One could hear the Greek of philosophers, the Arabic of desert merchants, the Hebrew of scribes, the ancient Coptic whispered in temples, and even accents from India or farther still. Their footsteps echoed on the stones, kicking up dust and sand. Behind them, always that sense of being followed, of feeling a shadow among the crowd—a presence that vanished the moment they tried to pin it down.

Layla adjusted her veil to shield herself from the dust the sea breeze whipped into the alleys. Her dark eyes shone with insatiable curiosity. The daughter of an astronomer who had died too soon, she had grown up among celestial maps and ink-stained manuscripts. She had inherited a rare precision, an ability to read the stars as others read a book. Her quick mind grasped signs, patterns, correspondences, and despite her youth, some scholars had nicknamed her “the sky reader.”

Beside her walked Ilyas, a more imposing figure. One could sense in him the strength honed by long journeys: broad shoulders, the confident stride of a man accustomed to dusty roads and contrary winds. But beneath this apparent roughness lay an attentive and gentle gaze. He had the knack for noticing details others overlooked. Born into a family of scribes, he carried within him the memory of words. He could decipher or copy ancient texts, but he read beyond the words. He understood the deep meaning of a discreet, almost dangerous, science.

A bond, evident and glaring, united them, forged by years of crossings, stops in bustling caravanserais, and vigils by the fire where their voices answered each other. Ilyas observed the world with the patience of a seeker; Layla scrutinized it with the fervor of someone who wanted to understand. Together, they formed a fragile balance: ink and star, memory and intuition.

“Looking for fresh dates?” a merchant called out, offering them a tray.

Layla smiled faintly, declined with a polite gesture. The old man insisted, offering her a dried fig. Ilyas accepted to avoid offending him and thanked him with a nod. Further on, a child offered them seashells polished by the sea. Layla took one in her hand, examined it for a moment, and, amused, slipped a copper coin into the boy’s palm.

These encounters were nothing out of the ordinary. But they reminded Layla and Ilyas that they were, for now, merely two travelers among the multitude. Yet beneath the market’s din, other voices rose, lower, like whispers slipped between transactions. Snippets of stories circulated, unsettling, laden with an unease no one dared voice too loudly.

They spoke of scholars vanished, swallowed by writings they should never have consulted. Copyists had disappeared after working on scrolls too ancient, star charts annotated by an unknown hand. Some had been found, dazed, unable to utter a word, their eyes fixed on constellations invisible to ordinary mortals. Others had vanished without a trace, as if devoured by the city itself.

A boastful spice merchant, his sun-tanned skin weathered by the elements, leaned towards Ilyas, proffering a sachet of cinnamon:

“My neighbor, a Greek translator, transcribed a text known as The Master’s Vessels. Three nights later, he was seen wandering near the lighthouse, muttering of voices carried on the sea breeze. Then, he vanished. We found only his oil lamp, extinguished, resting upon his threshold.”

Layla’s brow furrowed beneath her veil. These whispers were likely mere market superstitions, born of the fear of forbidden knowledge. Yet, the shadow that had dogged their steps since their arrival in Alexandria now seemed closer, more insistent.

They pressed on in silence, each ensconced in their thoughts. The city’s cacophony continued unabated, but beneath the din and vibrancy, something had shifted: a subdued tension, as if the city’s dark alleys, stone columns, and fountains watched their every move.

That evening, to the usual dread of shadows, a new fascination was added. For above the city’s murmur, the Pharos lighthouse cast an unusual gleam. Its great flame, nourished by oil, turned as ever, but for a fleeting instant, the light concentrated, as if guided by an unseen hand. It struck the side of an obelisk near the royal palace, revealing the sheen of a discreet symbol etched into the stone.

Most passersby saw only a common reflection. But Layla, her eye honed by celestial maps, halted abruptly. The flash of light had revealed an interweaving of signs, nearly effaced by time. Ilyas, intrigued, followed her gaze. His lips moved, as if to himself:

“This is no mere decoration… observe the form.”