The Chronomancer and the Twins of Time

Sandi-Hargeisa

Too exposed. Not enough cover—the kind of mistake you only make once.

Pavement blurs under my feet, shoes skimming the cracks between the stones.
My heartbeat thrums a combat pulse.
The voices behind grow louder—one curses, another mutters something in guttural Turkish.

Left: alley, mostly blocked, a single fruit seller resting on a crate.
Right: construction. Both exits are less than ideal.

I run.
Fast, heart hammering, pulse loud enough to drown the buzz of traffic.
The world narrows to distance and the frantic calculation of routes.
I sprint for the relative cover of the alley, weaving as my pursuers shout.

Not fast enough.
A hand like a bracket clamps my arm as I round the corner—fingers digging hard into bone, yanking me off balance.
The second man cuts off any chance to twist free, blocking the sun, his shadow huge and cold.

Air drags in rough, body setting automatically for a break—a head‑butt, a heel stomp, a scream if needed. Fury sharpens into action as I glare up into the face of my attacker.

A hard twist, heel slamming down into his instep.
He grunts, grip loosening just enough for an elbow to drive into his gut.
The second man lunges; a dodge, not quite clean—his shoulder clips mine, sending a jolt down my arm. One clean punch lands—training and adrenaline guiding it—but the odds stay the same: too many, too strong.

Then chaos interrupts.
Another body barrels into my assailant—a flash of dirty blonde hair and trained movements, measured and efficient.
The second man spins away, crashing into the fruit seller’s crate. I’m yanked upright, shoulder wrenched painfully, and an extended hand fills my vision—steady, scarred, uncompromising.

“Mikael?” The word scrapes out, disbelieving for one raw instant.

He doesn’t smile, just pulls me sharply to my feet, silver eyes scanning the street as my would‑be attackers make a quick, limping retreat. The fruit seller, nonplussed, has vanished.

He releases my arm, not too gently. “Training left home?” The clipped, accented English carries equal parts annoyance and concern. “Sightseeing like tourist. Trying to get yourself killed?”

Pulse still thrumming with leftover adrenaline, pride prickles at his tone. “I had it under control.”

He snorts—sceptical, unamused—but stays close, practically my shadow as we make our way back to the hotel, winding through the thickening dusk. No questions, no lecture, just his presence at my side, body language radiating both protection and exasperation.
At my door, he pauses, checking the hallway, making sure no one lingers.

Inside the hotel room,
the scarf comes off first, adrenaline finally leaking from my muscles, replaced by the quicksilver sharpness of professional suspicion.
Mikael takes up space near the closed door, broad‑shouldered and unsmiling, arms folded like a judgment.

“So,” I say, voice arch, “if you’re here, then your wonderful boss can’t be far behind, can he?”

His jaw ticks—a glimmer of irritation, or maybe respect. “He never is,” he replies, voice dry as Somaliland dust. “You know how it works, Sandi. Where there’s trouble—or deal—he shows up.”

He gets studied in turn, gaze steady, challenging. “And am I the trouble, or just the deal this time?”

Mikael meets my eyes, unblinking. “Depends on what you do next. Back‑alley strategies are bad look.”

Silence stretches—thick, full of everything unsaid. A small, sardonic smile tugs at my mouth.

“Tell him I’d prefer a formal invitation next time, not a back‑alley welcoming committee.”

His lips twitch, nearly amused.
“You know him. He prefers improvisation.” A jerk of his head toward the minibar. “You need water, or you stubborn enough to hit street again?”

“Stay.” Glass in hand, water sloshing as nerves steady. “If I’m going to be caught in one of his games, the least you can do is share what you know.”

He leans against the wall, resigned but present, while I steel myself for the next, deeper round of this unlikely, dangerous chess match.

Another drag of the tepid water, Mikael watched over the rim, suspicions sharp as ever.
“So if you’re here, Mikael, does that mean your brilliant boss is lurking nearby?”

A slight shake of his head, unsmiling but not unkind. “No. Tarmo sent me to keep eye on you. He’s… occupied elsewhere.” Something unreadable flickers in his gaze—amusement, maybe resignation.

The glass clicks softly onto the table, lips curving in a wry smile. “Let me guess—occupied with Elena?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Da. Some missions require his presence.” A brief pause, almost reluctant. “But orders are orders. I’m here for you, Sandi. Make of it what you will.”

A low laugh slips out, equal parts irony and annoyance. “So you’re my minder for the week?”

He shrugs, deadpan. “Bodyguard, observer, fixer, hitter.”

No hostility in the look I give him—just the camaraderie of survivors, the ones who always execute the plans in Tarmo’s games.
“Fine. Just don’t make me trip over you. I like my space, even here.”

Mikael nods, settling into the rounded chair, the perpetual outsider—present, loyal, always just a little removed from the drama.

Brows lift, the words slipping out under my breath. “Or not.”

As I prepare for bed, his gaze tracks each small movement, a new, unnerving focus thrumming in the room’s quiet.
The city outside the window simmers in the dusk, Mikael a silent sentinel in my corner.

Somewhere else, another story unspools, more gilded but no less dangerous.

I.Ph.