[center][b][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yRf6NYHw7r0]Bahramesh Zhayedans - Noble's Quarter[/url][/b][/center]

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Footsteps, horse clops, and wooden wheels churning against the stone clattered loudly against the causeways and cobblestone roads leading through the Noble's quarter's  residential manses. At this hour, the quarter's usual quiet dissipated as two dozen men wearing Zendricaanist priestly robes, scholar fabrics, and silken wraps made their way through the large avenue leading directly towards the Commoner districts. Their stooped hunches, hushed prayers, and clagoring religious ornamentation spelled an unusual presence for the Zendricaanist church, however, the shrouded cart appeared somewhat uncommon amongst their company.

As the assembly journeyed across the avenue, a young man dressed in scholar robes unveiled his steel gauntlets upon emerging through the cart's canvas opening. Pushtigban-salar Jahanzaib had only commanded the Imperial Aryanpur Zhayedans for a year, however, he commanded respect amongst the retainer doûlois and Sarife's more seasoned daylamis. He estimated that more Paighans and siege engines were on their way as evidenced by the shouts throughout the streets and footsteps. Darkness continually shrouded their surroundings, however, night conditioning had allowed the Zhayedans to maneuver as if it were day. This night, however, they were unseen and through the graces that their father Yadin, they'd convinced members from his church to aid them during the Prince's hour of need. 

The steel plate pieces that composed their armor clattered quietly under their scholar cloaks as the cart rolled by, however, all commotion became muffled by the musket, crossbow, and hand-cannon fire raging a block away. Ever silently, the cart continually swayed gently as they slowly rolled through the empty avenue straights. Jahanzaib quickly ducked back into the cart where a mere handful of Zhayedan doûlois and a man robed in doctor's silks tended to the Prince Bahramesh's condition. Though cramped and lacking comfort or spacious accommodations, the Zhayedan doûlois sat in utmost silence around the Prince as was their duty as his loyal retainers. Cannons roared and immense musket fire rang in the distance, followed swiftly by the din of battle and amidst muzzle and hand-cannon flashes that lighted the neighboring streets, the Zhayedan officer's expression began to soured amidst examining the Prince's heaving form.

"Will he live, Doctor?"

"I am trying every remedy at my disposal, however, I have not the medicines, nor the herbs I once carried in the Stronghold. Only prayers and the grace of our father Yadin-Hamon could save him n..."

"You will have one chance and chance alone to listen to my words," the officer venomously interrupted, unsheathing a long hunting knife towards the man's jugular, "You will perform whatever is necessary for your Prince and the empire. His life is worth more than yours and thousands more. You will save his life, doctor, or you will die a very painful death."

Gasping, the physician's chin lifted as sweat began to pour down his face. His eyes darted down towards the blade's edge where even a slight gash would immediate mean his end. "Y--y-y-es Pushtigban-salar," he stammered, "I swear on my life, the Prince will live by my hands."

"I will hold you to it," Jahanzaib remarked before lowering the blade, "Now get out of my face."

The sharpened blade that held swiftly upon the man's throat quickly disappeared into the Zhayedan officer's sheath. There were few others words escaping Jahanzaib's lips as he once again poked his head through the canvas. The Nezam Stronghold's assault had proven just how volatile the city has become and given Prince Bahramesh' deteriorating condition had given his Zhayedans warranted his evacuation. The Nezam Corps' reputation as Emperor Anoush' most disciplined soldiers had been broken given how poorly their ability to both ensure the Prince's survival whilst policing the city had proven fruitless. 

So much so that the most powerful Sarifen Houses and their respective Azads had branded the Nezamnites as heretics and traitors to all of Sarife. Their cries for justice rang into the night as they stormed the Nezam Garrison's walls with whatever weapons and siege engines lay at their disposal. Jahanzaib estimated more Paighans and ranged war machines were likely enroute. When Sarife's Valanian military presence had mustered, the Nezams were all, but finished. Thankfully, the Prince and their retinue would reach safety and by then, it mattered not whether the Garrison lived or died. 

In short notice, clattering footsteps, shouts, and the din of battle neared as vicious musket cracks and explosions rang out. All during the same moment, the cart their escorting retinue halted as rows of uniformed Nezams frenetically dashed across an causeway intersection. Screams and shouts echoed from afar where pursuing shapes of men that resembled dismounted Sipahis, conscripted Paighans, and various Household Zhayedans formed into the distance. 

A seasoned Nezam officer Boluk-bashi wearing dark turqoise overcoat, cotton shirt, stripes, and red salvar bravely stood his ground as several of his subordinates fell a hails of crossbow bolts and arrows. Without uttering a word, Jahanzaib's arm raised in an issued command that directed the Zhayedans to refuse intervention. The deadly exchanges lasted for several minutes where the disciplined, Nezam return volleys fell upon their pursuers with deadly precision.

The wounded were dragged elsewhere as a sea of pursuers burst through the intersection in disorganized rabbles in their attempt to destroy their foes and just as quickly as the avenues had filled, the streets once again emptied as other skirmishes unfolded somewhere further along another street. It was during this moment that Jahanzaibhad knew he had witnessed dark developments within the Empire's existence. Neither the high-born Azads nor the Emperor's Nezams could be trusted to preserve the Empire's unity as fanatical Sarifens slaughtered each other, his duty remained to the Prince and the Royal Family. 

The minute the streets once again emptied, Jahanzaib wasted no time in silently shrouding a hood over his head before issuing a command to continue. "Do [i]not[/i] stop for anyone, do you hear me," he hissed, "We are leaving the docks before sunrise ..."