No matter the supposed intricacy of the light fabric that cascaded down the gazebo’s allegedly large borders or the protection it provided against the sun’s stinging rays and those vampiric mosquitoes, it was inutile in combating today’s oppressive weather. The moon charts might’ve declared it the middle of winter, but no semblance of frigid winds blew through Panjkora. Rather, it was more like the torrid peak of a mid-summer’s day to Zayd as he sat within the ancient structure’s swathed walls together with the Eight Elders in the middle of the Naraum’s sand garden, waiting for lunch to arrive.

Rivers of sweat, each twisting and turning aimlessly, made his clothes and hair cling to him like water to sand. With a dried throat, he decided to pray to Asaky in his head instead. O’ Oxi of the eastern winds and horses, the rumination went. One of the many Primordial Masters, please send a gust of cool, gentle air toward Panjkora. Zayd flapped the looser articles of his tightly-bound Zaipha robes, hoping to conjure a large breeze that could soothe the heat for a while until waiting for Asaky replied to the orison, but nothing arose from his fussing. Nothing that was strong enough to dry up the rivers anyway. And people say being born the Weapon Wielder of Tilith are filled with privileges and opportunity?

While there were certainly cases where that statement rained true, especially with predecessors like K’lhar the Iron Warlord of Setryk who was born into a life of poverty until he was recognized as the 46th Tilithian Weapon Wielder at the age of ten, being highly sensitive to the temperatures – hot or cold – was definitely not a privilege. It was more like a curse that he didn’t wish upon anyone. Not even that traitorous wench Cixi deserved this.

On days like this where the humidity hovered and followed Zayd wherever he went, his complexion shifted from a perfectly nice, dark brown to a boisterous red in a matter of seconds and caused his skin to crack. What’s worse is this heat was causing him the inability to focus on what Eight Elders were discussing with one another. Discussion that, as the Zaipha, he should not only be attentive in, but also be actively engaging in. It’s not every day where all the Elders gather in one place.

After taking in a difficult breath, Zayd brushed off another rushing river of sweat that ran from brow to jaw, but it was quickly replaced by what felt like a dozen more, all slithering about, crawling over his top-surgery scars; sliding down his spine; gathering in his inner elbow; dripping from the tip of his nose; collecting within the thin crevasse of the Kashan platinum band that surround his neck. They were everywhere and they weren’t going to leave anytime soon. Then his stomach grumbled for food, only furthering his aggravation. Why can’t the heat just let him be? Why must it torture him? Why must it prevent him from doing what is expected of him? Why must it always be him that suffers under this sweltering heat? Why?

The Zaipha must be proper and pose, his personal mantra rung in his head. Zayd released a sigh of begrudging acceptance and transformed his face into an expression of utter neutrality, suppressing any previous feelings. Any anger from him could not only taint his image as the equanimous yet stringent Zaipha that he’s managed to cultivate over many years, but also cause an earthquake: two things he didn’t want.

But the heat just won’t leave…

Suddenly, the fabric that hung over the gazebo made a slight quiver of movement, and the continuous ditty of the lower-ranked namkitas’ anklets greeted the Zaipha’s ears. Jingle, jingle, jangle, the noise went. By attentively following the noise, the Tilithian Weapon Wielder was able to make sense of where all the servants were going as they moved about within the vicinity, no special glasses needed.

The Elders stopped speaking, Zayd suddenly realized and adjusted his posture on the soft rug, giving the impression that he was paying attention the entire time like the Zaipha he was.

Having gone blind at the tender age of five after an arduous and long fever slowly ate away at his sight day by day after being bitten by a virus-infected stone flea while he was out playing with the other kids in a patch of damp sand, colors blended together for as long as he could remember. He forgot what it was like to have sight, so while this might be normal, the added blurring haze in his vision didn’t make navigating the world any less tricky. By wearing the pair of special glasses that he received once under the protection of Panjkora’s Naraum at the age of ten, however, Zayd was able to make out that a namkita was in his general vicinity; whether they were right in front of him or a few steps away however, he wasn’t exactly sure. Though they were appreciated, the special glasses weren’t exactly perfect and so he still kept his cane, all bundled up in his large, outer robe pocket.

He reached out and was surprised to find that the servant was not only a male, but most importantly, right in front of him. The servant’s hand was rough and heavily scared from working in the kitchen. Mounds of hardened skin grew over one another in what felt like a mountain range. Despite all the wear and tear, however, it felt quite nice at the same time as it told of the man’s diligence… Zayd felt his face go hot as he sheepishly glanced up at the man. From what could be made out, the servant wasn’t bad looking either. His complexion was a lighter brown; his hair a river of dark brown sliding down what looked to be his shoulders while his eyes were blurry orbs of lime green… or was it forest green?

Unexpectedly, the namkita took Zayd’s hand, causing the Tilithian Weapon Wielder’s heart to flutter with excitement as the male namkita eased the alabaster cup over. “Azer mā’ou Zaipha, algo e’hasuob. Yǎken kanen gusto elg.” Here my Zaipha, something to drink. May you enjoy it. Though his Setryk burr was still present, his Panjkorian dialect was coming along nicely. Very nicely.

Zayd smiled bashfully, securing his grip around the cup and bringing it closer to his chest. He’s cute, he thought. Hopefully, he has a preference for men.

“It’s some O’kanjuu. Oasis spirits,” Elder Zamya, Overseer of Panjkora’s Naraum, suddenly jumped in. “I had some prepared for you, Zaipha Al-Faris, since you looked rather parched. I do hope you don’t object to its smell; it can be rather strong the longer it’s fermented. Gracias….” Then, the tone of recollection suddenly quaked in her voice, “Zaleal. Ah, Dem. Gracias, Zaleal. Forgive me. I have a hard time recalling new names at first. I’ve had to remember so many in the past that it seems like my brain can’t fit anymore.”

“No,” Zaleal replied with a laugh. “It’s quite alright, Elder. I only started a few weeks ago. It’s understandable.”

Despite the light and cheeriness of the mood, having heard his title spoken by Elder Zamya stopped Zayd’s wondering eyes from continuing their stroll. No Zaipha should be distracted by their attractions, gay or straight, he reminded himself. It’ll only keep them away from their duties. Returning to his impassive ways, Zaipha Al-Faris gave Zaleal a slight nod, signaling that he was no longer needed and could return back to the Naraum’s kitchen, and turned his attention over to the liquor.

Just like Elder Zamya warned, the smell was overwhelmingly tangy that it was almost revolting, but he pushed on. As soon as the drink touched his tongue, Zayd realized that his prayer had answered. Not by Asaky, but by Naar, the Oxi of water, nightfall and death. Thanks to the zakroa’zukae that jutted out from the base of the alabaster cup, it was as though the booze had been blessed by the water deity’s frigid touch, not only chilling his body’s temperature, but also returning his dark brown complexion. Afterward, the light taste of locally grown dates hung around for a moment, contributing just the right amount of sweetness before drifting off into the background. Unable to put the delicious beverage down, Zayd guzzled the alcohol like some type of parched sand jackal that finally found an oasis in the middle of Tilith’s arid desert. Once the last drop was drunk, he slammed the cup down on the rug and gasped for air, thankful that Naar responded.

Light laughter erupted from Elder Zamya, jolting back the Tilithian Weapon Wielder back to his senses. Her nasally voice rang with the same biased amusement that a gangii would find in whatever her grandson had done, good or bad. It was unlike the hardened general persona she dons during terraizing training, barking at him to keep his feet submerged in the iron-hot sand while practicing numerous rigid and unbreakable forms for hours on end. Reminiscing about the intense training made the soles of his feet grow hot, still aching from this morning’s session… Zamya’s voice disappeared amidst her laughter but reappeared in a gentle sigh. “I can see that your enjoying your alcohol, Zaipha Al-Faris. That’s good to hear. Just don’t get intoxicated now.”

Shamefaced, Zayd smiled despite himself and placed the empty cup down on the rug next to him. “C-chwey, it’s was quite delicious, though smelly at first,” he intoned with a slight quirk of the mouth. Enamored by the liquor’s coolness and taste, the Tilithian Weapon Wielder had forgotten where he was and who he was supposed to be. How un-Zaiphalike… After collecting himself, Zaipha Al-Faris held a face as tight as stone and placed a clenched fist over his heart, making a deep obeisance. “Perdóname.”

“Oh, Zayd…” Zamya called softly with the subtle click of her tongue. Her wrinkly fingers touched his chin and gently gestured his face upward. Despite their proximity, his sight wasn’t any less blurry. The Overseer of Panjkora’s Naraum had a deep bronze complexion and was seemingly of round proportions, had bright emerald green orbs for eyes and sharp white hair that draped over her shoulder. Her robes seemed to fit her nicely and looked to be of yellow silk; any of the finer details in her appearance, hand movements or facial expression were invisible. “I was just teasing. O’kanjuu doesn’t have an especially high alcohol content, so you don’t need to apologize.”

The smacking of one’s lips reverberated through the air a great distance away, filled with a sense of pity. “Your Elder is right, Zaipha,” Elder Keiya of Karmoh, overseer to Zayd’s Athaese language studies, joined in. “You already stress yourself as much as it is. You could do with some relaxation. You have no need to be constantly prim and proper. People don’t come to you for that, they come to you for guidance.”

“That’s true,” Elder Ahkios of K’my spoke up, his accent thick like the thick woodlands that littered his homeland of Athesan.

“She’s right. I might not agree with Elder Keiya often, but this is one of the rare occasions where I do. Zaipha Al-Faris, you have to stop being so uptight all the time,” Elder Hajji of Iro advised. He might’ve lost the youthfulness of his voice long ago, but he hadn’t lost the overwhelming sense of confidence in his words, something Zayd respected greatly. “Even though you’ve always been much more uptight than your previous incarnations like Omaya Bukhari, Uvax Pahravi, and Ishvalia Maniots, you need not to distance yourself from them to be a great Zaipha. In fact, you can learn something from them. It’s okay to relax, to be goofy every once and a while. It might even help you in ways you wouldn’t expect.”

“How? People don’t come to me to be goofy,” Zayd responded, holding tightly to his convictions. “Like you mentioned before, Elder Keiya, people come to me for guidance and in order to do so, one must be mature. And in my personal opinion, that is what the Zaipha should be – someone who is void of playfulness and is mature enough to put the issue of others before themselves and their own problems for the overall betterment of society; someone who sees the bigger picture. Nobody comes to listen to my opinions on things, they seek advice from a strictly religious sense, and if that is what must be done in order to help people then so be it. I don’t care if I’m uptight.”

“You might be able to hear, but you aren’t listening.” Elder Keiya let out a long disapproving sigh. “You’ve always been quite stone-headed… Anyway, if it somehow eases you deep down, I was gobbling down my drink even twice as fast as you.”

A merriment of laughter began to stir. “She sure did! She was farther along the verge of dehydration than you, Zaipha Al-Faris,” Elder Ramarin of Orja confirmed behind the rings of giggles in his aging voice.

“Even after all of these years of coming down to the south to teach young Zaipha Al-Faris Athaese, she still can’t get used to the heat,” Elder Zurik of Kmirah added.

“Aw, come now,” Elder Keiya murmured underneath her breath sheepishly. “It’s not all that funny. It’s just not hot in Karmoh like it is down here in Panjkora, plus I only visit once a moon to review with the young Zaipha on his language studies, so can you honestly expect me to have gotten use to this heat?”

“Yes,” Elder Yenkini of Setryk yelled out. Faint clangs of alabaster cups against one another rang along with a few more rounds of laughter.

How childish, Zayd thought disapprovingly with a shake of his head. Hopefully, the other Weapon Wielders aren’t as childish. Cixi, however, I could care less about that snake. She is no friend of mine anymore. Not now, not ever.