The next morning, he awoke from a restless sleep. A glance at his clock told him it was still early, but he got up anyway. He pulled on a shirt and donned a thick hat. Frowning, he inspected himself in the mirror to make sure his horns didn’t show or make the hat sit awkwardly. His eyes met his reflection. The brown eyes staring back at him were his mother’s. His olive skin was hers, too, but the curly hair came from his dad—whoever that was. Certainly no one tall. He often looked eye-to-eye with Patrian women, while the men towered above him.

Pants, jacket, shoes, and he was out the door. He rushed down the metal steps to the street, then hurried along.

Yesterday, his singular focus had been on making it back to his apartment. This morning, he found himself appreciating the steep roofs and half-timbered houses so characteristic of Debendorf. The structures often had smaller first floors than the corresponding floors up, lending them a top-heavy look. Of course, he knew it was so the snow would slide off the roofs in the winter. He’d moved to Debendorf in the spring, enjoying the wildflowers that sprung up along the riverbanks of the Zagheiss and the Ruthir—two rivers that cut the city into three pieces. Sometimes he missed his hometown, Ravenmist, where they built everything from red sandstone in geometric perfection, but he had to get away. This city, nestled into the mountains, couldn’t be more different. The wind chilled your bones year-round, and rain drizzled through the afternoons. Still, he’d found most of Debendorf’s citizens had a warmth that contrasted with the crisp highland temperatures. Warm, yet still aloof. Or perhaps he just felt like a stranger no matter where he went.

Ducking into the cafe he frequented, he rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. A line of people queued past the glass display cases, packed with everything from breakfast breads to hearty lunch sandwiches.

“Illius!” One of the women working at the front waved him forward. “Your usual is right over there.” She gestured to a wrapped-up parcel on her right, beside a steaming cup of warm tea.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hopkins.” He nodded to her, handing her some money. Grabbing his food, he headed out the door. A sip of the tea burned the tip of his tongue, but the gentle taste soothed him a bit. One day. He just needed to focus on one day at a time. He could do this. He’d been doing it his whole life. Just one day at a time.