A late-night breeze sent chilling waves of discomfort through Khazmine’s body as she rested in an alley behind The Blanched Hart tavern. If Khazmine were to have any energy to travel during full-dark, it was essential to restore her strength before continuing on. She pawed feebly at her misshapen dinner roll and tore off tiny bites to savor her plunder as long as possible in the security of her hiding place.

The luxurious, indescribable flavor of sweet thistle-wheat bread melted in her mouth like candy floss as the roll slowly vanished. Old Sarzonn was known for many things, but its low, rolling hills of sweet thistle-wheat had to be the most wondrous treasure of all. If she had money enough to rent a small farm, Khazmine might have dreamed of cultivating a handsome field of this bounty and living a contented life, away from everyone who hated her.

Alas, that miserable young master’s father, the “honorable” Lord Skelfrig, was landlord and enforcer of most of the open plots outside the decrepit city walls. Even if Khazmine were human, and even if she hadn’t just put the future of the Skelfrig line in jeopardy with a single swift kick, she could never hope to afford a little farmhouse. Not in a thousand years.

A painful rumbling in her belly drew the outcast’s notice as she continued to savor the greatest treasure in Old Sarzonn.

She was hungry, so hungry, in fact, that Khazmine scarcely remembered when she’d last gotten a hot meal at all. The only occurrence that came to mind was a small helping of briny rice gruel from the holy house’s charity pavilion in The Dregs. The outcast had braved the mob to clamor for a bowl of the salty slurry and had given out two black eyes in the process to other nobodies desperately begging for food. If not for the Grand Cathedral’s offering, the outcast might have starved long before the holy house tracked her down for being a Deceiver.

The starving half-breed considered the cruel irony of it all. Lord Vythorne and his holy house had been the cause of—and most pressing danger to—Khazmine’s continued survival, simultaneously keeping her alive and crushing her underfoot. This tenuous game of cat and mouse left a horrid taste in the outcast’s mouth, with the only relief being a heartier meal.

Khazmine glanced down to realize that her hands now lay empty, save for a few crumbs that were greedily licked from her fingertips. Accounting for all the setbacks encountered during this difficult day of survival, the confounded roll had been the only profitable result she’d had. Khazmine had “wasted” a silver doe on undelivered raddilbak stew and a tankard of precious brambleberry wine. It would have been nice to at least take a bite or swig from her meal, especially since it had cost her so dearly.

The outcast counted what remained of her money in the palm of one hand. Fifteen copper fawns and a single silver doe. That was it. She’d almost died twice over that night for such a paltry sum. There seemed no way out of this perpetual destitution. Khazmine clenched her jaw and closed her eyes to force herself not to cry.

She had very little choice about what to do now. Until the young master’s hunt for her was called off, she couldn’t risk returning to her lean-to in The Dregs. She was, for all practical purposes, homeless for the foreseeable future, with only the contents of her pockets to her name.

A troubling chain of thoughts entered her mind as she procrastinated getting up to move. Who knows? Would her lean-to even be there when she returned? Should she even bother going back to The Dregs at all? Khazmine had effectively lost everything in a matter of hours, and the entire day reminded her of the ashen taste of abject poverty.

Don’t cry, little one. A voice from her memory echoed in her ear, grounding Khazmine where she sat. A few deep breaths and a moment’s reflection allowed her breathing to stabilize and calm to return. That’s it…

Khazmine chided herself for the one-woman pity party she threw in the dank alleyway. What was there to cry over, anyways? She’d survived, hadn’t she? And she’d planted a leg into that brash bully’s bits in the bargain. This was no time for tears; she’d faced the gods of death once again and spit right in their eyes.

Glancing at her meager money, Khazmine clenched the coins into her fist. It was certainly a setback, but not a failure. With that in mind, it was a waste of time to keep wallowing in that alleyway. Khazmine needed to get her exhausted self off the rain-slicked pavers and get moving.

With her inner fire stoked back from the embers, Khazmine shambled against the alleyway wall to her feet, brushed off as much soaked yuck as possible, and skulked south and westward to approach Merchant’s Quarter. It was risky to travel through such a well-lit passage at nightfall, as patrols of city guards made regular circuits to flush out undesirables. Still, at least that meant Khazmine would have little competition from other outcasts, lowlifes, and the like.

Khazmine managed to scramble up to a disused balcony on the second floor of a tanner’s shop between rounds of guards passing in the night. The stink of chemicals and animal carcasses from the vats downstairs that was initially offensive was tamped down by deluges of periodic and unpredictable monsoon rain. Khazmine had just managed to make it under the tannery’s overhanging eaves without getting soaked through again.

Too exhausted to make a meaningful protest, the outcast’s eyes closed on a dreary, miserable night of chilly rains and bitter gales.

Her dreams escorted Khazmine to gilded fields of sweet thistle-wheat outside, warm fireplaces, and tables filled to bursting with aromatic, savory foods.

In dreams at least, there was peace and plenty.

***

If the powerful stink of the tanner’s trade hadn’t already succeeded in rousing her from sleep the next morning, the midtown sun clock would have. Blinding shafts of morning light beamed out from the high clock tower and cast their glittering rays right onto Khazmine’s drowsing face.

“Good gods!” Khazmine shielded her eyes from the blast of light with her ragged, stinking shirt sleeves. “It’s no wonder other outcasts avoided this crummy perch. Crown me fool for wanting a few more minutes of rest.”

A playful snickering from below immediately put Khazmine on guard. She dared to poke her head out from the security of the overhang to spot the bread peddler’s niece laughing up at her.

“Oh, aye. You may want to hop down from there, young miss.” The bread peddler’s niece advised through cupped hands as her two children played underfoot with their salt dough toys. “Mister Tanner’s liable to soak you with a bucket of lime water or what have you if he catches you up there.”

Khazmine needed no further inducement to abandon her refuge. As bad as she stunk already, the last thing she wanted was to be doused in some horrid tannery mixture. The citizenry of Old Sarzonn would surely chase her down and drown the poor outcast to rid themselves of the stink of her if she got drenched. Khazmine ignored the ladder that would have put her right in front of the tanner’s window and slid down a support pole on the eave instead.

Upon landing gingerly on the ground below, Khazmine winced at the painful sting of hard cobblestone pavers underfoot. Her threadbare, slip-on shoes were precious little protection against the occasional crags of the odd or uneven stones, and she failed to contain her discomfort entirely with a grimace.

The two children who’d been eagerly gadding about with their homemade salt dough knights and dragons stopped once they saw the curious outcast land from above. There was something off about this stranger. She had the pale, colorful skin, long ears, and vibrant, vertical-slit eyes of an Outsider, but she also had dark hair. As far as these children knew, Outsiders had white or silver hair only, making Khazmine quite the oddity.

“What is she, mummy?” A little boy crept from behind his mother’s skirts and stared up at the unusual half-breed. “A monster?”

Immediately embarrassed and at a loss for words, the bread peddler’s niece went as red as her long braid. She sputtered to find an inoffensive answer to correct her little boy, while Khazmine knelt low to meet his curious stare at his eye level.

“A fine question, lad.” Khazmine smirked amicably. “I’m not a monster, just a half-breed. My mother looked like me, and my father had hair like this. See? Black, just like yours.”

Suddenly shy after having his question answered, the little tot tucked himself back behind his mother and hugged his toy dragon close to his tiny body. Khazmine tried not to let disappointment show in her eyes as she realized he was protecting his possession from an abomination, which he no doubt thought Khazmine was.

They sure start teaching kids early these days. Khazmine silently pursed her lips and cast her eyes to the ground to avoid meeting the tiny boy’s fearful gaze. Not even old enough to work at the bread peddler’s and he already knows to fear my kind. I figured it might be better if I at least explained, but—

“There’s a trough for the horses out back.” The bread peddler’s niece offered, changing the subject. Sensing Khazmine’s dismay, it was the least the kindly human could do to offer her neighbor some of their clean water. “It’s fresh from the river this mornin.’ I’m afraid I can’t do much about your clothing—”

“Thank you, this is more than plenty, ma’am.” Khazmine nodded appreciatively. She turned away to make for the back of the bakery when the bread peddler’s niece called back to her.

“I’m just glad you made it out okay last night.” Her comment stopped Khazmine in her tracks. She waited without moving for the human to elaborate. “Your clothes, miss. They’re the same, you see.”

Of course, someone would recognize these nasty rags. Khazmine frowned without turning back. “Same to you, ma’am. I’m glad you escaped as well.”

Khazmine ducked around the building to make use of their horse’s water trough. The ragged outcast tried desperately to keep her nerves in check as she removed her clothing and scrubbed it hastily in a nearby wash bin. The bristles on an ancient washing brush scoured untold particles of grit and grime from her outer layers of clothing, but there was nothing to do for her undershirt or pants, which she kept wearing for modesty’s sake.

A whiny from the stabled horse beside her sent a tremor of fear through Khazmine’s body. The reality of her situation had finally settled on her shoulders, crushing her with worry.

She must realize who I am. Khazmine pressed the wash brush harder into her clothing. The bread peddler’s niece could turn me in for a handsome reward, a favor from the Grand Cathedral, or…

The piebald mare whined in her stall, scaring the daylights of Khazmine. She tried to ignore it as the foolhardy instincts of a stubborn animal, but the horse continued to snort and bray, while ignoring the outcast’s approach at her side. Khazmine ventured a tentative hand to press gently against the creature’s coat and felt the soft hairs of the horse’s mane dance through her fingertips.

“Be still, old girl.” Khazmine stroked the mare from her neck to her withers and whispered with a soothing tone. The poor creature had traces of damage on the high point of her back, which was a fair indicator that she’d been saddled incorrectly or was laden with an ill-fitting harness in the past. Khazmine pulled her hand away to avoid the scabbed injury and her thoughts flashed back to several old wounds of her own. “There now. That’s it. Nothing to worry about…”

Another snort from the old piebald mare spooked Khazmine where she stood. The animal simply refused to relax, almost as if…

We’re being watched.

A familiar, uncomfortable sensation of eyes lingering on her settled upon Khazmine. The owner of the predatory stare was just out of Khazmine’s ability to detect their location, agitating her further. Ripples of goosebumps rose on her tensed body as the outcast snaked to the wash bin. Her darting eyes scanned the perimeter as she scooped up her still damp cloak and over shirt.

There was no doubt about it; Khazmine had sensed this particular danger before. The sparking energy that charged the air around her with malice came from someone interested in more than whatever Khazmine had to spare.

Not watched.

Hunted.

Khazmine readied herself to bolt at a moment’s notice, and startled once she heard the call from a friendly voice out front.

“Oy! Young miss!” The kind mother bellowed from the entrance. Her call stymied the strange energy Khazmine detected. “Auntie’s ready to open shop. You’d best come quickly if you want hot bread.”

The spooked outcast warily tiptoed away from the unseen danger, unaware that someone still lingered in the shadows for their opportunity to strike.