A two-day lull in the monsoon rains dried everything in the Forbidden Ruins out and robbed the overgrowth of its lushness of a week ago. Grasses and brambles that had greedily soaked in the seasonal rains shriveled to tinder under the brutal twin suns and crackled underfoot as Khazmine trudged through. Clouds gathered to the northeast, promising more rain, but they were still a long way off to relieve the thirsty landscape.

The outcast meandered past a toppled bone-stone pillar, and she spotted the sleeping southerner underneath the familiar sailcloth lean-to. He was being carefully monitored by Aranthus, who was sitting, hunched over, with his back to Khazmine. His ears perked up any time Pavocinis stirred, and Aranthus’s limbs tensed whenever the tiny boy coughed in his sleep, which was depressingly often.

Still weary and dispirited, Khazmine’s fumbling footsteps announced her approach long before any outcries would. Startled and jumpy, Aranthus spun around with his rusty knife drawn, ready to defend his shabby kingdom.

“Wh-who’s out there?” Aranthus whispered accusingly at the shadows with lips drawn into a snarl. Khazmine remained hidden behind a bone-stone pillar, obscured by the ancient structure so as not to frighten the Outsider with her haggard appearance. If anything, Khazmine’s mottled bruising helped aid in camouflaging the outcast into her surroundings. “Don’t come any closer, whoever you are.”

“Not even if I brought presents?” Khazmine asked with a trembling voice, still ragged and strained from the ether training earlier.

“Lady Kiss-Me? Is that you?” Aranthus’s head turned on a swivel to try and locate the familiar voice, but he couldn’t seem to find her among the dappled shade that draped over the ruins. “Oy, Pavo, it’s—”

“Shhh…” Khazmine urged the Outsider to remain quiet. “Don’t wake him, little one. He looks so tired.”

“He didn’t sleep much last night,” Aranthus confessed, “or the night before. They had men come through here, big men from the city, I think.” Aranthus narrowed his eyes as he homed in on Khazmine’s position.

“Probably city guards,” Khazmine guessed aloud, giving Aranthus a lead on where she’d hidden away. She failed to hear Aranthus sneaking about to try and find her, as Khazmine’s own voice overshadowed the Outsider’s silent approach. “There’re more patrols between the monsoons these days, though I’m not sure why.”

“Gotcha!”

An unexpected, dizzying array of stars circled around Khazmine’s head as something firm clenched around her torso that sent shocks of pain through her body. Aranthus had taken the opportunity to surprise Khazmine and hugged her fiercely, digging right into her still-healing rib. A yelp of anguish escaped the outcast’s trembling lips as her pale-blue assailant latched harder. His head raised in confusion to see what was the matter.

“You don’t like hugs, Lady Kiss—” Aranthus trailed off mid-question as he pieced together what he’d done. The Outsider hadn’t noticed the dark bruises on Khazmine when he approached, and only lately realized that she was covered in patches of damaged flesh from head to toe. “A-are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Khazmine winced as Aranthus released her damaged midsection. A frown etched itself on his sunken face. Aranthus knew from experience that “I’ll be fine” was a grown up’s way of saying “I’m not okay,” and that he’d unintentionally made her injuries worse. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

It had to be a lie. A lie to comfort a troubled boy, but a lie, nonetheless. Four days of bruising and an exhausting afternoon of ether training left Khazmine resembling a hollowed-out husk of a person, and Aranthus’s ears drooped at the sight of her.

“D-did they beat you?” Aranthus asked, not really wanting to know, but dying to find out.

“I made a mistake, that’s all,” Khazmine explained. “I got a new job, but I didn’t know the rules yet, so I… It was a mistake. I’m not in any trouble at present.”

Were these more lies? Aranthus tensed his brows at the thought of it. Did Lady Kiss-Me truly feel the need to sugar-coat her suffering for him to understand? Aranthus was already eleven—practically a grown man, in his estimation—and he didn’t need to be coddled or shielded from the truth. His lower lip stuck out as the Outsider pouted at being treated like some little kid.

“Speaking of presents—here,” Khazmine said as she handed the parcel of clothing to Aranthus. He looked up curiously at the half-breed, wondering what it was for. “It’s nothing special, but there’s fresh clothes inside for you and Pavo. A shirt and pants each. They might be a little big on you, as I don’t know how big you children are.”

There it was again; “children.” The word soured Aranthus’s expression, but he couldn’t put words to his discomfort. Instead, he tore open the parcel and saw exactly what was promised—a set of clothing for each boy. They weren’t fancy by any means, but fresh clothes made with waterproof fibers meant renewed warmth and comfort for the orphaned outcasts.

Aranthus hugged the parcel close to his body and asked about the crinkly sack in Khazmine’s arms. She smiled warmly at the pale child and shared the treasure trove of sweet breads within. Ravenous and wide-eyed at such splendor, Aranthus tore into a sticky bun with great enthusiasm.

“Not so fast, little one,” Khazmine advised. “You’ll choke if you eat it that quickly.”

The outcast fished two small sweet-loaves for herself and handed the remains of the overly-stuffed bag to Aranthus. “The rest are for you and Pavo. This bag will keep out the rain, so make sure to close it up tight when you want to keep food fresh, okay?”

“Wait, are you leaving?” Aranthus asked between mouthfuls of sticky bun.

“I have to get back soon,” Khazmine explained. “I don’t have much energy left, and I… I need to get up early for work tomorrow.”

That much was true, at least. Khazmine could spare a few moments to linger longer, but that risked waking the sickly Pavocinis from his troubled sleep. The weary outcast didn’t have it in her to hear his saddened pleas today, and guilt rattled her to the core as Khazmine readied to depart for home.

“Can we, that is…” Aranthus mumbled, tried to find the right words, but ultimately resorted to asking his original question. “C-can we come with you?”

A subtle groan caught in Khazmine’s throat as she locked eyes with Aranthus. His long ears drooped even lower at her pained expression. There was no way, simply nothing she could do. That dingy little room in Cheapside was only leased for single-person occupancy, and Khazmine couldn’t afford a hike in rent. Not only that, but little Pavo’s cough…

She’d tried to buy medicine in Merchant’s Quarter before meeting with them, but it was hopeless. Even if the apothecary hadn’t ignored Khazmine’s bruises and ushered her out of his store for being a half-breed, she didn’t have enough money for their expensive tonics. Khazmine had almost nothing.

The realization stripped away Khazmine’s resolve as tears filled her sunken eyes and a hitch in her throat strained the poor half-breed. She had so little to give them, and not enough for herself to survive. The cold truth bore down on Khazmine and shredded her heart to ribbons.

“I-I can’t, little one,” Khazmine choked back tears as she confessed to her poverty. “I’ve no money to house you, nor resources to cure wee Pavo’s cough. There’s no way…”

Without meaning to, the truth seeped out of Khazmine, and her words took on a raw, untamed sadness to them that Aranthus hadn’t expected.

“I can’t even protect myself, little one,” Khazmine mumbled between harsh sniffs of her running nose. Darkening bruises on her pale-lilac skin reminded the outcast of that tragic fact. “I can’t promise you a future.”

That was it. The truth she’d hoped to hide or ignore reared its ugliness to both of them in the harsh shadows of the Forbidden Ruins. A heavy, oppressive silence lingered for the two outcasts amid their stony surroundings, punctuated by distant birdsong and the rush of water from an exposed sluice. Both sets of long ears twitched at the subtle movements of the sleeping southerner under the lean-to, and Khazmine rose to her feet to get ready for a painful retreat.

“A-at least not right now,” she added, wiping tears from sore eyes. “But I’ll keep trying, and come back as much as I can, okay?”

It wasn’t a firm commitment, but her words held more promise than Aranthus had heard in ages. He sidled close to Khazmine and gingerly wrapped his arms around her, taking great pains not to squeeze too tightly. To his surprise, a bruised hand alighted on his head and weakly ruffled Aranthus’s scraggly white hair.

“Do you promise?” Aranthus asked with a voice muffled by their hug.

“Promise.” Khazmine forced herself to reply. She hated the word “promise” deeply but said it all the same. Nearly every assurance she’d ever heard was broken sometime in her miserable life, and she had little heart to shatter other people’s hopes by making promises of her own. Aranthus and Pavo were her only exceptions to that unspoken rule.

Khazmine wiped her eyes and turned away from the lean-to again, only to turn back with a parting message for Aranthus. “You boys hang in there and take care of each other.”

Aranthus continued staring off into the direction Khazmine had ambled away, long after the outcast had gone. He was so wrapped up in this tense waiting that he failed to notice his tiny friend curl up into a tight ball underneath their shared sailcloth lean-to. Little Pavocinis rubbed his thumb against his silver locket repeatedly, infusing it with what little body heat he had.

There was no telling how long the D’jabareen child had been awake for, but it was certainly long enough to hear Lady Kiss-Me’s promise. Pavocinis closed his eyes once more, recalled a prayer song to the Ancients, and only allowed sleep to take his sickly body once full-dark creeped up on the ruins.

---

Khazmine’s weary eyes stung fiercely under the brutal suns as she continued her fetch-and-carry duties that next morning. She’d spent the better part of the night crying and ruminating over her failures from yesterday, and the stinging itchiness of tired eyes only irritated her further.

Not that she needed much of an excuse to feel irritated, as Khazmine had experienced plenty of frustration that morning already. Initiates and low-ranking soldiers of the Solanai order still murmured amongst themselves whenever the outcast passed by, and some saw fit to torment and antagonize her over the course of her duties. Rude comments, teasing, sabotage, and discontent flourished wherever she went.

The commissary had plates of overturned food, its rubbish bins overfilled, and sticky, sweet-smelling brambleberry juice or wine stained the timber floorboards every time the outcast returned to the eatery. For every task she had to do, at least two obstacles stymied her progress or dampened her spirits. The whole ordeal proved frustrating and childish to the half-breed outcast, whose body was still sore and tired from the physical tolls on it from earlier.

Only brief mentions and offhand comments gave her a clue as to what displeased the soldiers here. If these murmurings were to be relied on, the Solanai blamed Khazmine for mister Hallem’s unfair punishment in the training circle, and for the unfortunate removal of the Challenge Rack. Until it was repaired or replaced, no one could issue a challenge to earn ranks among their peers, causing great dismay throughout the camp.

“I don’ know why they keep her around, t’be honest,” a gruff whisper punctuated the din of the busy commissary and snuck its way to Khazmine’s pricked ears as she cleaned. “She ain’t nothing special, eh?”

It stung to hear what the troops really thought of the bruised half-breed, but there was nothing for it. She had little choice of occupation if she wanted to survive as an outcast in this wretched city, and this was her best option. Khazmine toiled on until familiar rays of light peeked through open commissary windows and lit up empty glass bottles on still-dirty tables.

As far as Khazmine was concerned, the midday beams from Old Sarzonn’s sun clock were a welcome reprieve that allowed the outcast to pack up her fetch-and-carry duties for the day. She at once had a pointed eagerness to leave the commissary, yet a reluctance to return to the training circle after yesterday’s disastrous mistake.

A lump formed in Khazmine’s throat as she approached the training circle, unsure of how to properly apologize to Lieutenant Mevralls again for how poorly she’d performed yesterday. She’d kept her eyes glued to the ground below, not noticing much beyond her teacher’s shadow approaching.

But just as she was about to raise her head to greet the lieutenant, Khazmine froze in her tracks and flinched at the figure standing where Mevralls should have been. Instead of the dashing, friendly ether spike champion, Khazmine felt the cool, appraising stare of her most imposing nightmare—Major Tazanni Barshaw.