Unaware of Mister Hallem's arrival at the Solanai camp, Khazmine continued the morning's errands, ignorant of the gathering storm overhead. Despite a pleasant early morning breakfast with Lieutenant Mevralls, the outcast couldn’t wait to get out of the barracks to blow the stink of camp from her body again. She got along fine with Mevralls and Major Barshaw but was still having a difficult time earning the respect of her contemporaries.

Some initiates were still emboldened enough to tease, taunt, and otherwise torment their outcast fetch-and-carry, leaving Khazmine to feel alone among peers. She especially despised the brash Quin Scurving, who made it his mission to make every day a miserable experience for the irritated half-breed. Perhaps one day, he’d push Khazmine too far with his antics, and taste the consequences of riling her.

But now wasn’t the time to stew about injustices or slights. Khazmine crumpled a scrap of parchment in her fist that detailed the errands needed for the Solanai barracks that morning. Chief among them was to request a resupply for the commissary, tailor, and armorer from various shops in Merchant’s Quarter.

After nearly a month of repetition and practice, Khazmine had perfected the most efficient route through the cobblestone streets of Merchant’s Quarter to reach every vendor long before mid-day. This often left the outcast with a welcome surplus of time to visit Harriet Cadlen and her deplorable auntie at the bread peddler’s bakery, or even enough to leave presents for the two outcasts nestled in the Forbidden Ruins.

Khazmine was just about to turn a corner to stride over to the bakery when a loose-leaf “wanted” poster on the shaded community board caught her eye. She might not have noticed, were it not for the fine, cold-pressed cornflower parchment and vaguely familiar portrait rendered in its center. The crude likeness had only the barest resemblance, but anyone who knew her could claim kinship with the drawing.

“Wanted. Half-breed witch to answer for crimes against nobility. Dark hair, pale skin, and is a young miss. Reward for capture. Inquiries to be made care of House Farthing, Holloworth.”

The outcast spared a quick glance around the area before yanking the offending poster from the kiosk and crumbling it into a tight ball. It was fortunate that the ambient darkness and drunkenness of Lord Farthing and his house knights had distorted their recollection of the half-breed's appearance. The poster didn’t specify black hair and lilac skin, so this vague description had little hope of narrowing the search down to less than a few dozen potential candidates. If she played her cards right, no one would notice that the new Solanai fetch-and-carry fit this poster’s description.

Lousy brute, Khazmine remarked to herself. Some nobles sure hold onto grudges. I can’t even imagine what Lamont Skelfrig has posted as a bounty in The Dregs for me kicking him…

Khazmine tugged at the hood on her forest green bolero jacket to cover her hair and brows, despite the sticky heat that hung languidly over the streets of Old Sarzonn. She cursed the fickle swings of temperature and humidity that were hallmarks of the monsoon season, and grumbled about the vices of sticky, gross heat over dry, chilly breezes. Her mind wandered to that first chilly meeting with Aranthus and Pavocinis, where Khazmine shielded the tiny southerner from harsh winds.

She was so lost in thought that the outcast collided with a pair of noblewomen near the local transport house who were arguing over getting a carriage for rent. The pair of posh, fancy women quarreled boisterously about hiring a fast coach to Etoncary, or any other large city west of Old Sarzonn, with some urgency. Khazmine hardly had time or interest in gossip, but she had noticed a fair number of carriages heading west in recent weeks. It was no wonder that these two handsome harridans were at odds finding suitable transportation, what with there only being a few carriages left for rent in the whole city.

“Apologies, ladies,” Khazmine bowed low to beg their pardons. “Blessings and virtues to you.”

Aside from a disgusted “harumph” from the ladies, they paid Khazmine no mind and continued on long after she’d run into them. That suited the outcast just fine. There was no sense in drawing attention to herself under cover of broad daylight with city guards and stars of holy house men patrolling the streets for ne’er-do-wells. So long as Khazmine didn’t succumb to the urge to make a quick profit by pick-pocketing, they’d have no reason to detain her, unless…

A few gold stags wouldn’t mean much to fancy ladies like that, but… Khazmine scrunched her nose and shook her head beneath the clingy hood to rattle the thoughts from returning. A handful of stags could buy many things; nice meals, new clothes, and expensive medicine for little Pavo’s cough.

Khazmine quickly glanced back to see if the squabbling ladies with fine, heavy purses were still bickering behind her, and bit her lower lip at the tempting prospect of a quick caper. It’s not every day that such elegant targets just waltz through Merchant’s Quarter, all on their own…

“Gah, foolhardy!” Khazmine admonished herself aloud with a wave of her hand as she turned to face forward again. This time, she had enough sense to startle at the sudden appearance of a familiar, pale-blue Outsider who appeared from the nearby alley to confront her.

“Oy, Aranthus.” Khazmine shoved her errand list into a jacket pocket and bent down to greet the small child with a friendly grin. She hadn’t spotted either of the outcast boys for a couple of days since the last heavy rain and was relieved to see him again. “How are you and wee Pavo?”

Khazmine had expected Aranthus to ask for a sweet-bread from the bread peddler’s to share, or even a piece of fresh fruit from one of the stalls, but this time was different. A subtle shift in the skinny boy’s bearing informed Khazmine of his fear and desperation. His tiny hands were clasped together in front of him as if he were in the midst of prayer, white-knuckled and trembling. Something was dreadfully wrong.

“Lady Kiss-Me,” Aranthus fumbled for her name and tried to contain tears that could be held no longer. She’d long since abandoned correcting either word he’d used to address her and instead waited for him to continue. When the tiny outcast remained silent, Aranthus’s breathing quickened, and his nose ran runny.

“What’s wrong, lad?” Khazmine eyed him with growing concern when he strained through tears to speak.

“P-please, you have to come, quickly,” Aranthus begged. “It’s Pavo. He’s… not moving.”

Khazmine's eyes scanned Aranthus’s tear-stained face for insight. He was shaking and shivering in place and looked even thinner than the last time they’d met, despite having food delivered at odd intervals by Khazmine herself.

Don’t. Don’t do it. Khazmine faltered at the instinctual reminder buried in the back of her mind. Don’t get involved with other outcasts…

“Please, Lady Kiss-Me…” Aranthus pleaded again after Khazmine failed to respond. “He was coughing and cold, and now he’s not moving at all. Please help… He’s my little brother.”

Coughing and cold? In this heat? Khazmine tugged at the corners of her mouth with her thumb and index finger. A chill during such a hot, humid day couldn’t have been a good omen for the sickly southerner.

The outcast clenched her jaw at the distressing news, and her obligations to the camp sprang to mind as she considered her options. I don’t have time for this. The Solanai will be back in less than an hour for the mid-day meal, and I’ve gotta get back before—"

A tiny glint of light sparkled from the object dangling from the pale Outsider’s clenched hands. Khazmine winced at once upon recognizing the tiny silver locket that had been around the little southerner’s neck, now clasped as an offering of some kind by a desperate child. It was the only thing of value the boys had and Aranthus had pinned his last hopes on securing help for his “little brother” on sacrificing Pavo’s precious treasure.

“Please,” Aranthus whispered, soft as a feather on the wind.

Khazmine pressed her thumb between her brows and squinted her eyes shut. She realized that Pavo and Aranthus were not literally related, but the young boy was so insistent that she couldn’t refuse. Khazmine tugged on the silver locket and tucked it safely in her other jacket pocket for safe-keeping. The elder outcast groaned before she dropped into a squat and gestured for Aranthus to climb on her back.

“There, up we go,” Khazmine said as she shuffled the skinny child into a more comfortable position. “Hang on tightly, little one. Is Pavo where we met last time?”

“Yes, Lady Kiss-Me,” Aranthus hugged Khazmine by the neck and allowed his drenched face to press against her shoulder. “Please hurry…”

The pair made their way through the backstreets and byways, past the cemetery and to the familiar hovel by the jagged bone-stone pillars of the Forbidden Ruins. There, tucked underneath the sailcloth lean-to, laid a cold, motionless child under heaps of filthy cloth and debris. Khazmine let Aranthus down from her back and approached to examine the tiny southerner. Her expression tensed when Khazmine found his caramel skin to be ice cold to the touch.

“He’s still alive, but he won’t last out here,” Khazmine observed with a frown. “I am no healer, so I’m not sure how I can help you, little one.”

“Take us with you?” Aranthus creaked.

“What? I’m no parent, either,” Khazmine balked at the suggestion. Not even an adult herself, Khazmine had trouble feeding and clothing one person, let alone providing food and shelter for two growing boys. “I’ve still no means to care for you.”

“But you gave us the bread.” Aranthus reasoned. That much was certainly true. Khazmine had given bread to both children multiple times over the last few weeks.

“Bread, yes. But I’ve only a single, dingy room in Cheapside, little one,” Khazmine explained, unsure of how to best order her words to make this tiny Outsider understand.

“We won’t take up much room, I promise!” Aranthus begged with trembling hands clenching Khazmine’s jacket cloth in tiny fists.

Aside from the obvious strain on her limited resources, Khazmine brought up the logistics of housing two small children in the shoebox of a rented room. “Even if the owners let you both stay, you’d have no privacy, little space, the nearby mercenaries are mean, and you’ll have to put up with me all the time.”

Despite myriad reasons to decline, Aranthus crouched low to get another look at his little brother and glanced back at Khazmine with a resolute expression. “We don’t mind.”

The midtown sun clock cast its gilded light overhead for Khazmine to see. She had no time to argue with the pale, gaunt Aranthus, who stood staunchly by and insisted for her not to leave them behind. There were only a few precious minutes left before the initiates would return and expect her back at the camp. Khazmine took a deep breath, clenched the muscles in her face briefly, and sighed.

“FINE. Give him here and climb on,” Khazmine sighed in defeat. Aranthus handed the passed-out Pavo to Khazmine and climbed on her back. “Cling tenaciously, Aranthus. I’m going to have to run.”

You’ve lost your mind, Khazmine. She raced back to the Solanai barracks through every shortcut she could remember. You’ve no extra money to feed YOURSELF, let alone two starving children. All you’ve got goes towards renting that crummy room, what could you possibly be thinking—”

Little Pavo stirred in her arms as Khazmine dashed through the cobblestone streets of Old Sarzonn. He was desperately skinny, and started shaking as tiny hands searched her bolero jacket for warmth. What little water Pavo had left in his withered body was spent on two meager, errant tears that glistened as they rolled onto Khazmine’s arms.

A thousand curses on my foolish body, Khazmine admonished herself as they returned to the intersection by the Solanai guild house. I’ll drop these two off in Cheapside and report back before it’s too late. If anyone catches us, I’ll—

“Oy, half-breed! What’ve you got there?” a salty, distressingly familiar-sounding man called out to Khazmine, stopping her mid-sprint. His grating voice made her skin crawl at the sound of it, enough so that Aranthus tightened his grip around her neck when she flinched. “You bring in a contract on your own then?”

Ignoring him now was a death sentence for Khazmine, and she knew it. Her left eyelid quivered at the prospect of having to speak with the wretched tyrant who’d seen fit to skulk around the camp to await her return. Khazmine sighed, took a deep breath to steel her nerves, and plastered a veneer of warmth and friendliness in her twitchy smile as she locked eyes with the dreaded Mister Hallem.