The streets and shops in Merchant’s Quarter bustled with activity from a flush crop of shoppers eagerly filling their baskets with new, seasonal goods. Once the morning fog had dispersed, denizens of Old Sarzonn braved the peak hours to restock their dwindling pantries to their hearts’ content. With monsoon season ending, the next big event was at the top of everyone’s minds and was eagerly awaited by all who spoke of it—the Feast of Merkander. Vine-ripening fruits, fattened steers, and fish fresh from the meandering river outside the stone walls were all on the menu, and the whole city was abuzz with anticipation for the wondrous festival season that would soon be upon them.

Fashionable ladies eyed the latest trends from Etoncary, young men’s fancies turned towards the arena games, and appetites for rare delicacies were piqued for the upcoming carnival. With so much splendor on the horizon, no one paid much attention to the red-stained half-breed browsing among them for a quick change of clothing at an off-the-rack mercantile. The outcast made several speedy purchases of clothing and a knapsack, then trudged to one of the expensive, lesser-used stalls in the public bathhouse to rid herself of all traces of unpleasantness from the Solanai commissary.

There’s still time to turn back… Khazmine thought to herself as she entered the deep, curvy basin filled to the brim with steamy, salt-scented waters. The outcast was doing no favors to herself by stewing on whether or not to proceed with the plan.

Submerged entirely beneath the surface, the stained outcast remained in the soundless cocoon of warmth until her lungs begged for air. Still fighting the urge to rise, Khazmine opened her eyes to see the last traces of dark, penetrating redness leech from her skin and dissolve into the piping-hot safe haven. Rivulets of water trailed down Khazmine’s limbs, face, and body as the troubled outcast emerged from a cleansing soak in the dented copper basin she’d rented.

You can’t… Not now, Khazmine… Not after everything…

As if sloughing off all remaining fear and doubt, the outcast resolved herself to commit to this uncomfortable course of action, once and for all. Aranthus was waiting for her back at Rida’s hovel, and she couldn’t disappoint him or wee Pavo by giving up now, discomfort be d*mned. A quick towel-down and change of clothes later, and Khazmine readied herself for the most challenging task ahead. There was just one more thing that was essential to secure for the near future, which the half-breed hoped a nearby friend could provide.

“Mistress Cadlen, are you in?” Khazmine called out to the now empty bread-peddler’s bakery. From the sweet thistle-wheat rolls to the rock-hard soup dipping slices, every scrap of bread had been lately sold to a bevy of impatient shoppers. Not seeing her friend immediately, the outcast stepped inside to search behind the counters. “Tatty?”

“Oh, aye!” Harriet called from out behind the bakery. The familiar scraping of metal tools signaled the spritely woman’s location out back, accompanied by the rousing calls of her two children at play with their salt dough toys. “Come on back, miss!”

Khazmine sauntered back behind the bakery to the familiar courtyard where hot ovens were still sending waves of translucent heat from their infernal interiors. Harriet was busy loading a full tray of sweet thistle-wheat dough into the nearest oven when another coughing fit overtook the outcast, startling the children, the old mare in her stall, and Harriet herself.

“Poor ol’ thing,” Harriet comforted the outcast once she’d brushed some errant flour from her hands to the ratty sack-cloth apron around her waist. “D’you ‘ave that nasty cough what’s goin’ ‘round? I ‘eard there’s been a mess o’ sickness from out east, they says, miss.”

The outcast didn’t have the heart to explain that her raspy fits were simply the latest consequence of being a half-breed fetch-and-carry for the Solanai, and instead shook her head to assure Harriet otherwise. “N-no, I had some brambleberry drink earlier that didn’t agree with me, that’s all. Is your ‘blessed auntie’ about?”

“No, no, auntie’s out with them Women o’ the Holy Vigil, waiting for his handsome lordship,” Harriet joked as her children continued to play underfoot. The pair were intent on fighting with their salt dough knights versus the insidious Invaders, crashing the toys together with repeated clacks. “That Lord Vythorne’s ‘olding a special mass for the believers. Auntie ‘ad to leave early so’s she could get a good seat.”

Another mass? More like a fundraising venture, sounds like. Khazmine scoffed to herself. The holy house always has their hand out, no matter how much they take in…

Khazmine grumbled at the hypocrisy of it all, tugging down on her new jacket to remove wrinkles in the cloth. When the holy house asks for money, it’s “charity,” but when a poor, starving child extends a hand, it’s “begging.” How easy it was for the Grand Cathedral to issue commands to encourage one act and outlaw the other. Another cough interrupted the outcast’s chain of thought and drew the interest of Harriet Cadlen.

“Your hair’s soaking wet, Miss Khazmine,” Tatty chided gently, gesturing for the outcast to sit down on a log-splitting block near the ovens. The tireless woman’s plump, work-dried hands gathered a length of her skirt cloth to smother the dampness from Khazmine’s raven-black locks, causing the outcast to flinch at the unexpected contact. “You don’t wanna catch that sickness what’s goin’ round The Dregs, miss. Some says that it’s killed people, whatever it is.”

“It’s not that,” Khazmine insisted, bristling from the friction of the eager woman’s fingers brushing spikes of hair into place. Once the short mane of black hair had settled to Harriet’s satisfaction, the outcast plucked up her courage to ask what she wanted to know. “Say, Tatty… Do you live above the shop?”

“What? No, that’s auntie’s place,” Harriet nodded. “Bit of a mess though, yeah? No, I live ‘round the corner, miss, on Crescent, right by Cheapside.”

“That’s a row of houses, isn’t it?” Khazmine squinted, straining to remember.

“’Tis. The children’s father got it ‘fore he left us,” Harriet reminisced with a sigh. “An’ I work the ovens to afford tax and whatsis for the city. They take their share, miss, make no mistake.”

“Tatty… Can I ask you a favor?” Khazmine ruffled her hair to buy a moment to steel herself for rejection, just in case. “If I offered to pay you a fair price, would you consider renting a room in your cottage?”

“Oh, aye. For you, miss?” Harriet asked with a curious tilt to her head that dropped a long red braid to her side.

“Yes, that’s right. For me and my…” Khazmine licked her dry lips and met Harriet’s eyes with her own glacier-blue stare. “M-my two little brothers. You know the old boarding house that burned down in Cheapside? We were staying there, and now we don’t have anywhere else to go…”

Harriet looked down at the half-breed seated on her chopping block and overheard the energetic noises of her own children gleefully playing near the horse’s stall. A salt dough knight stood tall on a bale of hay as the children giggled at the hero’s triumphant climb to the summit. The corners of Harriet’s mouth curled into a wistful smile, filling the outcast with hope.

“A course you can stay with us, miss.” Harriet extended a hand for the rising Khazmine to shake, and the outcast could sense a pervasive warmth in the kind woman’s grasp. “I’ll ‘ave to clean out a room for you three, an’ it ain’t fancy, but it beats that ol’ boarding house what’s burned down. Can you wait a day or so, so’s I can get it done proper for ya?”

“Yes, yes!” Khazmine released Harriet’s warm handshake and fought tears from welling in her eyes. “Thank you, Tatty! Thank you so much! Please, let me know what I owe you, and I’ll—”

“It’ll keep, miss,” Harriet assured the outcast, scooping the exhausted Khazmine into a brief, friendly hug. “We’ll talk details when you three stop by, let’s say, tomorrow dusk?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Khazmine beamed, her hope restored and brimming through a bright white smile. “Tomorrow, dusk. Thank you again!”

Khazmine gave a gentle pat to the stabled old piebald mare in her stall and waved goodbye to the children as she turned to exit the courtyard by way of the back gate. The same heart that had shriveled under the tyrannical cruelty of Quin Scurving and his cohorts grew strong and robust from the kindness of Harriet Cadlen, adding speed to the outcast’s movements. Khazmine clenched the hand that had nestled in Tatty’s and held onto the lingering warmth for dear life. A benevolent voice rang out in her mind, lending the outcast a rush of determination and confidence to her strides.

Keep going, Khazmine. Don’t stop.

Brimming with energy from an invigorating bath and the very best of good news, Khazmine’s earlier foray into violence was all but forgotten. With luck and time, she wouldn’t dwell on the horrific treatment she’d endured by the initiates, nor the perceived abandonment she’d felt from the healer that had saved her life. The outcast slinked up to Rida’s hovel by way of the unkempt backstreets, taking great pains to avoid roving city patrols, Star Guards, and several pairs of Solanai on their respective routes. Finally approaching the recovery room window, Khazmine spotted a familiar mop of scraggly white hair peeking above the windowsill.

“Aranthus, can you hear me?” Khazmine whispered as loudly as she dared with her face grazing a cool pane of glass. “Open the window, lad.”

“Lady Kiss-Me! You’re back!” Aranthus could barely contain his excitement at the half-breed’s return as he slid open the ancient, dusty window.

“Of course. I promised, didn’t I?” Khazmine smiled radiantly at Aranthus, eliciting a glaze of enthusiastic tears from the pale-blue Outsider. “Did you do as I asked, little one?”

“I did.” Aranthus echoed Khazmine’s expression, a perfect mirror of the outcast’s felicity. “I told that old man with the golden eyes that Pavo was up all night rolling around and that he just got to sleep. He wants me to come out if Pavo wakes up or if he has another fit. I don’t think that old mister will be bothering us again until dinnertime.”

Khazmine gave a wry smirk at how well her little brother had done, and how he’d considered the southerner healer an “old man.” Poor Rida wasn’t a day over thirty-five and had already been awarded a badge of elderliness by an eleven-year-old outcast. “Good work, Aranthus. Can you hand Pavo up to me, or do you need me to come in and get him?”

“I can do it.” Aranthus pouted, his ego bruised at the idea that his big sister had to hoist up the tiny southerner instead of leaving the Outsider to do it. The elder of the outcast brothers strained to lift Pavo up to the sill and the tiny boy shuddered as Khazmine took him in her waiting arms. “Careful, Kiss-Me.”

“I have him. Thank you.” Khazmine lowered Pavo into her knapsack and nestled the southerner inside with the top unclasped. A small, wooden toggle bounced as the half-breed moved, but the pouch was otherwise secure on her back once she rose. “Be good, Aranthus. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”

A single hand extended out from the window, desperately reaching out with short, thin fingers. Uncertain at first, Khazmine rubbed the top of his tiny hand with her palm, until the Outsider managed to grab hold of the outcast’s pale lilac thumb. Aranthus squeezed with all his might, only reluctantly releasing Khazmine’s finger once she’d comforted him enough with reassuring strokes of her free fingers against the back of his hand.

“Good luck, Lady Kiss-Me…”

“You too, little one…”

Uncomfortable trembling from deep within her knapsack brought Khazmine’s attention back to the mission at hand, and she took off towards Holloworth with renewed vigor. Aranthus waited by the window, watching his little brother and big sister vanish once they’d back-tracked into an alleyway. As soon as Khazmine had crossed over from Cheapside’s back alleys, a vicious spasm from the pouch demanded attention. Poor Pavo was on the verge of another fit, and the outcast had to decide whether to stop and rest, or forge ahead without delay.

Determined not to waste any time dithering, Khazmine was just about to cross over to one of the main, open streets when a mystifying, ethereal ensemble of voices stopped her cold. They had the same hazy strangeness Khazmine remembered from yesterday, with two words that rang out in her head like a loud, wheezing exhale.

STAAAHP… WAAAIIIT…

A troubling chill ran down Khazmine’s arms as she swallowed hard and obeyed the faceless choir who demanded her compliance.