Silas opened the door and walked inside, his senses overwhelmed with the smell of freshly baked bread and exotic spices. Warm air hung low, interspersed with the smoke from the oven. Pots and pans clattered and rang like discordant bells, metal against metal in an urgent chorus.  He thought, fleetingly, he saw a flame dancing at the edge of his vision — a flicker too bright, too alive to be ordinary fire. Resolutely, he ignored everything.

Sweat trickled down his forehead and he swept at it with his arms. His robe, already heavy with damp, clung to him like a second skin, plastered tight against his back. He tugged it away, giving his body some space to breathe. He was shivering moments ago and now suddenly he felt so hot. He peered around and realized everyone else was dressed a little warmly as was proper for the cool weather of Raia. Why did he feel like he was half melting on the insides? 

His eyes drifted toward his salvation, the huge window at the far end of the room and a small door next to it. But duty bound him fast. With a sinking heart, his eyes lowered to the squat figure half-hidden behind a stack of crates and discarded ledgers. The manager, he surmised. With heavy steps, he walked toward him.  

He knocked twice on the desk to get the man’s attention, civility be damned. The manager looked up from his ledger and his quill froze mid-word, his lips twisted in annoyance. He skimmed him from head to toe, before his eyes met Silas’s, derision and disgust swam in his gaze. Silas stifled the urge to sneer back. Raians, it seemed, were becoming tediously predictable.

‘What do you want?’ He barked. Silas's people spoke to animals in a kinder tone. 

‘I am here to collect a sample of condiments. My master asked to come find you.’ Silas said.

Without a word, he left his desk and stalked toward what seemed like a small gallery. How he wished he hadn’t, but he still caught the insult he threw over his shoulders as he walked by.

“What’s this city come to? Sending gutter-whelps to handle honest business!"

Silas bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trapping the cry of frustration that clawed up his throat. He was torn between fury and despair. He had wronged no one, yet no one seemed to care about anything but bringing him down.

He had dressed his best today and he refused to believe that he looked anything but decent. They were ugly. Raia, this city of castles and lofty marble spires, was ugly. It breathed mystery and thrummed with chaos. Once, Silas had dreamed of tasting its mysteries. Now, he knew he had never been ready. He would quit this runner job tonight itself and go back to work on Elder Chowksi’s barn. 

He fanned himself with his hands, desperately wanting the manager to hand him the item, so that he could run off to the courtyard and the inviting cool air. Wiping his sweaty hand on the robe, he glanced around. Again, no one else but him seems to be bothered by the heat. A flame danced in his side-vision but when he turned, there was nothing.

A chilling thought crawled over his skin. Was he cursed by someone? Runners were after all, like foot soldiers in this silent war between Raia and Nimit. But then again, they didn’t know Nimah survived. Or did they now? 

Before the thought could fully settle, he heard the angry stomp behind him and he turned. The manager, red-faced and scowling, shoved a wooden box at him, gesturing to keep away.

‘Take it and go! And boy - I hope not to see you here again .’

Silas secured the box in his satchel and said coolly, ‘I’ll be sure to let my master know.’ 

He watched, almost with satisfaction, as the color drained from the manager’s face. Wide-eyed and so pale, he looked as if he was about to be run down by a carriage.

Huh, he thought. His master must be a scary man. If he didn’t feel like he was on fire, he might have stayed to gratify his wounded pride a bit. But Alas! 

Silas found the exit door without any difficulty and finally breathed free, cool air licking at his exposed skin. The sun had almost disappeared in the sky. Night was just around the corner and he still had to walk a mile before he could use the damn key to go back to Nimit. Using it in proximity of Nimit’s undercover settlement in Raia was strictly prohibited. They have to be used a safe distance away. 

Without another thought, he dashed toward the streets, his feet pounding the stone and the breeze tickling his senses into a sensuous calm. He turned into another alley, celebrating his release from the smothering heat that had chased him from the inn. All his thoughts had quieted down and he had sprinted almost half a mile when he suddenly crashed into a …wall? In the middle of the damn street!!

Pain shot through his nose and stars burst behind his eyes. For a moment, everything went dark, and he staggered, certain he was about to hit the ground.

But he didn’t fall.

Two arms, strong and unyielding, shot out from the wall and caught him around the ribs, holding him firmly upright. His breath snagged in his throat. He froze, heart hammering as he dared to glance up.

Oh, how he wished the wall had arms—better the cold mercy of stone than the burning grip of a stranger.