Syraa closed the door behind him when he left, but a faint smile remained on her lips. She returned to the crates and restocking, when the door creaked again.

“Syraa?” It was her Elaina. Her mother. “I saw a man leaving. Looked like an Arcanum envoy?” she inquired with worry in her voice.

“Yes,” Syraa answered as briefly as possible. She knew how her mother – or anybody else for that matter – felt about dealing with the Arcanum.

“What did he want?” Elaina asked sharply.

“To buy some things, that’s all.”

Elaina groaned. “Did he pay you?” There was a kind of desperation in her voice that came from too much bad experience.

“Of course, mum,” Syraa said calmly, smiling at her from the top of her ladder.

Her mother frowned. “How did you push him?”

“He needed no pushing, mum, he paid himself.”

“Did he pay full price?”

Syraa rolled her eyes gently. “Yes mum, he paid the price that was on the receipt and left. It’s there,” she nodded at a heap of coin on the desk.

Elaina blinked at Syraa, then at the coins. This was the most money they made from a single purchase in a long time.

“Speaking of which, mum, do you mind dispatching his package?” Syraa pointed at the large bundle sitting on the desk. While it was large, it didn’t feel heavy enough for the price.

“Did you overquote him?” Elaina asked suspiciously.

Syraa moaned, slumping her shoulders. “Mum, no! He bought the expensive stuff, not my problem. You can look.” 

Elaina looked through the copy of his receipt. Indeed, the price was correct. She clicked her tongue, still unconvinced, but said no more. With a muttered sigh, she gathered up the package and left the shop.

Syraa leaned back against the ladder, pressing her lips together to hide the smile that wanted to break through.

The streets were warmer when he left the herbalist’s, the sun climbing over rooftops and burning away the last of the mist. He allowed himself a long detour, making the most of the trip. He treaded the nearby woods and clearings, walked by the stream running through them, and inhaled the scent of freedom.

By the time he reached the Arcanum stables, the sun started to dip lower, the familiar dread had settled back into his chest. The moment he crossed the gate, the air turned colder, not from the weather but from the stone walls and the people within them. Fireborn or not, the place chilled him. The stepped inside with the eyeroll that preceded his every move he didn’t want to take.

Clerks tallied deliveries with ink-stained hands, guards shuffled past without acknowledgment, and acolytes in grey robes whispered in tight circles. Nobody met his eyes unless they had to.

The ordered wares arrived at the Arcanum grounds before he did. It was convenient this way. He signed off the supplies, let the attendants drag the crates away, and walked the long corridors back to his quarters.

The room was as bare as it had been the day he’d been assigned to it: one bed, one trunk, one desk. A single window that let in some light. He dropped the folded receipt Syraa had given him onto the desk, meaning to ignore it. But his gaze lingered anyway. Neat script. Quill strokes quick and assured. He caught himself tracing the letters with his eyes more than once.

He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and reached for his records.

The ink bled slowly, his handwriting precise and angular:

Supply run complete. Standard herbs, salves, tinctures. One vendor noted as reliable, well stocked. Shop well kept. Efficient.

His hands smudged the last word, forcing him to rewrite with yet another eyeroll. The smudge, although a nuisance, reminded him of her again. She wrote right-handed, unlike him, or most fireborn.

Firetongue was written right to left. Fireborn children grew up taught to write with their left hand and fight with their right. Efficient. Logical.

But not her.

He caught himself wondering how she had learned, who had taught her, whether it was stubbornness or simply difference. He shut the record book harder than necessary, as if to silence the thought before it carried him any further.