Dawn broke over Kaha’an, painting the Ruby of the Desert in ochre and gold. From the east, the sun struck the city’s spires and slanted rooftops, dazzling off colored tile and dust alike. Xion Kemvimore did not notice. He was already in the back room of Mistress Janice’s weaver shop, sleeves rolled, sweat beading on his brow as he ground verbana flowers to powder. The air back here was always stifling, thick with the scents of dried roots, vinegar, and musty cloth. But it was better than the world outside.

  Janice’s voice drifted in from the shop’s front. “Master Fen, there’s someone here to see you!”

  Master Fen. The name fit him better than his birth name ever had. Here, no one cared that he was the son of Rosik Kemvimore, master of the Grain. No one expected him to lord over the city’s hungry. The old healer who’d first taught him—the real Master Fen—had shown him how to listen, how to mix painkiller and poultice, how to weigh hope against hard reality. She was gone now, executed with two words, but Xion kept her memory alive as quietly and stubbornly as he kept this shop alive.

  He dusted the herbs from his hands and stepped through the beaded curtain, putting on the face he reserved for his patients: a touch gentler, quieter, eyes lowered to avoid the embarrassment of pity.

  His patient that morning was a boy, maybe twelve, though malnutrition and worry made him look older. His left hand, wrapped in a filthy rag, trembled as he offered it. Xion took it gently, unwrapping the cloth with practiced fingers. The wound was angry, red and purple around the edges, with glints of glass still embedded in the flesh.

  “What’s your name?” Xion asked.

  “Tam.” The boy’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Can I have a look?” Xion waited for a nod, then began cleaning the wound with clear liquor. Tam didn’t flinch—not even when the liquid hissed into the open cut.

  Xion caught his eye. “You’re a brave one. Didn’t even cry.”

  The boy’s lips pressed tight. “Can’t work if you cry.” His voice was flat, and Xion heard a thousand other children in it—every orphan and cast-off this city chewed up.

  He worked quickly, tweezing out the glass and trying not to think about why the boy’s hands were in broken bottles to begin with. He stitched the wound, then dressed it with the last of his clean bandages. “You need to keep this hand still for three days at least,” he said. “A week would be better.”

  Tam’s eyes went wide. “But… my mom’s sick. I gotta…”

  Xion pressed a silver coin into Tam’s good hand. “For your mother,” he said. “Don’t let anyone see it if you can help it.” Tam looked up, eyes glassy, fighting the urge to thank him aloud.

  “My momma says you always pay back a kindness.”

  Xion managed a real smile. “She’s a wise woman.” He ruffled Tam’s hair, then watched the boy slip out the back, moving like a shadow in the sun.

  He lingered after Tam left, cleaning the blood from his hands, watching the morning sunlight slant through the cracks. Somewhere outside, a town crier’s voice drifted on the air—lists of debts, names shouted. Xion shivered. No matter how many wounds he stitched or fevers he broke, he could never outrun the city’s hunger.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  He tried to lose himself in the day’s chores: refilling tinctures, mashing roots, recording patient notes in a coded script only he and Janice understood. But Tam’s face stayed with him—the desperation, the stubbornness, the edge of fear.

  By late afternoon, Xion locked up the shop and slipped out into the streets, tucking his apron into his satchel. Kaha’an at dusk was a riot of sound: merchants closing their stalls, children darting between carts, the drone of old men arguing over grain prices. He walked with his head down, shoulders hunched, trying to stay invisible.

  But as he passed the market square, he felt a shift—a tightening in the air, a ripple of unease. A crowd had gathered, pressing in around something Xion couldn’t see. He hesitated. Crowds in Kaha’an rarely meant anything good.

  He heard a name rise above the murmur. “Tam Corris!”

  His heart lurched. He pushed his way through the wall of bodies, shoving aside a fishmonger and a woman with a basket of bread.

  At the center of the throng, Tam stood against the wall, pale and shaking, his left hand cradled to his chest. Three slaver-enforcers blocked any hope of escape. The biggest—thick-necked, with a jagged scar on his jaw—waved a document under Tam’s nose. “Seven silver, four copper—debts owed for medical care, housing, interest, and labor. You got that on you, boy?”

  “Everyone knows Master Fen doesn’t charge!” Xion shouted, voice ringing out. Heads turned, but no one stepped forward to back him up.

  The slaver’s grin was slow and practiced. “Documentation says otherwise. Boy’s word against the city books. You have proof, friend?”

  Xion’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t declare who he was here. He couldn’t risk the questions, the attention. He glanced at the crowd—faces averted, eyes sliding away.

  Tam’s voice shook. “He didn’t charge me! I swear it!”

  The enforcer’s grip tightened on Tam’s arm, making the boy gasp. “Debt’s a debt, son. Crying won’t change the numbers.”

  Xion’s hands curled into fists. He took a half step forward, but stopped himself. If he pushed harder, if he made a scene, Tam would not be the only one to pay the price.

  That’s when he noticed her: a woman at the edge of the crowd, hood pulled low despite the heat. She stood utterly still, her gaze locked on Tam. There was something coiled in her stance, something Xion recognized—a readiness to intervene, barely held in check.

  Their eyes met, and Xion’s world seemed to slow. Her irises shifted in the half-light—blue, then gold, then violet. The colors flickered, impossible. He blinked, and she yanked her hood lower, vanishing into the mass of bodies. Xion felt himself sway. The stories his mother used to tell—of Valanar eyes that changed with emotion, marks of the true blood—flooded back, absurd and undeniable.

  He almost chased after her, but Tam’s cry pulled him back.

  The slaver dug through Tam’s pocket and pulled out the silver coin. “Looks like your debts just got worse, boy.”

  “That’s not yours!” Xion’s voice cracked. The enforcer shrugged, slipping the coin into his vest. “It is now. Unless you want to take it off me.” The other two laughed—a joyless, ugly sound.

  Xion stared at them, rage boiling up. He couldn’t do anything. Not here. Not like this.

  The crowd began to dissolve. The spell of spectacle was broken; there was no help coming. The slavers dragged Tam away, ignoring his protests, his pleas for his mother. Xion watched until the boy disappeared around a corner, the pain in his chest settling like a stone.

  He lingered, fists trembling, while the last onlookers slipped away. The sun was dipping low, shadows growing long across the square. He scanned the crowd for the woman in the hood, but she was gone.

  For a long moment, Xion stood alone. He should have run after Tam, should have tried to chase the woman with impossible eyes. Instead, he did nothing. His feet were rooted to the paving stones, as if the city itself was holding him in place.

  A few merchants closed their shutters. An old woman swept dust from her doorstep. Life returned to its ordinary, merciless routine. Xion shoved his hands into his pockets and walked home as dusk settled over the city.

  By the time he reached his tiny rented room above a baker’s shop, the city was quiet. He sat on his cot, staring at the wall, Tam’s face hovering before him, alongside the ghost of a woman he could not name.

  Two impossible things.

  He pressed his palms together, knuckles whitening.

  Tomorrow, he would act.