The battle had ended.

  The bandits had fled, vanishing into the dunes. Their leader—gone.

  The desert was quiet again.

  The only thing left was the heat.

  Not just from the spellfire, but from the molten glass crater, still smoking where the ridge once stood. The air still carried the scent of scorched sand, burnt leather, and blood.

  The world had shifted. And none of them knew what to say.

  But Zafran moved first.

  He turned from the wreckage, eyes sharp as he scanned the group.

  Survival came first.

  Ysar slumped against a rock, blood seeping from his shoulder, his tunic torn and damp. His breathing was steady—but weak.

  Elsha sat nearby, arm cradled against her ribs. She was breathing hard, quiet and composed.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Zafran knelt beside Ysar and pulled out a pouch of bandages. “Stay still.”

  Ysar exhaled a sharp breath, smirking despite the pain. “Not planning on dancing, don’t worry.”

  Zafran ignored him, working quickly. Cut. Press. Wrap. Tighten. He was neither gentle nor rough—just efficient.

  Elsha glanced over. “You should’ve checked me first. I did more work than he did.”

  Dry. Not warm. Just enough to keep Ysar talking.

  It worked.

  Ysar chuckled weakly, tipping his head toward her. “And yet, I’m the one bleeding more. Funny how that works.”

  Zafran didn’t react. He tied the last knot and moved on.

  Then—Karin dropped to her knees beside Elsha.

  No hesitation. No words.

  She just grabbed more bandages from Zafran’s pack and started wrapping Elsha’s arm.

  Zafran didn’t stop her. He knew she couldn’t heal—but she needed to do something.

  Elsha raised a brow, eyes sidelong. “So you’re a medic now?”

  Karin smirked. “I’m whatever I need to be.”

  Elsha didn’t reply, but she didn’t stop her either.

  The moment settled.

  By the time Karin finished, the last traces of fire had faded. The crater still smoked faintly, and the coolness of night was beginning to thin. Dawn wasn’t far.

  The sand, once soft and gold, had been fused into black glass—jagged, warped, unnatural.

  Zafran stood and turned back toward the destruction.

  A ridge had been there. A man had stood atop it.

  Now—nothing.

  His gaze shifted to Karin.

  She sat back, brushing grit from her gloves. Her face was unreadable. Her hands still faintly steamed.

  Zafran exhaled.

  “You,” he said. “A Flame-Touched?”

  Karin met his gaze, steady. “Yes.”

  He looked back at the crater. “Never heard of one that powerful.”

  Karin stretched, arms overhead. “Not all of them—of us—are.”

  Zafran’s tone didn’t change. “Yours is Arch Magi level.”

  Karin smirked. “Thanks for the flirt.”

  Ysar let out a half-laugh, half-wheeze from the rock. “Real smooth, Zafran. Should’ve bought her a drink first. But seriously—what’s a Flame-Touched?”

  “Someone who can only use fire magic,” Elsha answered simply.

  “Usually stronger than average,” Karin added.

  “Cool,” Ysar said. “That makes me an Air-Touched?”

  “You’re just too stupid to study magic,” Karin replied.

  Ysar clutched his chest. “Ouch.”

  Karin leaned back, letting the cool air hit her face. “There’s only Flame-Touched. No water, no earth, no air. We believe it’s tied to Aftree’s death.”

  “The fire god,” Ysar muttered. “Sounds like a bedtime story.”

  “Maybe,” Zafran said quietly. “Maybe not.”

  He didn’t elaborate. Just stared at the battlefield.

  Then—“You need to learn to control it.”

  Karin’s smirk lingered.

  Then faded.

  She exhaled and rolled her neck. “Can I?”

  Zafran’s brow twitched. “Can you?”

  She scratched her head. “It’s hard.”

  Elsha, rewrapping her bandage, spoke without looking up. “Hard isn’t impossible.”

  Karin groaned. “It just means annoying.”

  Zafran crossed his arms. “You’ll kill the wrong people with power like that.”

  Karin held up her hands. “I get it. Big fire, bad.”

  Zafran didn’t budge. “We don’t want to be roasted in the next fight.”

  He stepped forward, reached down, and pulled her up.

  Ysar lifted a hand dramatically. “No hand for me?”

  Elsha kicked lightly at his leg. “Stop whining.”

  “Ow—alright, alright.”

  Ysar winced. “But really… next fight? Hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Zafran looked toward the horizon. The wind was rising—dry and faint.

  “We can’t stay here. Not like this.”

  Elsha stood slowly, stretching. “Nearest place?”

  “Tavreth,” Ysar said, leaning back against the stone. “Little oasis town. Bit off the path. Neutral ground. No bounty hunters. Just merchants, sand, and overpriced stew.”

  Zafran adjusted his belt. “We go there.”

  Karin dusted off her coat. “Better than bleeding out in the sand.”

  They started walking.

  The crater faded behind them.

  No one spoke—until Ysar paused mid-step, glancing around.

  “…Where are the horses?”

  Silence.

  Zafran turned. The tethers still hung from the stone—snapped, frayed. Hoofprints scattered in the sand, wild and panicked.

  The blast had driven them off.

  Karin dragged a hand down her face. “Of course.”

  Ysar groaned. “They ran. They actually ran.”

  Elsha glanced toward the broken ridge. “After that explosion, I would’ve too.”

  Zafran traced a few hoof marks. Then stopped.

  Gone. Scattered into the dunes.

  Ysar tilted his head back. “I was just starting to fall in love with them.”

  Karin shaded her eyes. “So, how far’s Tavreth?”

  Zafran sighed. “Half a day. We walk.”

  Ysar threw up his arms. “Of course we do.”

  Karin smirked. “You could always stay behind.”

  Ysar pointed at her. “I’m going to complain the entire way.”

  Karin swept her arm dramatically. “You always do.”

  Elsha was already walking.

  Zafran followed.

  Karin turned from the shattered camp and joined them.

  Ysar sighed one last time and trudged after them, muttering.

  “I miss my horse already.”

  By the time they reached Tavreth, the sun was high enough to paint everything in shimmering gold. Heat clung to their backs, sand crusted their boots, and sweat dried into salt at their collars. The oasis town rose from the dunes like a memory half-remembered—low buildings of bleached sandstone, clustered around the deep green mirror of water at its center.

  Palm trees lined the edge of the market square, offering narrow pools of shade. Stalls were set up along cracked streets, merchants shouting beneath sun-bleached canopies, selling everything from dried fruit to faded silks, from water skins to desert steel.

  But Tavreth wasn’t friendly.

  It was careful.

  People walked like they were listening for someone behind them. Voices stayed low. Transactions were quick. There were no names exchanged—just coins, nods, and the flick of robes disappearing around corners.

  Karin took it all in, brushing sand from her sleeves. “This place is charming. In that ‘don’t trust anyone’ kind of way.”

  Ysar let out a low whistle. “Smells like home.”

  Elsha shot him a glance, neutral as always. “Your home must’ve been a mess.”

  “To be clear,” Ysar said, “I lived next to you.”

  Zafran didn’t comment. He kept walking, eyes scanning every alley, every rooftop, every hand resting a little too close to a knife.

  This was neutral ground, sure—but neutrality didn’t mean peace. It meant the right people were making sure no one messed with their business. That was all.

  They passed a man lounging beneath a faded awning, whittling a stick into a shiv. He watched them without blinking. Nearby, two women bartered over dates and spices while one of them quietly passed a blade to a third hidden behind a crate.

  Eventually, they found a crooked little inn tucked between two crumbling buildings. The kind of place where the name had long since peeled off the signboard. Its door leaned, the windows were clouded, and something sour hung in the air like old beer and hot sweat.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Zafran stepped in first. No words. No pause.

  The others followed.

  Inside was dim—lamplight flickered on cracked wood, casting slow shadows across uneven floors. A few travelers hunched over low tables. No one looked up. No one asked questions.

  A woman behind the counter glanced up, her skin dark as oil, her eyes sharp. “Only one room tonight,” she said before anyone asked.

  Zafran nodded. “Room, food, and water.”

  “Five silver.”

  He paid without haggling.

  Minutes later, they were seated around a splintered table with flatbread, dried meat, and clay cups of lukewarm water. Karin poked at her food. Ysar was already chewing. Elsha sat still, back straight, eyes occasionally drifting toward the rest of the room.

  Then Zafran froze.

  His gaze locked on something in the corner.

  Karin followed it. At first, she thought he was watching a fight about to happen. But no—just one woman. Alone.

  The woman’s robe was unadorned, pure and silent. Her hair fell straight and dark over her shoulders. In her hand, a cup filled with wine, and a half-filled bottle sat before her.

  And nearby—trouble.

  Three men loitered too close to her table. Their movements were slow and coiled. They weren’t speaking loud, but the intent bled through their posture.

  One leaned closer. “Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t be rude. We’re just saying hello.”

  She didn’t respond. She lifted her cup, drank.

  Another scoffed. “Maybe she’s too good to talk to us.”

  Still, she said nothing.

  Zafran stood up slowly.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Karin asked.

  “Not again, I’m all bruised up and dying,” Ysar muttered.

  But Zafran strode across the room leisurely and sat down across from her.

  The men blinked.

  The woman raised her eyes slightly, her expression unchanged—but her grip on the cup stilled.

  Zafran picked up her bottle, calmly poured himself a small glass.

  And took a sip.

  The silence stretched.

  One of the men barked, “Hey. You know her?”

  Zafran didn’t look at them. “She invited me.”

  The man sneered. “She didn’t invite shit.”

  Zafran met his gaze then—flat, unblinking.

  “Didn’t she?”

  The man stepped forward, one hand drifting near his belt. “You looking for a problem?”

  A dagger flashed.

  Fast.

  But he was faster.

  His chair didn’t even scrape.

  He shifted just enough to avoid the stab. One hand caught the man’s arm and yanked him forward. The other drove an elbow hard into the thug’s nose.

  A crack. The man dropped with a grunt, blood streaming from his face.

  The other two froze.

  Then one turned, looking toward the bar—toward Karin, her red cloak unmistakable in the firelight.

  His breath caught.

  He leaned in close to his partner and whispered.

  “Wait… is that…?”

  The other followed his gaze. Both stiffened.

  “The Arch Magi’s party,” one murmured.

  That was all it took.

  They grabbed their fallen friend without another word, dragging him toward the door, muttering curses as they vanished into the street.

  The woman in white finally set her cup down with a sigh.

  Her gaze lingered on Zafran—calm, unreadable.

  “You shouldn’t poke your nose into other people’s problems.” she said.

  Not cruel. Not warm.

  Just a simple cut.

  Zafran blinked.

  She stood.

  “Wait—miss,” he said, rising halfway, voice low. “Can I at least know your name?”

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t look back. Just left two silver coins on the counter and stepped out the door.

  Zafran stood there a second longer, then slowly walked back to the table.

  He sat. Drained the wine.

  Said nothing.

  Karin raised her hand lightly, mimicking. “Wait—miss. Can I at least know your name?”

  Ysar answered. “You shouldn’t poke your nose into other people’s problems.”

  Karin smirked. “She said it cooler.”

  “She actually did.”

  Ysar leaned in, voice mock-serious. “But really—what happened to my cool, untouchable master Zafran?”

  Zafran rubble his temples “Both of you please shut up”.

  Karin grinned.

  Ysar chuckled.

  He just focused on his food, shoveling it down like he wanted the moment behind him.

  Elsha watched him once, silently then to the door, and back to her meal, frown a little, and continue eating.

  The fire crackled.

  Karin adjusted her position against the wall, resting her arm over her stomach. “We leave in the morning?”

  Zafran shook his head. “Maybe two or three more days, we need to make sure Ysar won’t die on the road.”

  “That’s reassuring, I wasn’t ready to crawl onto a horse just yet.”

  Elsha looked at him. “We don’t have any horses.”

  Silence.

  Karin froze for a second. Her grin faltered, only slightly, but it was enough.

  Ysar exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

  Karin quickly cleared her throat, straightening. “W-well, uh. Walking is good for you. Builds character.”

  Zafran gave her a side glance, but said nothing.

  Ysar groaned, rubbing his face. “I take back everything. This is actually worse than dying.”

  Karin clapped her hands together. “Anyway! We should all get some sleep.”

  Heat greeted them the moment they stepped outside.

  Even in the early hours, the sun had already turned the stone streets into a furnace, sending waves of shimmering heat into the air. Tavreth was awake now—slow, deliberate. The marketplace stirred to life beneath faded awnings. Vendors shouted softly. Sand crunched underfoot.

  Karin squinted up at the sky. “How is it this bright already?”

  Ysar dragged his feet, looking half-awake. “Mornings should be illegal.”

  Elsha adjusted the pouch at her side, eyes scanning the street like she didn’t trust it. “We’ll need supplies. Herbs. Bandages. Maybe more cloth.”

  Zafran nodded, tightening the strap across his chest. “I’ll check the stables. See what’s left.”

  Elsha gave him a flat look. “With what money?”

  Zafran shrugged. “I’ll improvise.”

  Karin stretched with a groan. “I guess that means I’m on food duty.”

  Zafran handed her a few silver coins. “Get something decent.”

  She held them up with mock solemnity. “I promise not to spend it all on fried lizard.”

  “I’d take that over nothing,” Ysar muttered.

  “You’re with me,” Elsha said, already walking.

  Ysar groaned, dragging his boots after her. “I knew that was coming.”

  “We need medicine,” she called back without turning.

  “If I pass out halfway, that’s on you,” Ysar muttered.

  “You already did once,” Elsha replied.

  Karin smirked, spun the coins in her palm, and vanished into the crowd.

  Zafran lingered a moment longer, then turned toward the stables.

  They went their separate ways.

  Afternoon in Tavreth

  The air inside the inn was thick with the scent of warm spices, old wood, and the ever-present dust of the desert. Light filtered through crooked slats in the shutters, casting shifting patterns on the worn floorboards. The low murmur of conversation drifted between tables—traders haggling, travelers eating, laughter behind closed doors.

  At a corner table near the back, Karin sat alone, a silver coin spinning slowly between her fingers.

  Still no sign of Zafran.

  Her foot tapped. She glanced toward the door again. Gone since morning. No word. Not even a hint of where he’d wandered off to.

  The hinges creaked.

  Elsha stepped in first, brushing dust from her sleeves, a pouch of herbs slung at her hip. Ysar followed, dragging his feet like he’d walked through a sandstorm.

  Karin sat up. “Finally. I was starting to think you’d melted.”

  “We almost did,” Ysar muttered, flopping into the nearest chair. “It’s hotter than hell out there.”

  Elsha gave a small shrug and set the pouch on the table. “Got what we needed.”

  Karin leaned forward. “Any sign of our lovely wandering swordsman?”

  Ysar shook his head. “Not a whisper. Maybe he’s off chasing that woman from last night.”

  Karin’s eyes sparked. “Ooh. The lady in white?”

  Ysar gave her a lazy grin. “Who else? Maybe she took his heart along with that harsh phrase.”

  “Or maybe he just likes mysterious women who throw verbal daggers,” Ysar added, picking a fig from the wrapped bundle.

  Elsha, still sorting herbs, didn’t look up.

  Karin noticed.

  She turned slightly, a teasing edge curling into her voice. “You okay, Elsha? You’ve been quiet.”

  Elsha didn’t answer right away.

  Just kept crushing a dried sprig of mint.

  Then, flatly: “You’re imagining things, He’s not that kind of person.”

  Karin leaned in, voice light and sweet. “I mean, if I liked a guy and he vanished to maybe flirt with some other girl, I’d be quiet too.”

  Elsha’s hands paused for half a breath.

  Then resumed.

  “Like I said, you’re imagining things.” she said, with just enough force to sound practiced.

  Ysar kept eating without commenting out loud.

  “This is getting interesting.”

  Karin’s grin grew. “Right. Of course you don’t.”

  Still no response.

  “Not even a little bit?” Karin asked in a playful murmur.

  Elsha picked up the pouch of herbs and dropped it onto Karin’s lap.

  “Focus,” she said.

  Karin laughed, pulling the bundle of food closer. “Fine, fine.”

  She unwrapped the cloth. “Anyway—look. I got actual food. Flatbread, figs, salted meat. You two better be grateful.”

  “Very,” Ysar mumbled with his mouth full.

  Elsha gave a nod that might’ve been approval.

  Karin leaned back with a sigh. “See? I can be useful.”

  Elsha raised an eyebrow.

  Ysar grinned. “On a rare occasion.”

  Karin gave them both a mock glare. “You two are lucky I’m generous.”

  They settled into an easy rhythm—sharing food, checking what they’d gathered, talking about what they still needed. For a moment, it felt like things had returned to normal.

  But Karin’s glance slid again toward Elsha.

  Evening at the Inn

  By nightfall, the inn had filled with heat, noise, and the smell of sweat and stew. Traders sat hunched over drinks, some loud with laughter, others quiet with exhaustion. The windows glowed faintly from torchlight outside, flickering like restless stars against the stone walls.

  At their usual table, dinner was nearly done. The stew was watery but warm, the rice sticky, the bread dense but fresh. It wasn’t good food—but it was food.

  Karin leaned back, half-full cup in hand, watching the door.

  “Still nothing,” she muttered.

  Ysar stretched, legs kicked out under the table. “Maybe he got himself mugged.”

  “He’d mug them back,” Karin said.

  Elsha didn’t say anything.

  Karin drummed her fingers on the rim of her cup. “Or maybe that woman dragged him into some mysterious desert ritual. You know, soul-binding, blood oaths, weird chanting.”

  Ysar tilted his head. “I’d believe that.”

  “He’d be into that,” Karin added with a smirk.

  Elsha’s eyes flicked up, then away.

  Before anyone could say more—

  The door opened hard.

  Karin jumped, nearly spilling her drink.

  Ysar froze with bread halfway to his mouth.

  Zafran walked in.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  Behind him came two men—one bound at the wrists, the other clutching his ribs like they were broken. Their footsteps were uneven. One limped. The other cursed under his breath.

  The tavern fell quiet.

  Karin blinked. “What the hell?”

  Zafran didn’t answer. He scanned the room, calm as ever—until he locked eyes with someone seated near the wall.

  The stablemaster.

  A broad man with a battered coat and arms like stacked rope. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Didn’t think you’d pull it off.”

  Zafran gave the bound man a nudge forward. “He’s yours.”

  The man stumbled, snarling. “You bastard! I was just doing business!”

  The stablemaster rose slowly. “You’ve been bleeding this town dry for years, Malkin. That’s not business. That’s robbery.”

  Karin leaned toward Ysar and whispered, “What the hell is happening?”

  “No idea,” he whispered back.

  The second man didn’t argue. Just stood with his head low as the inn guards arrived and dragged both men toward the door. The crowd stayed quiet, watching.

  The stablemaster stretched, cracking his knuckles. Then he turned, pulled something from his coat, and tossed it to Zafran.

  A small iron key.

  “One horse, as promised.”

  Karin blinked. “Wait—what?”

  Zafran caught it with one hand and finally walked back to their table.

  Karin sat up. “You mean to tell me you just went out there, took down two extortionists, and traded them for a horse?”

  “Yes,” Zafran said, sitting down like nothing had happened.

  Karin gawked. “You didn’t think to mention where you were going?”

  Zafran poured himself a drink. “Didn’t think I needed to.”

  Ysar groaned, head in his hands. “He always does this.”

  Karin narrowed her eyes. “One horse?”

  “That’s what he had,” Zafran said, unfazed.

  Karin threw her arms up. “We could’ve had more!”

  Zafran gave her a look.

  Karin hesitated.

  Then slumped. “Don’t say it.”

  Ysar grinned. “You mean how you scared off all the others?”

  “I said don’t say it!”

  Elsha unrolled the map onto the table, clearing her plate to one side.

  She tapped a spot past Tavreth. “Next stop’s four days away. No towns in between.”

  Ysar groaned. “Four days. Walking.”

  Zafran nodded. “We travel at dawn and dusk. Rest during the worst heat.”

  Karin sighed. “So we’re sleeping on sand for four days.”

  “Unless you charm another horse,” Zafran said dryly.

  Karin rolled her eyes.

  Then Ysar paused. His brows drew together.

  “You said the bandits back at the ridge called her Arch Magi, right?”

  Zafran gave a slow nod. “They thought she was from the Academia.”

  Karin perked up. “Which means…?”

  Ysar’s grin was immediate. “Which means no one’s going to mess with an Arch Magi’s escort.”

  Zafran leaned back. “At the very least, it’ll keep most trouble at a distance.”

  Karin raised her cup in mock toast. “To giant fireballs—scaring off enemies we haven’t even met.”

  Elsha exhaled. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  Karin clinked her cup against the map. “You’re welcome.”

  The inn returned to its steady hum of noise.

  Another day in Tavreth

  The sun had dipped low behind Tavreth’s rooftops, painting the sky in gold and fading amber. A quiet courtyard behind the inn caught the last warmth of the day.

  Zafran stood near the wall, arms crossed, watching Ysar lazily spin his curved blade in one hand.

  “Your left shoulder keeps dropping,” Zafran said.

  Ysar snorted. “Good evening to you too.”

  “Blade that loose? You’ll get disarmed before you land a second strike.”

  Ysar flicked the blade up, catching it mid-spin. “I was relaxed.”

  “You were sloppy.”

  Zafran pushed off the wall, stepped into the sand.

  “Stand up straight. Reset.”

  Ysar sighed but moved into stance, a little sluggish. Zafran circled once around him.

  “You keep putting weight on your front foot. It makes your feints obvious.”

  “Maybe I want them obvious,” Ysar muttered.

  Zafran nudged his ankle in with a boot. “You’re not that clever.”

  Ysar scowled but corrected.

  Zafran moved behind him, tapped his elbow. “Raise it.”

  Ysar raised it.

  Then: “I didn’t ask for this lesson, you know.”

  “I know,” Zafran replied. “I gave it to make sure you won’t die in next fight.”

  Ysar gave a weak shrug. “Gods, I’m injured.”

  “That’s the reason, and it’s good that you’re still breathing. That’s enough.”

  He stepped back, arms crossed again.

  “Listen,” Zafran said, quieter now. “You’ve got skill. Damn good skill. Better than I had at your age.”

  Ysar blinked at that.

  “Really?”

  “Nope”

  He sign.

  “Problem is that you keep trying to impress someone.”

  Ysar scoffed. “I don’t impress anyone.”

  Zafran’s tone didn’t change. “No. You try to impress yourself. That’s the problem.”

  Ysar’s grip on the blade tightened.

  Zafran kept going. “You overextend. Show off. You take the harder move when the easy one would’ve ended it.”

  “Come on” Ysar muttered. “Should’ve made a girl crazy over me with those move.”

  Zafran let out a dry chuckle.

  Ysar looked away, jaw working.

  “You’ll be better than most,” Zafran said, softer now. “But not if you keep trying to prove…”

  “Even Elsha?”

  “Years apart”

  “I guess so”

  ”She listen, your arc is too wide, narrow it/”

  Ysar exhaled, settled back into stance. This time, smoother. Controlled.

  Zafran watched him move, just once, then nodded.

  “Better.”

  Ysar glanced back. “Still sloppy?”

  Zafran smirked. “Always.”

  “Keep going,” he said. “And don’t drop that elbow again.”

  Ysar stepped back, blade ready. “Tch. You’re the worst, you know that?”

  Zafran turned toward the wall again. “You’re not the first to say it.”

  And on the second-floor balcony overlooked the inn’s courtyard, Karin’s leaned on the railing, chin resting on her palm, looking below to where Zafran and Ysar moved across the hard-packed sand—one instructing, the other resisting just enough to still be learning.

  “They’re still at it.”

  Elsha sat beside her, legs tucked beneath her, a clay cup of water in hand. “He always pushes back,” she said, eyes steady on Ysar. “But he listens.”

  “Eventually,” Karin murmured with a smirk.

  They watched in silence for a moment. Zafran reached out—adjusted Ysar’s blade angle, tapped his shoulder. Ysar muttered something. Zafran ignored it and stepped back.

  Karin tilted her head. “So… you and Ysar both from the caravan?”

  Elsha nodded. “Born into it. Raised in it. Same as him.”

  “And Zafran?”

  Elsha’s voice softened, just a little. “He came when I was ten. Wandered in from somewhere. Didn’t talk much. Then one day, he started helping train the younger blades.”

  “And never stopped?”

  Elsha gave the smallest smile. “Not once.”

  “That explains a lot,” Karin said.

  Elsha turned. “What?”

  Karin grinned. “Nothing.”

  They sat for a moment longer.

  Then Karin nudged her shoulder lightly. “Do you like him?”

  Elsha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the courtyard.

  Then: “He’s like a big brother to me.”

  Karin raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “I already did.”

  Karin snorted. “You really didn’t.”

  Elsha sipped her water and said nothing more.

  Below, Zafran pointed again. Ysar rolled his eyes, but adjusted.

  The training continued.

  And the sun kept sinking.