She’s nuts.
“You do that,” I mutter. “Careful not to strain your brain.”
The only response is the sound of her footsteps stomping down the hall.
Away.
I sigh, toss the candlestick on the pallet, and move toward the wooden shutters, sliding them aside and half blinding myself in the process. I lift my other hand as a shield from the fierce ray of light and heat, eyes widening when they finally adjust to the stark glare.
“Wow,” I whisper, gripping the rustic wooden handle on the door before me, shoving it wide. I step out onto the small stone balcony that overlooks a civilization crammed upon a vast bay that stretches into the powdery horizon, its borders smudged by rippling heatwaves. A shame since something about the western point piques my interest. Makes me want to peel back the layers of distortion and see what’s hidden beneath.
I look directly toward the city below.
From up here—partway up the swooping cliff—the buildings look like a tumble of rust-colored boulders, some paved in mosaic swirls, others capped with round windows that glint in the sun. The pale-blue sky is heavy with dusky Sabersythe moons, as well as a few colorful Moltenmaw moons reflecting in the silky turquoise water that stretches into oblivion, the blazing sun perched directly ahead, lathering me in heat.
I draw my lungs full, shaking my head …
Looks like I made it to Dhomm.
Irummage through the woven baskets to discover a pair of black knee-high boots with thick soles and laces down the front. Tugging them on, I find they fit and immediately fall in love with them.
Perfect for tucking blades down and stomping toes.
I pull out a bundle of sheer black fabric from a different basket, unraveling it, discovering it’s actually a hooded robe.
“Huh,” I say, tugging it on, checking myself in the mirror—turning left and right.
This.
Is.
Adorable.
I can still see my silky sheath beneath, giving a layered effect that also doubles as my own portable slab of shade that doesn’t restrict the airflow to my body.
I admire the floor-length hem and the bell sleeves that almost fall to the tips of my outstretched fingers. A convenient length to mostly hide my cuff so I don’t look like an escaped convict while I’m traipsing through the city, hunting for a Curly Quill.
In the same drawer, I find some pants that look too small, but I yank the black belt free and bind it around my waist, discovering it fits if I thread it all the way to the final hole.
I flick up the hood, look at my reflection again, and smile.
Perfect.
Grabbing the candlestick, I charge from the room, down the hall that spills into a domed sitting room. I frown up at the ceiling—a mosaic Sabersythe that looks like it’s about to blow flames all over me.
A shiver skitters all the way to my toes.
Kaan needs to fire the decorator before somebody dies of a heart attack.
I cut my glance around, a third of the wall a stretch of glass doors with tawny windowpanes, looking out on a paved courtyard buttoned with a fire pit. Massive urns spill plush vines that appear to clothe the building, heavy with inky flowers the size of my head, their faces tipped to the sun.
The room itself has a cozy feel despite its horrific ceiling art, more urns gushing vines that smother the internal walls, drenched in sunshine pouring through the many windows—those inky blooms flavoring the air with a spicy sweetness.
Around a stone table no taller than my knee—and sitting atop a curl of plush leather seaters—are two large males. One with his body facing me, his expression hidden by a flock of pale locks half covering his eyes. The other watching me over his shoulder, brow arched, his face and shoulders covered in freckles. A blaze of hair making him look like he just woke from a middae nap.
Both of them wield a fan of Skripi shards, with more face down on the table also adorned with a glass of amber … something and a dish of crispy-looking nibbles.
“Love that game,” I say, striding toward the table, pausing to pinch a snack from the dish. I drag it through a swirl of pale dip and sweep it onto my tongue, scrunching my face at the creamy concoction threaded with notes of something that tastes a lot like dirt. “Not my favorite. What is it?”
“Trufflin cream,” the red-haired, heavily pierced male croaks. “We import it from a nearby village. The fungus that goes into it is hard to grow, so it costs its weight in gold.”
I swipe the rest onto my tongue, confirming it is—in fact—terrible.
“Definitely not my favorite.” I toss the crisp into my mouth and chew, brows bumping up. “You’ve redeemed yourself. These are delicious.”