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I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room, lying on my small bed with an arm across my face, my single window boarded and

curtained against the sun. Thin rays of sunlight still filtered through the wood and cloth, glinting off an assortment of

what most in the guild considered useless trinkets. Small mementoes I had taken from previous jobs—clunky old keys, shiny

stones that were pretty but worthless, figurines of animals and mythical creatures, or anything else that caught my fancy.

Vahn had once joked that he should have named me Sandmouse for all the shiny junk I hoarded. But I liked it. My room was my

nest, my own little haven. And, more important, it kept prying eyes away from the real valuables beneath my floorboard; the

things I’d collected that were not worthless. True, I was a sandmouse; I was attracted to shiny objects. But I also knew the difference between a blue stone made of glass and a real

sapphire.

The afternoon dragged on. I alternated between dozing—the heist in the middle of Demon Hour had robbed me of my normal nap

time—and pondering everything that had happened, from the Circle’s mysterious orders to Vahn’s words when I’d returned with

the tapestry.

You have no idea what you have set into motion. Soon, everything you know—your entire world—is going to change.

That wasn’t like Vahn at all. I’d never seen him react so intensely. I tried to ignore it, but the looming sense of unease, and the memory of everything that had happened in the Temple of Fate, continued to plague me as I drifted in and out of a restless sleep.

An hour before sundown, I emerged from my room and wandered down to the makeshift tavern on the ground floor of the warehouse.

The tavern wasn’t anything fancy; just a scattering of barrels that served as tables and a long slab of limestone that acted

as the bar. But Rala, the bartender, had a knack for acquiring rare, exotic, and sometimes illegal bottles from across the

Dust Sea and beyond. They were, of course, for guild members only. I didn’t drink very often, but there was always an interesting

selection to choose from when I did.

“Little dust sparrow, welcome.” Rala smiled at me as I ducked through the curtains that hung across the doorframe.

Her dark eyes sparkled as I smiled back.

She had a fondness for my namesake, the tiny brown-and-white birds that could be found throughout the city, flitting from perch to perch.

She left scatterings of seeds and breadcrumbs on fence posts, and a shallow ceramic bowl filled with cool water for them to bathe in.

“Sparrows are survivors,” she had told me once when I was curious enough to ask about it.

“They’re on every rooftop, in every windowsill, on every branch, but no one pays them any attention.

They’re preyed on by the bigger, stronger birds, like hawks and cliff raptors, but they always return.

They’re small, but they thrive in the harshest environments.

” She had placed a gentle, ring-encrusted hand atop my head; I had been around six years old at the time.

“Much like you, my dear. Vahn did not choose your name by accident. You are small, clever, and very good at getting into places you are not supposed to be. Like my tavern. Now, shoo.” She’d removed her hand and made a fluttering motion with it, smiling to soften her words.

“This is not a place for children, and Vahn will scold me if he finds you here again. Go on, now. Out.”

I had grinned and scuttled out beneath the curtain, only to return time and time again. Eventually, no one took any notice

of me when I walked into the tavern. Just like Rala had said.

“Feeling adventurous today?” Rala questioned as I paused at the bar. Her eyes glittered with mischief as she put a hand under

the smooth stone surface. “I just got in a bottle of fire beetle wine from the lands of the magma walkers. Up for a taste?”

“Um, no thanks, Rala.” I half smiled, half grimaced at her. “You might’ve had me, until you told me how fire beetle wine is

made.”

She chuckled. “If you’re looking for Jeran,” she went on, withdrawing her hand, “he’s in his usual corner, losing at dice

to Dahveen. I expect he’ll have to pay Dahveen’s tab in a minute or two. Hope he has enough. The boy drinks like a camel.”

“Thanks.”

I wandered to the far corner, where Jeran and another boy his age were huddled over a barrel, both looking intense. A trio

of carved bone dice sat on the barrel top; a moment later, Dahveen snatched them up, clattered them into a clay cup, and set

the cup face down between them.

“Call,” he told Jeran.

Triple Fang was a simple enough game; when the cup went down, players would gamble on how many dice showed the same numbers,

and if they were even or odd. You might guess “double evens,” and if the dice showed, say, a pair of fours, you would win.

“Triple fang”—where all three dice showed ones—was the most sought-after combination. Calling it correctly was an automatic

win, but if you called triple fang and the dice didn’t cooperate, you forfeited all your winnings to your opponents.

Jeran chewed his lip, staring at the cup. “Double odds,” he said finally.

Dahveen snorted. “You guessed that last time.” Dahveen was a lean, shifty looking boy with oily hair and a thin mustache above

a narrow top lip. “Why don’t you just go ahead and pay my tab right now? Go away, Sparrow,” he added as I came up. “I don’t

need your brand of jinx. Back off, we’re almost done.”

I smiled and stayed where I was, gazing down at the cup beneath his sweaty palm. “Triple evens,” I said, making Dahveen scowl

and Jeran glance up at me. “I just have a feeling.”

“You and your feelings,” Jeran muttered, and Dahveen’s scowl grew darker.

“You already called,” he told Jeran quickly.

“You can’t change your answer now. No fangs,” he went on, meaning he thought there would be no matching numbers beneath the cup.

It was his favorite strategy, the safe strategy, which was how he won against Jeran so often.

He didn’t take any risks. He lived life the same way, going after something only if it was reasonably safe to do so.

Which was why he was an average thief, but not a great one.

High risk equaled high reward. My tactics drove him crazy.

Dahveen lifted the cup. All three dice beneath showed a two.

“Oh, look at that,” I said smugly, as Jeran shook his head and Dahveen let out an explosive breath. “Triple evens. Does that

mean you buy my drinks for the next month?”

With a curse, Dahveen shoved away from the barrel and stood, snatching his dice and cup as he did. “I hate it when she pokes

around our games,” he told Jeran, who shrugged. “I swear she’s cursed. She throws everything off.”

“Or maybe Fate just likes me better,” I said, knowing that would piss him off even more. He curled his thin, mustached lip

at me and turned away, slipping the dice and cup into the pocket of his tunic.

“We’re done,” he growled. “I don’t play with cheating harpies. Are we going to the Highmarket District or not?”

Jeran rose easily and stretched, not able to completely hide the smirk on his face. “Suns won’t be down for another hour,”

he said. “We have time.”

“Good,” snapped Dahveen. “Then you two can wait while I grab another drink.”

He stalked to the bar, pulling a waterskin from beneath his shirt and muttering to himself. Jeran shook his head and turned

to me.

“Great, thanks for that. Now he’s going to be an ass until his next winning streak.”

“Mm-hmm, and how is that different than his normal personality?”

Jeran snorted and lowered his voice. “Did you get everything worked out with Vahn?” he asked, trying and failing to not sound curious. He knew he wasn’t supposed to ask the details of any missions that came from the Guildmaster. “Are you in the clear for tonight?”

I nodded, feeling my stomach twist as Vahn’s reaction to the tapestry and his words to me came rushing back. “It’s been sorted,”

I told Jeran, pushing that scene to the back of my mind to deal with later. Even if I wanted to know what Vahn had been talking

about, he wouldn’t explain until he was ready to. “Let’s go. I desperately need a distraction tonight.”

Jeran’s brow furrowed. “Are you all right, Sparrow?” he asked softly. “Everything okay with you and the Guildmaster?”

“Of course.” I gave him a half grin, ignoring the persistent coiling of my insides saying that it was a lie, that everything

was not okay. “Why? Were you hoping otherwise?”

“No.” He crossed his arms and glanced away, looking strangely defensive. “I was just asking.”

Our conversation was interrupted by an argument between Rala and Dahveen, with Rala informing him that, no, she wasn’t going

to add any more to his tab until he paid what he already owed her, and he could take it up with Vahn if he didn’t like it.

Dahveen returned with an even darker scowl on his face than normal and gave me a look that could wither stone. I grinned cheerfully

back.

Jeran sighed, sensing uncomfortable times ahead. We left the tavern, slipped out the back door of the warehouse, and ducked through the fence. The air of the Docks District was hazy and dust choked as we tugged hoods over our heads, pulled scarves over our mouths, and headed into the city.

True dark in Kovass, where a sickly moon hung in the sky and the twin suns were nowhere to be seen, lasted about four hours.

That was the span between Namaia fully sinking below the horizon and Solasti rising triumphantly over the dunes once more.

Nights in Kovass were short, days were long, and evenings tended to linger, as if Namaia was reluctant to concede her spot

in the sky.

Said sky was just beginning to turn pink as Jeran, Dahveen, and I made our way through the streets toward the Highmarket District.

Not to be confused with the more bustling Market District, where the lower-class citizens peddled their common wares, like