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bread, baskets, and chickens. Where the air stank of livestock, smoke, and unwashed bodies in the sun, and pickpockets prowled

the streets like sand wolves.

There were no bread vendors in Highmarket, no bleating goats or cries from a fruit peddler to peruse his stock of shriveled pears crawling with flies.

There were no dirty, crowded booths, no heaps of limp vegetables or fruit or raw goat meat lying in the sun.

No, Highmarket was where the rich sent their servants to procure what they needed.

Where vendors stood in front of their shop doors, beckoning customers inside, out of the heat.

Shouting matches between seller and buyer haggling over prices were nonexistent.

Instead, there were open streets lined with cloth overhangs for shade and shelter.

There were stone benches to rest on if the rich grew tired of walking.

There were strategically placed potted plants beside shop doors, adding a bit of life and greenery to otherwise stony facades.

And there were guards, both private and city, patrolling the streets or stoically flanking their masters.

Had it been a normal day in Highmarket, the presence of three dusty, lowborn street rats like me, Jeran, and Dahveen would have drawn the gaze of every guard in the area.

At best, they would’ve been be instantly wary.

Maybe threatened us with words or gestures to keep our fingers to ourselves, or else.

At worst, we might’ve been run out of the district.

Thankfully, the firedancer circus had come to town, and the large open square in the center of the district was already filled

with people of all shapes, sizes, and classes. Any bodyguard would be hard-pressed to keep the crowds away from his patron;

there were just too many bodies jammed together, all eager to watch the show. Easy pickings, had we come for that.

“Ugh, there’s so many people already,” Jeran muttered, hanging back from the edge of the square. He didn’t share my fondness

for crowds, even though it was easy to hide in a large mass of people, becoming invisible in the throng. Jeran gazed at the

mob surrounding the square and wrinkled his nose. “I guess we’ll have to get closer,” he grumbled. “We won’t see anything

from here.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “How long have you been a guild member?” I gazed pointedly at the rows of shop rooftops lining the

square. First rule of observation: If you couldn’t see anything at ground level, get above it.

Dahveen made a face. “Risky,” he said, purely to be obstinate, I thought. “The guards won’t like it. If they see us, they

might chase us out.”

“Then don’t let them see you,” I told him. He glared at me, and I shrugged. “Stay here and miss the show, then. I’m going up top.”

I started walking toward a line of stone buildings behind us, hearing Jeran and Dahveen follow reluctantly. I secretly hoped

Dahveen would stay behind just for spite, but he trailed after, muttering under his breath. We ducked into an alley between

a rug tailor and a jewelry shop, deftly avoiding the gaze of a guard stationed by the doorway. The rug shop was a couple of

stories high, with rough sandstone walls and a flat roof. Perfect.

“You’re not going to climb that, are you—” Jeran began, but I was already moving, striding to the wall, then leaping for a

windowsill, using momentum and the windowframe to propel myself upward. I scrambled to the ledge of the first floor, then

continued up to the second, until I heaved myself over the wall and onto the roof. I heard Dahveen give a vehement curse and

stifled a grin.

I walked to the opposite side of the rooftop, then froze. The view was definitely better from up here. The market square spread

out below me, crowds of people ringing an open area where colorful dancers were already moving. Problem was, someone else

had had the same idea. A figure sat on the edge of the roof watching the scene below, legs swinging over the wall.

His back was to me, so I couldn’t see his face. But his head was uncovered, and in the light from the square, his tousled

hair was the color of the dunes, a pale ashen gold. His garments were strange: a dark brown jacket over a white shirt, and

trousers with several pockets and belts hanging off them.

He was definitely not from Kovass. I didn’t know where he was from, actually. I had never seen anyone like this.

“Don’t let me scare you away.”

I jumped. His voice cut through the murmur of the city, clear and confident, with the hint of a smile beneath. He turned to

gaze over his shoulder, and his eyes were the sapphire blue of the sky after Demon Hour. I took a wary step back. He was young,

maybe a couple of years older than me and Jeran, but he held himself with the confidence of someone who had seen a lot and

wasn’t afraid of anything.

“You had the right idea,” the boy said easily, as if we were the oldest of friends, not strangers who had just met on a random

rooftop. “This is the best seat in the city. You don’t have to run,” he went on, holding out a hand. He wore brown fingerless

gloves, I saw, the digits beneath them worn and calloused. “We were fated to meet here, after all.”

“Uh.” I blinked at him. “What?”

“Sparrow?”

Footsteps echoed behind me a moment before I felt Jeran’s presence at my side. Like me, he immediately saw the stranger and

tensed, his body coiling like a spring.

“Who are you?” Jeran demanded, and the hostility in his voice startled me, as did his fingers dropping to his sash, where

I knew a knife was tucked into the folds. “What are you doing here?”

The stranger just smiled, holding up his hands. “Just a simple traveler, here to watch the circus,” he replied. But his gaze wasn’t on Jeran; it was still locked on me. “I am but a seed, a leaf, a grain of sand, blown on the winds of Fate.”

“Well, the winds of Fate can blow you somewhere else now,” Jeran said, his tone still hard. “This is our city, and our territory.

Find another spot.”

“Jeran.” I frowned at him. “There’s enough room up here for all of us.”

“No, no.” The stranger rose gracefully on the edge of the roof. “I know when I’m not wanted,” he said with a shrug. “Nor do

I think my fate is to be stabbed to death on a lonely rooftop, so I shall take my leave.” He bowed, though his gaze was on

me as he straightened. “Enjoy the circus,” he said. “May Fate smile on you.”

And with that, he stepped off the edge of the roof and was gone in an instant. The building was tall; I could have jumped off to the ground, but only because I’d been climbing buildings all my life and knew how to land safely.

Blinking, I hurried to the edge and peered down, but the stranger had already vanished into the crowd.

Jeran snorted. “Tourists,” he muttered, walking to the edge as well. “Good riddance.”

Was he a tourist? Well, whoever he was, he’s gone now. Turning back, I smirked at Jeran. “Like you really would have stabbed him to get him off the roof,” I challenged. “You get

queasy when you have to kill mice.”

He shrugged, though his face remained dark. “Guess we’ll never know, will we?”

I rolled my eyes. Jeran was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a coldhearted killer. Though this was the first time I’d seen him act that aggressively. “Where’s Dahveen? I thought he wanted to see the dance.”

“Oh, well...” Jeran hesitated, scratching the back of his head. “He... decided he didn’t want to come up here,” he said

with a very casual shrug. “He told me he would watch from the ground.”

I frowned. That sounded suspicious. Had Jeran told Dahveen not to follow us onto the roof? Or was something else going on?

A hush fell over the crowd below, the air of anticipation and held breaths growing stronger. The show was about to start.

I lowered myself to my heels, then sat down on the edge of the rooftop, swinging my feet over empty space. “Guess it’s just

us, then.”

Jeran hesitated, then joined me on the edge, sitting with his elbows resting on his knees. Closer than I expected him to be.

I felt the heat of his body, the shift of his sleeve against mine, and my stomach gave a weird little lurch.

Down in the square, a drumbeat started, thumping out a hollow rhythm. Four women in red and yellow danced in a circle, waving

scarves the color of fire. As the dance continued and the drumbeat grew faster, the ends of the scarves burst into real flames,

lighting up the square, and a roar went up from the crowd. The performance continued, with the dancers expertly whirling the

scarves so that they traced a ring of fire around them. The audience cheered and clapped, gazes riveted to the swirling flames.

Warmth blossomed against the back of my palm, the lightest brush over my skin.

I looked down to see that Jeran’s hand had drifted next to mine, one finger hesitantly probing.

A tingle raced up my arm to my shoulder.

Swallowing, I glanced at his face and saw him watching me from the corner of his eye.

Within his hood, the dancing firelight cast flickering shadows over his features, accenting his cheek and the strong curve of his jaw.

My stomach danced. The touch on the back of my hand was a question; I could pull back if I wanted, letting us both pretend

it had been an accident. We could leave this place, and nothing would change between us.

I hesitated, weighing the consequences of this choice, then slowly turned my hand over. His fingers gently curled with mine,

sending a ripple of heat through my stomach like molten gold.

Below us in the square, someone screamed.

Jeran and I jerked up, hands breaking apart, that faint warmth vanishing. Part of the crowd was surging back from a central

spot on the ground. I shielded a hand over my eyes and peered into the square, trying to see the cause of the sudden commotion.

A man lay face down on the stones, legs and arms twitching in a death spasm, a bag of candied nuts spilled on the ground by