I find an empty campfire and sit on a log, watching the flames throw shadows on the nearby tents.
Movement catches my eye as a woman approaches the fire—a Watcher, judging by the black armor and mask, though she is more petite than most I’ve seen.
She has bronzed skin and long black hair, but the henna adorning her hands commands my attention. The intricate lines create geometric patterns across her fingers, hands, and wrists, forming angular diamonds and sharp triangles.
“May I join you?” she asks.
I nod, shifting to make room on the log.
Firelight shimmers in her amber eyes as she settles beside me. “I’m Kythara.”
“Annora.” I pick up a stick, snap it in half, and toss the pieces into the fire. “Why do Watchers wear masks?”
She traces the edge of her mask as she explains. “They shield our identities from retribution or recognition in dangerous situations, allowing us to perform our duties without fear.” She drops her hand back to her lap. “And it sets us apart from other warriors and citizens.”
The explanation makes sense, even if the masks unsettle me. Behind each one could be a friend, a neighbor, someone I passed in the streets of Bakva a hundred times without knowing.
“Are you all from House of Silver?”
The firelight glints off her dark eyes as she nods. “Most of us are, yes.”
That means some of them could belong to House of Crimson, or even some of the other tribes.
“Do you miss it?” Kythara asks, her voice soft. “Your home?”
Does she mean Bakva or Sharhavva? Regardless, my answer is the same. I miss SharhavvaandBakva. “Yes.”
“I think the hardest part of being a Watcher is not having a true home anymore.”
I’ve felt that same sense of displacement in the past. “I understand that feeling.”
“I’ve heard you help feed the poor in Bakva. That’s rare. Most nobles don’t concern themselves with common folk.”
“They’re people, just like us.” I poke at the fire with another stick, watching the sparks dance upward.
“I know.” From the pouch on her belt, she pulls out dates wrapped in cloth and offers me one.
I accept the sweet fruit, and for a moment, we sit in comfortable silence, sharing the simple meal.
“The patterns on your arms,” I say, gesturing to her henna. “They’re beautiful. Do you do them yourself?”
“No. A friend of mine does them for me.”
As Kythara explains the meaning behind a pattern on her wrist, Aleksander walks past our fire. Her words trail off as her eyes narrow, tracking his movement until he disappears between the tents.
“Pompous ass,” she mutters under her breath.
A snort escapes me before I can stop it.
“I knew I would like you,” she says as she offers me another date. “Here. This will sweeten the bitter taste his presence leaves behind.”
A grin pulls at my mouth as I accept the fruit. “So, you don’t like Aleksander?”
“My father trusts him completely, but I don’t. He reminds me of a lion. They may be beautiful to look at. They may even act tame, but they will bite off your hand the moment you think they’re your friend.”
I nod, thinking that describes Aleksander perfectly. How many times has he shown a glimpse of kindness, only to turn around and use his magic to control me?
“Your father?” I ask after a moment.
