It was just before sunset, and the sky didn’t really know what to do with itself. Clumpy clouds billowed across the east, thinning into faint wisps as they trod west. The burning orange of a hot coal on the horizon dimmed into a dark gray above, bringing with it cool air and unveiling a scattering of bright stars.

  The people of Athemore filled the streets. Hundreds of tradesmen in leather aprons and merchants in gaudy robes shouted from behind their carts. “Knives from Ithia!” one yelled, cupping his hands in front of his face. “First grapes of the season!” cried another, raising a bunch above his head. The mounted Mana crystals lit the wide marble street, and an endless crowd flowed down it slowly, like a trail of syrup on a tree.

  Grant stood in one of the few shadows, pressed against a wall. Anyone who looked his direction would see him well enough, but it felt right. The festival was a bizarre event. Some Campaigners drifted by, bewildered looks on their faces, but the people of Athemore paid them little mind. Their eyes were fixed on the stall shelves, their minds a million miles away from the impending Campaign.

  To Grant, it seemed more an opportunity for merchants to fatten their purses than an actual celebration. He didn’t care much for it. Or about it, truth be told. The only thing he was interested in were the pouches they had strapped to their belts.

  He and Lira had set some rules back in the yard. The first was absolutely no thievery. While Lira was clearly of the opinion that learning to steal required actual stealing, she caved when Grant reminded her that there would likely be former Campaigners in attendance.

  Therefore, they came to a compromise. Instead of snatching coin purses, he would be rewarded a point for keeping at least two fingers on one for three seconds. Lira stayed by the side of the road to provide silent encouragement and keep score. Zilen women had rules surrounding skin contact, and it was almost unavoidable in a crowd so thick.

  When Grant moved to earn his first point, his heart thundered. He repeated the advice she had given him in his head again and again. Don’t sneak. Act normal. Hands at your sides. Find an excuse to close the distance.

  A knot lodged in his throat as he inched closer to his first target, a young woman holding a child. He had followed her for nearly a full block before working up the courage to make his move. With the lightest touch possible, he counted down three seconds, nerves rising and stomach churning. He imagined someone gripping his arm as Captain Nickel had at the Reading ceremony, or the woman shrieking in terror as she noticed him, dropping her child.

  At the three second mark, he pulled his hand away from the purse like it was a hot stove. He had to remove himself from the crowd and lean against a wall to catch his breath after.

  After barely even grazing a stranger’s purse, his intestines were already twisted into knots, his head pounded and mouth was drier than a frayed leather saddle. He’d been in plenty of dangerous situations, wound up some bad men, even been bloodied up his fair share. In a few days he’d be leaving everything he knew for a world he knew nothing about, other than more than a few things on it would want to kill him. But the stakes felt different, and he wondered how Lira did this without a worry. Grant swallowed his fear and forced his feet forward, back into the crowd.

  Twenty minutes and twelve points later, he was bored to tears. It couldn’t have been easier if they were just giving him their purses. People in the capital kept their coin in small jingling pouches on their waistbands, and never even dropped a hand to check if they were still there. Any half-decent thief could retire after three days of work here.

  He chose his targets carefully—always the distracted and never near a guard, although the last guard he saw was peeling an orange as he laughed thunderously at a stall owner’s joke. Grant was sure he could have gotten away with even the guard’s purse if he wanted, but he didn’t see the point of taking risks.

  After another thirty minutes, he was up to forty-two points.

  At times, he was tempted to break his own rule and take just a few coins to buy a hot snack from one of the stands, but it wasn’t only the risk of being caught that made him hesitate. These were innocent people just trying to enjoy the festival. He would happily steal from a noble or a merchant, but robbing a common man or woman—even one with the means to live in the capital—would make him mad with guilt.

  He’d probably turn himself into the guard.

  Grant marked his next target. Merchant, mid-50s. Large waist, short legs. Currently in a haggling match with a woman. Arms alternating between gesturing to his goods and raising fingers to show prices. Facial expression indicates she isn’t bending. A smile tugged at the corners of Grant’s mouth.

  Easiest target of the night.

  There was no fear as he shouldered his way through the crowd, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes darting to the sides looking for guards. He arrived at the stall next to his target’s, admiring the glasswork its merchant was selling.

  He kept his eyes still on the figurines as he made his way to the barrier between stalls. He took a hand out of his pocket and placed his index finger and thumb on the target’s coin purse, whose contents were nearly bursting out the seams.

  1… 2…

  A high-pitched sound like steel scraping against steel assaulted Grant’s ears. He yanked his hand away in horror, and froze as the crowd cringed back, their attention on him.

  Did his coin purse just shriek?

  The merchant clasped his purse and scowled, finding Grant standing right to his side. “Th—thief!” he spluttered, spraying mist into the air.

  Grant was already gone. He ducked down into the crowd and deftly weaved his way around the confused festival attendees. There were no others crying out. For the most part, their attention was on the reddening merchant more than any accused thief. He had managed to react quickly, and the man only got a good look at the back of his head.

  “Thief! Guards! Thief! Fetch a guard!” the merchant shouted. Fortunately, the surrounding festivalgoers continued to mostly ignore him, watching the tantrum with curiosity more than anything else.

  Grant ducked out of the crowd and sped around a corner and down a narrower street, arms flailing to keep his balance as his feet slipped across the pavement. He looked over his shoulder, wondering if anyone was even looking for him.

  A deep voice yelled, giving him the answer. “Halt!”

  I barely touched the stupid purse! He cursed and ran behind the line of stalls, squeezing past a stack of pallets leaning against a wall and toppling them over behind himself. The stall owner stammered. Ten seconds later, he risked a quick glance to see a guard hurdle over them effortlessly.

  Captain Alaric had elevated Grant’s physical fitness from disgraceful to passable. But despite his grueling yard sessions every day, the guard was faster and in much better shape than him. He was already out of breath, wheezing through his mouth now.

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  And the guard seemed willing to chase him to the city limits.

  Doesn’t he have anything better to do?

  He slid to a stop as he reached a junction. One street lay to his left, an identical one to his right. Suddenly, a slight hand grabbed his palm and pulled him to the left in a violent jolt. “This way!” Grant didn’t ask questions, instead choosing to focus on pumping his arms and legs. He looked down at the figure next to him to find Lira with a wide smile on her face.

  His legs were aching so badly he could barely move them, his ribs starting to cramp. He stumbled, almost falling to his knees, but Lira pulled him forward. After turning the next corner, he thought they may have lost their pursuer, and let his hands rest on his thighs.

  “Halt!” the voice cried seconds later.

  He groaned and ran faster. Surely the guard had better things to do.

  Grant and Lira dashed into another street, where she shoved him to the right, up a café’s short entrance staircase. Startled customers and staff gawked as they strode straight past the occupied tables and through the kitchen. Strained protests followed them, but Lira paid them no mind, exiting out the back onto another street. Three turns later, they slowed to a stop. There was no sign of the guardsman.

  Lira grabbed her belly and began cackling.

  “You find this funny?” Grant shouted with his hand on a wall, heaving air.

  She spoke between gasps for breath. “How was I supposed to know he had a shrieking coin purse? It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen!”

  Grant’s heartbeat thumped, refusing to slow down. It was too close.

  “They must have seen our clothes! Wouldn’t they know we’re Campaigners?”

  Lira snorted. “And? There are nearly 10,000 of us. The guard has probably given up already. Come on, let’s go watch the fireworks.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked away.

  What a strange woman, Grant thought, watching her go. They were a single misstep away from being tackled and thrown into a cell, and now she wanted to go see fireworks? Was this all a game to her? He jogged to catch up.

  She claimed that stealing was a means to an end for her, but anyone who saw her face tonight would attest that it was more.

  Lira paraded through the streets, taking in all the sights and pointing out anything that attracted her attention. It was as though the wild chase through Athemore had never happened—like she was just another young woman enjoying the festival.

  Minutes later, the two arrived in the courtyard. Lira insisted it was the best spot to watch the fireworks. As they waited, she stretched her back and legs. He watched her for a few moments in silence.

  “I’m sorry you had to hold my hand back there,” Grant said, a pang of guilt rising up. Zilen women were not supposed to make skin-to-skin contact with men before marriage.

  “Hmmm?” she asked, finishing one final stretch. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, the guard? When you saved me.”

  “Oh, that?” Lira said. She jumped lightly on the balls of her feet, then stretched her arms overhead. “We can touch people when it’s necessary. Do you think a Zilen woman would just let a man choke to death on an olive if a slap to his back could save his life?”

  “I suppose not,” Grant said sheepishly.

  “Of course not. That would be incredibly inconvenient. There are unmarried Zilen doctors, nurses, tattooists, and even masseuses. It’s all about intent,” she continued, raising her index finger.

  Grant nodded along, slightly disappointed that she considered holding his hand so impersonal.

  “Look!” Lira said with an excited squeal. She pointed as a single pinprick of light ascended into the sky with a whistle. Upon reaching its apex, it exploded into hundreds of red sparks, the sharp thunderclap echoing over the courtyard. The brilliant fragments radiated outward like a flower opening itself to sunlight, and then slowly drifted down. People in the distance clapped and cheered.

  Grant and Lira gasped in delight as dozens more filled the night sky. Her wide brown eyes shined with vibrant reflections of red, yellow, green, and blue. Grant forced his gaze back to the fireworks.

  They were like nothing he had ever seen. Bursts of dozens of speckled spheres of light were followed by slow intervals of empty skies. The show reached its crescendo after an hour and ended with thousands being shot together, shining a light over Athemore brighter than the afternoon sun.

  Grant and Lira lay on the grass watching. She cheered and applauded at the end, and Grant couldn’t help but join her. He had heard of fireworks in the stories, but no words could replicate experiencing them with his own eyes. He would have been happy to have had Roland and Ayers there that night to enjoy the show, but Roland talked about wanting to find a tavern and Ayers mumbled something about plausible deniability.

  If he was being completely honest, he was just as happy to be alone with Lira.

  He took a breath. It’s time.

  With resolve, he sat up and Resummoned his dagger. If he didn’t do this now, he didn’t trust himself to ever do it. He presented the blade to Lira.

  “Lira, I want you to have this.”

  Her face creased up with confusion. “The dagger? Didn’t you say it was Bound to you?”

  Grant had already thought about that. “When I got it, its previous owner transferred ownership to me. I don’t see why I couldn’t do the same for you.”

  Lira gave him a puzzled look, as if she suspected a trap. “And why would you do that?”

  Grant sighed. He was hoping that she would just take it and thank him. “Lira, I know my situation. Tomorrow, the second weakest person through the Portal is going to be able to crush me like an egg. This is as useless to me as a wooden spoon.” He held it up again, pushing the weapon toward her.

  She paused for a moment, then shook her head with a gentle frown. “No.”

  “It’s an Epic Item,” argued Grant.

  “Well, all the more reason for you to hold on to it,” said Lira, standing up and patting the grass off herself.

  “Please.” Grant could hardly keep the begging of his voice. “Let me do just one—”

  “Grant. Stop.”

  He flinched as Lira’s voice cut him off. Her expression was a mosaic of disappointment and disgust.

  “Tonight was amazing,” she said, her face softening. She craned her neck up at the smoke-filled sky. “Can you stop trying to ruin it? I don’t need your stupid dagger.”

  Grant felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, Dismissing the blade.

  They stood in silence.

  “Thanks for tonight,” Grant mumbled. “I’m going to go.”

  He left her there, head down and shoulders sagging.

  ***

  Lira

  Lira let Grant go. Her words had cut him deeply, but she saw no other way. Her mother always said she was better at burning bridges than building them.

  She sighed into the empty courtyard. In any other circumstances, she would have taken the dagger without question. It wouldn’t have been the first time she accepted a valuable gift from a witless young man trying to buy her affection. Why was this time different?

  Perhaps it was because Grant didn’t expect anything in return. That was a personality flaw of his that Lira could not even begin to understand—he was so busy surviving that he never learned how to want. She pictured him finding a knapsack of sapphires in the middle of the road and skipping straight to the nearest guard post to hand it over, knowing full well that not a single lost item form would be filled out.

  He made a terrible thief.

  She took a step forward to follow him, but stopped herself. The priceless dagger was still within her grasp. She could just ask for it, and Grant would be overjoyed to hand it over. It would be like doing him a favor, almost, or at least she could convince herself of such.

  Yet her feet stayed planted, her mouth closed.

  What was it her uncle had said? The first rule of thievery is never to let your conscience get in the way.

  She groaned, shaking her head in frustration. Grant had given up. She taught him how to steal, but touching the coin purse of a woman holding a child was nothing like taking an Artifact from a Campaigner. If he were smart, he would cut the throat of the first sleeping noble he found with that blade of his.

  Lira turned toward the opposite direction that Grant had gone. She forced the young man’s face from her mind. He’d be at breakfast tomorrow, and they could talk then.

  She couldn’t allow herself to focus on matters that were over and done with. There were things beyond the Portal no amount of training could prepare them for, and in under two days, she would be stepping into a world where just about everything wanted her dead.

  Her feelings aside, no matter what happened to Grant, she had to survive.

  There was no denying she found Grant’s gesture endearing. It was almost romantic, like something she would see in one of those novellas her mother always read. He, Roland, and Ayers would take on a battalion with wet reeds just to give her time to run away, while nobody she ever knew in Zile would even empty their waterskin to extinguish a fire burning her alive.

  But after all their stress and all their worries, all their planning and all their plotting, and all their time treating her like a porcelain doll, not a single one of them came to the most obvious conclusion.

  Maybe, she was the one who was supposed to save them.