Their coloring varies, but they all have the same sure look about them, although they pale in comparison to the warlord in both authority and allure. Wary, I sit at my table, keeping an eye on him as he weaves a bold path through an array of potions, trinkets, and charms. Is this man my enemy? There’s no reason to think so, but I didn’t stay alive this long without the help of a healthy dose of paranoia. He keeps staring at me, and a shiver prickles my spine. He’s striking in a dark, magnetic way, his size, weapons, and bearing all telling me he’s a tribal warlord.

He’s looking at me, and it’s hard not to look back. I peel them off and tuck them back into my braid, scanning the crowd as I walk.

Tonight, hemmed in on all sides in an amphitheater lit by hundreds of torches and filled to capacity, I feel like a Cyclops is sitting on my chest-suffocated. The rest of us surround them, carving out places for ourselves amid the crowd. The performers on the center stage are the main attraction. Craning my neck for a breath of fresh air, I navigate my way through the beehive of tables already set up for the circus fair. Heat and leather and heels don’t mix, but at least looking like a brigand means blending into the circus. The southern Sintan climate isn’t my worst nightmare, but it sometimes ranks pretty high, right along with the stifling layers of cosmetics masking my face, my leather pants, and my knee-high boots.

I pluck at my crimson tunic, tenting the lightweight linen away from my sticky skin.

A Promise of Fire by Amanda Bouchet