Page 23 of Reckless
“This is our winter season,” he grunts, cutting me off.
I blink at him. “Oh. Well, that’s… terrifying.”
Despite Dor being fairly close in proximity to Ilya, I grew up with revolving seasons, though our winters were thankfully mild. I hadn’t realized how drastically the weather could differ beyond the expanse of a desert. While the west winds blow cool air from the Shallows toward Ilya, Dor is blessed with the grainy heat of the Scorches constantly wafting into its city. Heat is a familiar inhabitant of its home.
“You will never survive famine season, pale thing.” He stares at me for a long moment in which I silently struggle to get my voice to work.
A dry laugh breaks the unbearable silence, and my eyes shoot up to his. Francis places a sun-soaked hand atop his belly, shaking with rough laughter. I hesitantly join him with an uncomfortable laugh of my own. “You are funny, pale thing,” he adds between chuckles.
I sigh in relief, sagging with the hope that my ignorance will earn Francis’s favor. “Glad to hear my sweaty suffering is humorous to you,” I say lightly, taking the loaf he extends to me.
His chuckling continues as he tears another loaf in half with more than a little effort. “Here.” He waves it at me before I tentatively take it. “Go find some shade to eat this under.”
I offer him my thanks, swallowing guilt at the feel of two stolenloaves weighing down the inside pockets of my vest. Francis is still laughing as I turn away, causing a small smile to tug at my lips behind the fabric swallowing most of my face.
Perhaps he is warming up to me, after all.
I look down at my arms, now far tanner than they were a week ago, prior to trudging through the Scorches. Even despite that, I’m still fairer than most of those who have spent their lives in Dor. Scanning the busy streets, I admire their dark skin, smooth and shining in the sunlight—like the rays themselves are old friends, stroking their skin with familiar fingers.
Tugging the thin fabric lower down my forehead, I push through the mass of bodies swarming the streets. My eyes snag on a crinkled poster, hung precariously against a crumbling shop wall. I scowl, sliding through the crowd to stand before the face that mirrors mine. I stare at the girl reflecting my own features, her eyes full of terror and rage.
I swallow, blinking back tears I refuse to let fall.
This must be a replica of what the Sight recorded after spotting me moments after killing the king—the crime I’d committed written all over my weary face. I can almost feel the blood that drenched my hands, covered my broken body. My hand drifts to the scar trailing below my jaw, my fingers fumbling to the letter carved above my heart.
I can’t bear to look at it any longer, can’t bear to relive that moment more than I already do.
I can’t bear to look into the face of a murderer.
With shaking fingers, I rip the poster from the wall, crumpling it in my fist before shoving it into the pack slung over my shoulders. When I stumbled into the city that first night after my tussle with the guard—
The man you killed and left to rot.
—I’d nearly run into a wall plastered with my face. My silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, and even while being dulled with sand, there was no mistaking that I was the perfect replica of the wanted Silver Savior staring back at me. Any sort of oddly colored hair is a dead giveaway as to having Plagued blood running through your veins, whether you are Ordinary or Elite.
And after spending a life of insignificance and hiding in plain sight, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I’ve never felt so exposed, sooutof the ordinary.
I spent the night atop the crumbling roof of a shop, nursing my wounds and hiding until an early sunrise painted the streets golden. Only then did I brave slipping a scrappy scarf from a merchant’s cart to wrap around my face and traitorous silver hair. Lucky for me, it’s not at all unusual to protect your face from both the sun and whipping sand throughout the day. And, just like that, I was blissfully invisible again.
A shoulder collides with my own, startling enough to shake me from my stupor. The young boy tosses what I think is an attempted apologetic nod before he’s back to shoving through the crowded street. Taking a deep breath, I tug at my scarf while pretending to look like I belong here. The people of Dor are more than a little rough around the edges—dare I say akin to the jagged scraps of metal Father used to have me pelt at the gnarled tree in our backyard.
My eyes skim over the street, finding countless confrontations and their accompanying shouts. Sparring, both physically and verbally, is clearly a common occurrence. And if the guards aren’t yawning with boredom or barely batting an eye, they’ve likely joined the fight themselves.
These people are as gruff as the sand they crawled out of.
I spot a tattered awning hanging precariously from a shop wall, promising a tempting sliver of shade.
Might as well take Francis’s advice.
After nearly tripping over a cluster of children weaving through the streets, I ungracefully fold myself into the splinter of shade, rubbing my sore muscles. Chewing is a generous term for the effort it takes to swallow the stale bread, seeing that I can now add my jaw to the ever-growing list of aches and pains. But I spend what little remains of the day hiding from the scorching sun and incriminating posters leering at me.
I need money.
That one thought has plagued my mind, pounding through my head with every hour spent in this new city I’m desperate to make a home. The coins clinking in my pack feel far too light for my liking, and unfortunately for me, Dor’s inhabitants are anything but careless with the livelihood that lives within their pockets. My attempts at thievery outside what decorates the merchants’ carts has been minimal, to say the least. I’m almost embarrassed.
With the sun setting and the heat retreating with it, I zigzag through the city in search of the roof I’ve grown fond of sleeping atop.
I need money. Money means shelter. It means food. It means…
