Amina's perfect, life-changing day was going up in flames. The mere thought made her blood boil and dripped heat to the tip of her sore fingers, though the power only pulsed, clinging to sparse, remnant specs of dust without a proper outlet. She curled her fists and ran faster.

The smell of smoke still lingered in her nose—it coiled through her like a drug, hot with craving, but there wasn't time nor resource to make anything else burn. She'd been lucky to find enough dust snagged in the nooks of her headpiece, left over from when it had been dropped into the arena's sands, to summon a lick of fire and save that blind man from his attacker. Not that he'd thanked her. She fought the urge to roll her eyes; frustration made the memory coarse. She wasn't in the mood for disrespect.

There hadn't been time to tell him as such either, though. The dark-eyed mage had disappeared again, further this time, and Amina didn't have long before the magic's traces fizzled out and left her without a path to follow. Her calves throbbed from exertion and an ache split her chest, but she only clutched at it and kept pressing on, diving around street corners, the sun on her back sticking her dress to her skin. At some point or another, she'd ripped off her white cloak to provide some relief. Whatever anyone said, she wasn't an apprentice any more, and the garment was so caked in dirty sand that she no longer cared for it either way.

A niggling voice at the back of her mind said she should've sought out help. She was quick to squash it. Few would believe her without proof, and others needed to be there to drive back the beasts as they retreated. And she had no need of help. Once she'd solved this mystery, she'd return to Zephyrine with pride and a slew of answers that would satisfy them both, and then there would be no doubting her status.

The thread of magic ended abruptly. Amina stopped short, dry air raking her throat as she panted for breath. Heart pounding in her ears, she scanned the empty area. A woman in a floral headwrap huddled by a nearby door caught her attention. She paused to drag her fingers through her curls, smoothing them out over each shoulder, then marched over.

The woman startled at her approach, shoulders stiff and scrunched inward to give her a small, timid appearance. The stance made it difficult to tell whether she was even taller than Amina. It was hardly surprising—her covered hair marked her as a girl with too little affinity with the dust, as low as a magicless man and nothing but a servant—but still a satisfied smile tugged at Amina's lips, though she fought to keep it pressed into one of dignity. This was how everyone should look at her once she wore a real mage's cloak.

She placed a hand on her hip. "I'm looking for a fellow mage who passed through here," she declared. "Long black hair and a purple dress. Have you seen her?"

The servant girl made a small sound, like half a hiccup. "Y-you're looking for Rayannah?"

Her eyes began to leak. A grimace wrinkled Amina's nose before she could scrub it away. She took a small step back, summoning her haughtiest stare. "Rayannah, yes." The name rang with faint recognition, but most did; Isra had prattled them off enough times that Amina had been slowly forced to revise them, despite her annoyance at such a pointless task. "I have some questions for her."

Sniffling, the girl wiped her damp eyes. Frail as she continued to look, her expression hardened, schooled into forced neutrality. "I don't know where Rayanah is," she said. Her hand already rested on the doorknob behind her.

Amina clenched her jaw. "But which way—"

"There's no use in chasing her." The servant nudged the door open, casting the frame's shadow over her face. Her gaze tracked her own retreating feet. "She won't be reasoned with."

A growl of frustration built in Amina's throat, but before she could say anything, the servant was gone. A lock clicked. Hand dragging across her forehead, she stomped her foot.

"Fine," she muttered to the door's indigo face. "I don't need help."

She spun on her heel and carried on down the street, but the beginnings of nerves fluttered in her stomach. She couldn't go back empty-handed and clueless. She couldn't have Zephyrine thinking she'd truly run from the fight. She hated the sudden emptiness tingeing her senses, the lack of direction; she found herself straying to house corners and peering into the shadowy cracks between them, reduced to aimless wandering.

Sandy cloth tied to rooftops and porches flapped in every edge of her vision, eerie in the heavy silence. Only a thinly whistling wind disturbed the quiet. She was too far from the arena now to hear any of its chaos, but still the little movements made her flinch, paranoia picking at the back of her neck with brittle fingers. She hugged her dress closer to her, the two halves of her skirt fanning the back of her knees like hot, repeated breath. The lingering scent of the beast's charred corpse turned bitter in her throat. She couldn't quite swallow the taste, nor shake the feeling that she was being watched.

The city no longer felt safe. When a jerky, tuneful sound leapt to her ears, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Breath catching, she wheeled around. Curiosity sank its hook in. Tehazihbith didn't often play host to music, and Amina least of all; this was a rare sound, and unlike any she'd ever heard before. The notes were broken and detached, but they shivered, hollow and fluid when they flowed from one to another. Her feet began moving before she'd fully processed the choice to follow.

The sandbrick parted to reveal an open section of the border, where the desert rolled on flat and monotonous beyond. A figure stood there, a dark blot against the reddened shades of the high-cast sun, swamped in a waving blue cloak. Dark fingers prodded the short wooden pipe he blew into. Or she. Upon first glance, the cloak was large and simple, and its colour was not of a mage—yet when Amina crept closer, she saw all the places the garment folded and crumpled, marking the curves of a smaller, slimmer figure it didn't fit. Its end brushed the woman's bare ankles.

Thrumming curiosity darkened into suspicion. Sticking close to the wall, Amina paced a wide arc until she caught a glimpse of the woman's profile. Though mostly concealed by her cerulean hood, the breath of a breeze rippled the fabric enough to reveal a bejewelled brow, drawn low with concentration over sharp indigo eyes.

Relief dawned on Amina, giving rise to a smile. "I've got you now, Rayanah," she whispered.

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