Hesi drew the blanket around her shoulders tighter. The darkness in Kharta's basement was a grim reminder of what she lived through, of a fate she narrowly avoided. She drew her knees to her chest and stared at the mud and sand caking her bare feet. Her memories were hazy, but maybe Kharta dragged her from the royal palace to this room. It was as though she wasn't present when it happened. For the next hour, she did nothing but sit on the corner.

Kharta gave up talking to her, retreating instead to the one thing he knew best—medicine. Perhaps it was the trace of his Djarean roots—he briefly mentioned he witnessed the Great Shadow's beginning—but the steward possessed enough skill to rival the stingiest traveling apothecary from Ser-Ib.

A steaming cup edged into her periphery. She raised her chin from her knees to trace a hand, an arm, and finally, a face. His smile was gentle—something he didn't give her since they met. Since she drank poison and boiled her guts, and since he admitted things he shouldn't have, he gave her that smile more often.

What did it mean?

"Not in the mood." She averted her eyes and studied the dust carpeting the floor instead. Was he not fond of cleaning? Though who in his right mind would obsess over smooth floors when he settled in a basement where the entire desert could fall on him? "The last thing on my mind right now is tea."

He set the cup down inches from her toes. The steam curling from it never looked so inviting, but she already refused. It would look moronic to go back on her word. "The High Prince, then?" He sank next to her and pressed his back against the wall.

"How did you know when to come?" She didn't look at him. Her fingers picked at the fraying ends of the blanket around her shoulders.

"Since Mensa's accident, I have waited outside whenever the brides enter," he answered.

She cocked an eyebrow. "The High King approved it?"

Kharta's shadow, reflected by the faint moonlight, shrugged. "He trusts me to do the right thing for his kingdom's benefit," he replied. "I worked my hands off to get to this point. It's time I reap the benefits."

"You know how to bide your time, Noble Steward," she said with a grin. With her head turned away, she doubted he saw it.

A sigh bled off him followed by a silent sip. Ah, right. Tea. She chewed on her lip and scratched a nail against the stone floor. Nevermind if small particles seeped into her nail beds. She'd wash them later.

"I have a target on my back now," she continued aloud, her thoughts raging with glee out her mouth. That was why she was quiet. "I know about the prince, and I'm never drinking that amnesiac."

His eyes flicked towards his work tables where vials cooled in racks. He wasn't just working on the inventory; he took over the royal pharmacy too. It wouldn't surprise her if he controlled the healing quarters as well.

"Convenient how the next trial is combat, right?" His tone was nonchalant, but the gravity of his words settled on her shoulders like an entire mesa plucked from the desert.

She tried giving a sardonic chuckle. It was easier than the chattering of teeth she held back. "They want to get rid of me," she said, not as a question, but as a statement. A certainty. They would give her the hardest warrior to defeat. It would be a mismatch. They would say the trials killed her. "Can't they do it now?"

The steward sipped his tea again. She never took her eyes off his shadow. "The Mayaware have this strange belief," he answered. "They don't bring harm to souls inside their houses."

A hysterical snort ripped off her. "You mean to tell me..." she said. "The demons found superstition?"

"Hey, it helped us," he said. "But we stretched that pit too thin."

She hugged her legs to her chest. Tighter. "Yeah, we have." Her mind raged at how casually he referred to them both as "we". As "us". As though they were together. And not in its most basic sense either. She didn't understand completely what Kharta meant by what he said to her in the healing quarters. What did it mean to be afraid to lose someone? Was there a word for that?

"We need to act," Kharta said out of the conversation's flow. "We don't have a choice but to use poison."

She turned to him. Screw her sulking. "What happened to the huurshe?" she demanded. "Did the Mayaware sniff you out?"

A dark cloud passed across his face. "The trader lost the blade. My contact told me," he revealed. "They were on their way to Berheqt when they got it in their heads to host a mock contest and staked it as a prize. As luck would have it, his champion lost. To a woman."

The story twanged inside her skull. It seemed familiar. Then, the memory snapped into place. Mezo sneaking out of the palace with her, them finding the combat pit, her winning against the Mammoth. Was that why the merchant wasn't keen to give her the dagger that day? Because it was already pledged to someone in Berheqt?

And now...

"I have it," she blurted through the rising bile in her throat. The realization hit her like a cart speeding out of control, rolling from a dune's crest and meeting her in the trough. The irony of it struck her. Mezo gave her the object they needed to kill him and his people. Didn't he know? Surely the Mayaware were keen on sniffing out huurshe from birth. And yet...

Her thoughts sputtered out of the flow when Kharta sidled closer. Now their faces were mere inches apart. "What do you mean?" he asked. Not a drop of venom laced around his voice, just sheer curiosity. She would see how well he held up when she divulged the truth to that night.

"I went out and found a traveling market," she recounted. "I found the combat pit and fell in love with the dagger. So, I joined. Discovered their champion had a bad knee. Used that to my advantage. Next thing I know, I had the blade in my hands."

Not a complete lie, but the way her stomach roiled and her throat squeezed shut made it feel as such. She was a liar, but she wasn't a traitor. She told Mezo it would be their well-kept secret.

The gears in Kharta's head visibly turned. "So, if the trading market coincided with your story then..." His eyes sparked with realization, and he whirled to her. "That makes it the night you should have been resting!"

She shrugged. "I got bored, so I explored," she said. "Found a hidden way out. Took it. It's nothing. I made it back alive. See?" She spread her arms, the blanket dangling behind her like frayed wings. "Stop pouting, Kharta. You don't look good in it."

"I'm not—" He schooled his features to a flat frown and exhaled a brief gust. He massaged his temples. "I can never get you to stay still, can't I?"

She tilted her head. "So, we have the poison and the blade," she said. "We can start wreaking havoc."

She expected him to agree, for him to bring back the murderous glint in his eyes. Instead, he tapped his chin in thought. "Not now," he said. "If you use it in the upcoming trial or before that, it will raise enough suspicion. You don't have a clear path to the crown."

"Let me guess," she replied. "You want me to win."

He stood up, bearing his cup of tea. He set it down on a random work table and loitered towards another shelf. He grabbed the first bottle off the niche and took her unconsumed drink, replacing it with another empty cup.

She raised her eyebrows as he popped the cork off the ceramic jar, the sound of liquid sloshing ringing in the space between them. "What now?" she demanded, watching him pour an almost transparent liquid into her new cup.

"A drink. Just one," he answered. "You might not be in the mood for tea, but I doubt you'll refuse this time."

A grin pulled her lips higher. "When did you learn to speak my language, steward?" She snatched the cup and sniffed. Not poisoned. The hint of alcohol was strong. Exactly her type. Kharta said just one. She could handle it.

"Since you started barging into my room, bride," he replied. His eyes twinkled with something bordering on pride and excitement. "To chances."

She raised her cup to knock against his. "To chances," she echoed.

They drank in silence, with her sipping slowly to lengthen time. The trial might come tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. She couldn't afford a hangover. Kharta, meanwhile, downed his cup in two gulps.

"Hey, slow down," she cautioned. She drank hers until half to catch another torrent he tipped out the jar. "Didn't we say just one?"

He laughed. It shocked Hesi to rigidity. He never laughed. Bits of chuckles and amused snorts. Smiles—both manic and gentle—maybe. But never a full-blown, open guffaw. "Who drinks only one cup of this delicacy?" he reasoned. "I saved this for an occasion, but I forgot about it now. Good drinks should never be wasted."

"I suppose." She noted how the tables flipped. Now, she adopted caution and constraint, while he seemed to let himself go with every sip. "What is this called?" she ventured.

"Zadi," he answered, pouring himself another cup. She never pegged him as an alcoholic, but he must be used to this since he still talked in full sentences after three shots. She only had one and halfway through her second, and she already felt her walls sliding down. A gentle wave lulled her to spill all her secrets.

He finished another cup and sighed. In the dark, it was hard to see if his face was flushed. "We used to pour it over graves and have our share during a celebration of life," he said. "But as I had too many graves to water, it lost meaning. Especially when there weren't any graves to begin with."

She shifted so that her back was to the door and she faced Kharta for the first time in a while. "I've always been curious about how you ended up in the palace," she said. "Are you up for a story?"

"If you tell me yours," he answered. The way his hair fell over his eyes made her gut turn without permission.

"A deal's a deal." She clinked her cup against his again.

He poured himself another dose. He truly went for it. At this rate, he would finish the jar on his own. Hesi finished her second dose and pretended to get her third fill. She kept the cork on. Doubtful he would notice at this point. Not when his head nodded off.

"I was born around the time the Mayaware built their army to launch a large-scale attack on Ser-Djare. About five when it happened. Spent a long time running around the desert," he said, recounting an all-too-familiar sequence. She was no stranger to them. "Seven when our village was raided. I reached Berheqt as part of the spoils."

Back then, the concept of breeding farms wasn't there yet. Kharta had some luck too. "I've been here since. First as a servant. Then, when I showed skill in medicine, I worked in the healing quarters," he continued. "I saw humans come and go. I've seen the empire rise almost overnight. Next thing I know, I was the King's right hand. And now...I'm here."

"What happened to your family?" she prodded. "Do you have siblings?"

He shook his head. That was all he had to say about it. She knew what it meant all too well. "Your turn," he said, finishing his fourth or maybe fifth cup.

She took a swig. The drink's savory sweet taste turned bitter as it went down her throat and stayed there. "Same as yours. I barely remember when Ser-Tehra fell, but I remember the escapes, the frantic dash, and the smell of blood during a raid," she said. "Eventually, my parents didn't make it, leaving me with two siblings to care for."

Thinking of Pai and Unsu and telling their tale to a stranger while drinking made her heart flip and squeeze. How did they hold up? What did their faces look like? She missed them. Missed their childish bickering, their little worries thrown into the humid desert wind. If there was a way to erase everything that happened, she wouldn't hesitate to make it so.

"Then, they ended up in a breeding farm," she finished. "I intended to bust them out, but they urged me to come to Berheqt, to end this reign from the inside. And so...I'm here."

She turned to Kharta whose head idled against the wall. He couldn't hold it up for long. A little more tilt, and it might snap from his neck. "We both are," he said, his words slurring. His eyes remained open. "We both are here."

She set her cup down and edged towards him. The tables have truly upended on themselves. Not too long ago, she was the one held this way—one arm around the shoulders, head pressed against the crook of a neck, warmth flooding the crumpling space between them.

"That's enough drinking for you," she said, her tone dwindling to something she only used when calming Unsu when he cried. "Come on."

She led him towards a door he previously barred her from and slid it aside. What greeted her was a small storeroom with a spread of mattress hidden behind towers of kegs and lidded palthes. Was this where he slept?

She dumped his lumpy form onto the cushion and left him there.

At least, that was the version of the story she would tell herself forever.