"I have an audience with Fajhiro at the moment. You are to follow me to the Great Hearth. Please do not speak unless Fajhiro directly addresses you, Farrah of Djianora. Fire burns brightest when provoked," said Zimorrah.

They walked carefully. Though each step was precise and nimble, every one echoed in the grand hall they passed through. Sheer, ghost-like curtains hung from the arched ceiling like lingering smoke, illuminated by the tongues of fire spilling upwards from the braziers, and Sienna's fingers instantly curled tighter around the broken parcel of matches. If this Fajhiro was a false deity, he certainly had the people of Azarahn wrapped around his finger—no, tied and knotted.

    Priests clad in white linen opened a second set of doors, bowing to Zimorrah as she passed through the entrance. Sienna trailed close behind.

    "Priestess Zimorrah and a companion have arrived, Fajhiro," announced a voice from inside the room.

    A single flight of stairs flowed into what seemed to be a throne room.  This Great Hearth flared out at the bottom and met at the top, a perfect shape of a match-light. Sienna shivered despite the heat that filled the room from the braziers. She thought of the many throne rooms she'd been in before—Porath, Fleira, and countless others—and recognized the intentionality of the design immediately. More of the translucent curtains that hung from the gallows of the narrow, high ceiling on either side of the room; the stairs leading to a platform, and an elevated platform far away with the throne . . . like all the other throne rooms she'd been in, everything pointed to the person sitting at the center of it all.

    Fajhiro.

He dressed like a god but did not look it. Rich, crimson silks fashioned into an elegant robe adorned him, gold leaf contorting around it like flames. An expensive, violet sash acted as a belt, and sandals of real leather hugged his clean feet. If the people had chosen to dress him so, they had chosen well—the clothing was refined and yet spirited, a perfect representation of a warm, graceful fire in a hearth. A god of a Great Hearth, no doubt.

But, looking at him as Zimorrah and Sienna knelt at the platform, Sienna saw that his face told a different story. Gentle eyes, warm, perhaps. But kind? The man's—the god of fire's—dark, furrowed eyebrows and hard-set jaw said otherwise. His clothes may have been of the soft embers, but Fajhiro himself was of the raging flames, not a god but a man with a caged temper that if tampered with would make his pride tender to the touch.

Whether he was a farce or a powerful being, Sienna could not tell. If he was indeed a farce, he was extremely good at playing his part.

"A companion," he suddenly noted, repeating the announcer in a rich and yet dry voice that seemed to crackle like fire. "Zimorrah?"

Lifting her veil over her head, Zimorrah stood. "Farrah of Djianora, my lord. A traveler. She brings something of value from her lands and deemed seeking an audience with you as of utmost urgency. I beg your forgiveness for the unannounced company."

"It is forgiven," he said with a lofty wave of his ring-ornamented hand, regarding Sienna with a pointed gaze. His calm and mercy surprised her. "What is the item of value you wish to share?"

    "Matches, my lord," replied Zimorrah.

"Rise, Farrah. Present the parcel I see you have."

Sienna staggered to her feet, removing the scarf from her head just as Zimorrah had done. Taking another match from the parcel, she gave it to Zimorrah without a word, bowing.

    "They bring fire, my lord," Zimorrah explained, striking the match on the ground and blowing the ignited flame out quickly before it could burn her like last time. "Farrah means to discuss the matter of the matches with you."

    Fajhiro leaned forward slowly, like a fire being carefully stoked. "Let her speak for herself. Tell me, Farrah: what was the purpose of disrupting my private audience with one of my priestesses, or manipulating that priestess into letting you meet with me?"

    Her stomach flipped, icy nerves spreading like frost despite the heat of the room. "The . . . the purpose was to discuss the matches, your majesty. The temple in Djianora asked—"

    "'Your majesty.' And what did she call you, Zimorrah? 'Your highness'?" Fajhiro's eyes suddenly blazed as he addressed Zimorrah. "Are you so easily swayed by deceivers?"

    Her head bowed in shame, staring at Sienna from the side with wide eyes.

    "You lie so easily in the presence of the very thing that controls your fate, 'Farrah.' What if I ordered you to demonstrate lighting one of those matches? What lie would you tell to escape from that?" He rose from his throne. "I do not like such boldness from you. I did not expect you to come here either, Sienna Diaz."

    Her mouth fell open, and the parcel of matches dropped from her grasp, scattering to the floor. The ice in her gut cracked, giving way to icy waters and pulling her in every direction with its current. The truth came tumbling out like water before she could stop it: "Please, the matches, I need to stop them—"

    "Zimorrah." Fajhiro's voice was low, dangerous. "Allow us to speak alone. Our discussion will have to be delayed another day."

    Zimorrah left in a hurry, quickly covering her face with her veil and closing the double doors with a loud click.

    "Sienna Diaz." He pursed his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you know I felt that little match-light of yours fizzle out when you arrived? Or that I felt your presence by the heart of the desert sun? It makes me wonder why you would come all the way out here into my presence. Ah!—but I do know. You thought that perhaps the god of all fire could be persuaded into helping you with your little . . . predicament. Did you know that it was I who placed you on that very path? I did not expect you to stumble through forty-nine worlds to get to me, and yet here you are. Are you so very proud of yourself that you rejected all of them?"

    It was him that started the nightmare. Throwing away all façade and security, Sienna protested, "I–I did not reject them—they were the ones who made it impossible to stay!"

    "Truly? Interesting." The fire behind his eyes calmed, and he sighed. "I am allowing you to speak now. Though I know what it is, I want to hear you speak it. Name your request, Sienna Diaz from Earth."

    She was rendered speechless for a moment, a thousand places racing through her mind, a thousand identities falling away. All of this was from this man. All the worlds she'd had to leave . . . all the people she'd had to be, and all the people she'd had to say goodbye to—Lanil and Rephai flashed through her mind. Escape—she couldn't escape this. No amount of hiding and acting and running away would help her now. Hastily picking up a match, she—

    "Oh, you can't be allowed that route." With a snap of Fajhiro's fingers, the air crackled. Then all the matches sparked and burned out. Ash covered the floor. He's real.

    Tears began to fill Sienna's eyes, her mouth still open in a silent gasp as her breaths became shallow. No escape. There was no escape.

    "The fiftieth world, you see, is my world. Fire reigns the desert and the sun and the people—I reign. Who are you to lie to my subjects and my face while you are also under my reign? Do you think yourself more important than a god? Do you think your situation more dire than all?" Fajhiro laughed bitterly, walking down the stairs from his throne. Stepping on the matches' ash, his sandal created an inky smear. His eyes bored into hers. "Well, you've already wasted my time and I've already canceled my private meeting with Zimorrah. So explain to me, Sienna Diaz, why you have come before I cast you back into the desert where you landed."

    She swallowed and blinked back tears, hardening her heart and guarding her hurt pride. "I need a world."

    "A world?" He laughed again, a horrible grating sound. "You have gotten plenty of those and have wasted them, haven't you?"

    "No, I—" She huffed, fury fueling her. "I need a home. Djianora or, or Earth . . . help me. You're Fire, aren't you? The one who started all of this? You can end it for me."

    "'Farrah of Djianora'. I see. Djianora was a good one, wasn't it?"

    My best one. She nodded wordlessly.

    A pause, and an ocean of resent flooded the space between them.

    Fajhiro shook his head. "I can't help you."

    "Then why make me ask?"

    "Respect." His eyes twinkled, whether in a friendly light or a mirthless one Sienna couldn't tell. Either way, it suddenly made her sick to her stomach.

    She fumed. "Why can't you help me, all powerful god of the tiny match-lights that constantly ruin my life?"

    "I may have started your journey, but I can't finish it for you."

    "You're the only one who can."

    He smiled, shaking his head.

    "God of fire," she muttered, her hands rubbing her face, "and he can't help me."

    "I'm afraid not." He lowered his voice as if someone were listening. "Now, I'm doing you a service by allowing you to leave with your dignity and your name, 'Farrah'. When you leave, tell them I took the matches for myself. Tell them 'Sienna' means 'esteemed' and 'diaz' means 'one'."

    With a flurry of sparks, Fajhiro snapped his fingers and out rolled a sealed parchment.

    "Here," he said. "Don't take my forgiveness and grace lightly. Playing with fire is quite dangerous."

    "I hate you for doing this to me." Her eyes stung again.

    "Doing what?" Fajhiro tilted his chin higher. "Allowing you escape? More chances than over forty people will ever get in their lives?"

    "They weren't chances. They were cycles, only waiting to be repeated for me to change and adapt and fit in and finally get comfortable before whisking it away with those . . . those matches. Were they supposed to match me to a world, Fajhiro, god of the fire that sends me to one horrible fate after another?" Emotions swept over her like a wave, grief morphing to disgust and settling on anger. "I will get you to help me, or I'll—"

"I won't hear any more of this foolish talk. Depart from me, Sienna Diaz. You have failed forty-nine worlds. Don't fail mine, too."

Fail? How have I been the one to fail?

Heat of shame and rage rose up in her cheeks and her ears, and she opened her mouth to speak but found no words to say. Turning, she opened the doors and left Fajhiro standing on the platform with a terrible, sympathetic smirk on his gentle face. Sienna scoffed. The insolent, arrogant rat was anything but. When she closed the doors behind her, she was glad to be rid of him. She leaned against the door, reminding herself of blood and governors and quills. Djianora again. The hardened glass she'd placed around her heart broke and splintered. It throbbed.

"Does Fajhiro have anything to report?" asked the announcer near the door to the Great Hearth. He looked caught, his stricken face like a trapped wild animal. Had he been eavesdropping?

Sienna found her gaze fixed on the exit to the Fire Temple as she gave the announcer the parchment, answering, "He told me to tell all of you that he took the matches for himself. I am Farrah of Djianora, the Sienna Diaz, his Esteemed One."

She hated the way it sounded and boiled in her mouth.

The announcer scanned the parchment. "Did he give any other instructions to you, Esteemed One?"

"No."

She'd have to find a match, or make one, or something. Sienna couldn't stay in this truly god-forsaken, deserted Azarahn as long as that god of fire had the whole place at his disposal.