Arran sipped his mint tea, with three teaspoons of sugar as usual, and relished the refreshing taste in his mouth. His eyes closed and his muscles relaxed, at ease. For a moment, he forgot about the tunnels and the creatures.

“Better?” Zohra asked, cocking her head in a way that suggested she was still worried about him.

Arran licked his lips and smiled. “Much.”

The elderly woman pursed her lips, peering at Arran's face as if she could find the reason for his distress on it. It made him nervous all over again. He shifted awkwardly in his seat. "So, um …" He cleared his throat and started over. "About the tunnels. I didn't find them accidentally."

"Oh?" Zohra raised an eyebrow. "Then how did you learn about their existence?"

"Well, I was at Villa D'Ohara today…" Her eyebrows crept almost all the way up to her hairline, but Arran ignored her. "Turns out I had underestimated the job and I almost got into trouble with the guards. But I got help."

"From whom?"

He shrugged. His tea spilled over the edge of his cup when he put it down a bit too roughly. "I heard a voice inside my head, which led me down to the tunnels through a secret passage in the villa." Zohra remained silent, waiting for more, so Arran blurted out, "I also saw three cloaked … people in the tunnels. It almost seemed like they had been waiting for me."

Now the fortune teller looked downright upset. "Who were these people?"

The memory of the three dark creatures raised goosebumps all over his body, despite the nagging heat outside. "I don’t know. I couldn’t see their faces."

Zohra plucked at a loose thread in her qamisa and furrowed her brow. Arran reached for his tea once more, but his hands stilled in midair when he noticed the faint tremor in them. Instead, he laced his fingers together and rested them on the table, although one of his legs kept bouncing up and down persistently.

"Did those scoundrels threaten you?"

"No."

"Did they make you swear an oath that might compromise your safety or freedom sooner or later?"

His lips puffed with a surprised chuckle. "No, they didn't. They didn’t say anything at all, unless they were the ones talking to me in my head. Which may well be possible, now that I think about it." He paused, frowning. "I don’t remember much of my walk through the tunnels, though. My thoughts were a blur, like I’d been drugged.”

Zohra's coarse skin paled until its usual almond tone, much like his, had a sickly touch to it. "So someone did use a spell on you. Would you mind if I examined you real quick?"

Arran shook his head, so she stood up from her chair and hobbled around the table. Her hands were cool and dry when she laid them on his forehead. Almost a minute went by while he waited until Zohra, her eyes shut tight, had finished.

A soft rumble escaped her throat as she backed away at last. Resting one hip on the table, she brushed his messy, dark curls from his forehead. "I can sense the remnants of psychic magic on you, the magic of a mind warper. Whoever enchanted you took over your body to guide you through the tunnels."

Arran bit his nails, but Zohra swatted his fingers to make him stop, giving him a glare that reminded him an awful lot of an admonishing grandmother. 

"Somehow, the knowledge that someone may take away my free will, with or without my consent, doesn’t make me feel better,” he said.

"At least it got you out of that place," she reassured him, patting his cheek. "Best-case scenario, you never come across another mind warper again in your life. They’re extremely rare as it is, anyway."

He cracked a wry smile. "With my luck, I doubt it," he joked, although his tone wasn’t genuine.

Chortling, she lifted his chin with two fingers. Her eyes, darker than black coffee, bored into his. “Go home, misha. Your mother will be worried if you’re late for dinner.” She kissed his forehead.

“Hallup has only just ended, Zohra. My mother won’t be expecting me home for a while.” He emptied his cup, gesturing at the setting sun outside with his other hand. “Besides, I have to go to the black market first.” He jangled the money and jewelry in his belt pouch to emphasize his point.

Zohra tsked. She waved away his protests and ushered him out of his chair, practically pushing him out of the door. “If that’s true, then I still have some customers to attend to, and I don’t want your negative energy to influence my readings.” Arran glared at her, to which she responded with a cheeky grin, too youthful and bold for her advanced age. “Ah, don’t look at me like that, monkey. You know I love you.”

The cozy comfort of Zohra’s house soon wore off while Arran strolled through the alleyways of the Copper District, hands buried in his pockets. A particularly unpleasant odor lingered in the narrow alleyways of Primsharah’s poorest district, although his nose had gotten used to the nauseating stench over the years. Summer was the worst season, when the heat baked the litter on the streets. And those were the alleys where the houses had access to the underground sewer system.

Arran’s did not.

Lost in thought, his feet retraced the familiar route to a rickety warehouse which harbored the city’s greatest black market. Greetings drifted toward him as soon as he entered the building, and his mood improved the slightest bit as he grinned at the merchants behind the battered stalls and booths, many of which he had sold to or bought from at some point. However, his best client always set up his stall near the warehouse’s back door, just in case he needed to flee a guard raid.

Basat’s concerns only stemmed from paranoia, though; the guards in the Copper District hadn’t set foot in the black market in more than fifty years, unless they wanted to buy something themselves. The market was the district’s only valuable asset, so it would be cruel to rob the poor inhabitants of their sole source of income. The guards respected the market, and in turn, most merchants granted them generous discounts on their goods.

Basat’s skittish eyes landed on Arran’s face for hardly a second before they flitted to a point somewhere over his shoulder, scanning the crowd for danger. Arran suppressed an amused smile and dumped his loot on the merchant’s stall. “Salaam, Basat. How are you doing?”

“It’s too damn hot in here,” Basat grumbled, fanning himself some cool air with his hands. His eyes fell upon the jewelry and widened with interest. Grabbing his magnifying glass from his satchel, he walked around the stall to inspect them from up close. His rather humble stature forced him to stand on his toes to do so. Arran took a step back, giving the master space to work.

Basat let out a low whistle when he reached for the silver tiara with the tear-shaped rubies. “Well, this is what I call a find.”

“How much is it worth? Don’t lie to me,” Arran warned him upon seeing the calculating look on the merchant’s face. “I know you’ll sell it for more than what you’ll give me, anyway.”

If Basat felt even a pang of guilt about conning his best supplier, he didn’t show it. “At least two hundred and fifty gold coins, give or take. I know a customer who will be very much interested in buying this …” He clapped his mouth shut at Arran’s excited expression. “I can only give you a hundred for it now, though. It’s been a lousy week and my—”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Arran snapped, snatching the tiara from Basat’s hands. “A hundred and fifty, or I’ll give it to my sister for her birthday.”

Basat’s eyes bulged. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” His mother would be pissed at him for stealing again, but his sister would have some backup if she ever needed the money.

Basat’s cheeks reddened; he looked as though he was about to burst like an overripe grape. "Twenty-five?"

"I said fifty, Basat, and you know it's a good deal. Now or never."

The merchant ground his teeth. The words sounded muffled when he pushed them out of his mouth, as if it hurt him to say them. "Deal."

Arran grinned. "How about the rest?"

At the end of their negotiations, Arran left Basat's stall with three hundred gold coins, five hundred silver ones and a handful of copper coins. It had been a good day. Oh, his mother would probably hit him with the rolling pin again and yell at him to find a real job, but why work ten long hours a day for a shitty salary when he could make almost thrice the amount of money with a single burglary? Drunk with the promising weight of too many coins in his belt pouch, he almost skipped homeward, the awful events of that afternoon momentarily forgotten.

Maybe his family would have enough savings now to move to a hovel connected to the sewer system. Maybe he could even buy a real bathtub with the remaining money.

The delicious smell of an authentic Primsharahn tajine greeted him when he kicked the door of his house open. His mother stood cooking in the forty-five square feet space she called a kitchen. She looked up upon hearing him come in, and he bowed his head to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Where have you been?” she asked, a warm smile wrinkling the laugh lines around her eyes.

“Working.” He unfastened his belt pouch and put it on the counter. The coins inside produced a cheerful tinkling sound.

Merriam’s smile vanished. “More stolen money, Arran?” Her fingers already groped at the rolling pin.

Holding up his hands in all innocence, he took a cautious step backward. “Who says I stole it? For all you know, I may have found a rich man’s purse on the street.”

“Every week? In this district?” She shook her head at him, waving a threatening finger in front of his nose. “One of these days, you’re going to get into serious trouble, young man. And who will provide for your mother and sister, then? We don’t make nearly enough in seyine Falita’s tailor shop.”

He shoved the pouch closer to her. “With the coin I earned today, you won’t have to worry about money for at least a few months, maia.”

A muscle in her jaw twitched, but her curiosity prevailed over her skepticism and she pried the pouch open to peer inside. Arran’s shoulders relaxed.

“How much is this?” Merriam’s voice was hoarse, incredulous. The last time she had seen so many coins at once must have been … Gods, perhaps never.

“It might be enough to finally get out of this shithole,” Arran replied, gesturing at their derelict house as though his mother still needed proof of their deplorable living conditions.

She stared at him for a long moment. "I know I haven't always been able to give you and your sister everything you wanted or needed. And I know you desperately want to compensate for that. But it's dangerous to let greed drive you, Arran."

Merriam's favorite argument of late. "Greed?" he cried out, baffled. A surge of anger welled up in his throat, leaving his mouth in cracking syllables. "Is it greedy to wish you weren't poor?"

"Then where will it stop?" she countered, her voice rising as well. "Until you're as rich as the Shah in his palace?"

"What are you talking about?"

"THIS!" she screamed, throwing the pouch at his chest. He caught it in a reflex. "I'm worried about you, Arran. What rich noble did you rob this time? You could be executed for this." Tears sprang to her eyes, turning the azure of her irises into bottomless pools. His guts clenched at the sight.

"Maia …" In one step, he was beside her and he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace. Resting his chin on top of her head, he rubbed her back while she sobbed against his tunic. He wanted to tell her that she needn't worry, that he knew what he was doing, but after today's events, he wasn't so sure about that anymore.

"Baba wouldn't have wanted his son to become a thief for a living," she whispered against his chest.

Heat spread across Arran's cheeks. This was the second stage in their arguments: emotional blackmail. And just as always when Merriam brought Arran’s father into the conversation, shame washed over him in multiple tidal waves, each one worse than the last.

“Baba not being here is the reason why we are in this situation in the first place, maia,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Can we please not fight over this again?”

She pulled back to watch him, lips taut, eyes narrowed to dark blue slits. After a few long seconds, the intensity of her stare decreased and she averted her gaze. “Fine.” She turned her back to him to resume cooking.

Arran let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He tiptoed out of the kitchen, but made sure to snatch a few coins from his belt pouch when his mother wasn’t looking. With soundless steps, he sneaked to his bedroom, as though the slightest noise he made would send Merriam into another fit of anger.

Adira lay on her bed, eyes closed, yet she bolted upright when she heard her brother coming in. “Arran!” Faster than the eye could follow, she jumped up and flung her arms around his neck, nearly choking him. Her dark hair tickled his chin.

Arran chuckled as he snaked an arm around her waist. “You’d think I’d been gone for years.”

She laughed. Coins jingled when she took a step back, and she frowned at the left pocket of her pants. “What’s this?” she asked, inspecting the silver he had slipped in there.

“It’s money, Adira. You can buy things with it.”

She rolled her eyes. “So that’s what you and maia were fighting over just now?”

Arran dropped down onto his bed; the bed frame squeaked as the worn-out mattress sagged under his weight. “What else?”

The corners of Adira’s mouth crimped upward into a sad half-smile. She sank down on her own bed and stared at her lap, intertwining her fingers. “You know she only gets mad at you for stealing because she loves you, right?”

“Sure. I understand.” He shrugged, uncertain of how to react. “It’s just … I’m so sick of this house, this district. I want to get out. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to reach that goal.”

Adira raised her chin, locking her blue gaze with his. She looked a lot like their mother in that moment, except that she lacked the hard, bitter features Arran saw on Merriam’s face so often. “You could always knock on the palace’s door and introduce yourself as a suitor to the Shah’s oldest daughter. I’ve heard the princess is driving her father crazy by rejecting every noble he invites.”

He threw his head back and burst out laughing. “As if a princess would ever marry someone like me. Yet another disadvantage of being poor: you only spend time with other poor people, because rich people want nothing to do with you.”

She cocked her head, the furrowed brow restored. “You sound so bitter, big brother.”

He heaved a weary sigh and fell back onto the mattress, folding an arm behind his head. A lonely cockroach skittered across the ceiling, and he followed it with his eyes. For a moment, he debated whether he should tell her about the tunnels and the three cloaked figures. However, he closed his eyes and banned the thought out of his head. What good would it do to make her even more worried than she already was? Adira was four years his junior, so she shouldn’t be the one to carry all of their problems, both big and small, on her shoulders.

“I guess I’m just disappointed, not least in the gods. I keep praying for a miracle, but it seems they only have ears for those who have enough means to afford a good offering.”

Adira slid off her bed and knelt down next to him, squeezing his free hand. The soft, hopeful smile on her lips filled his stomach with rocks. “Your time will come, big brother. You’ve always been too ambitious for this city’s short-sightedness. Just keep praying and dreaming, and maybe someday someone will grant your wishes.”

Arran gave her an odd look. “When did you grow so wise?”

She blushed, a wide grin playing on her lips. An odd thrill jolted through the hand she was holding and he scrunched his brow as a mad thought crossed his mind. His eyes switched to Aura Vision. Adira’s blue aura swirled around her slender body, propelled by a phantom breeze. It was strong, characterized by a certain brightness which he had only seen with a select group of people, including himself.

It was perfectly possible, he told himself. Magic often ran in the family. Their grandmother had been a sorceress as well, though Merriam had always been vague about her mother’s abilities.

“Adira, are you—”

His question was cut off by his mother’s voice, yelling at them that dinner was ready. Adira raised an expectant eyebrow, waiting for him to finish his sentence, but he shook his head and gently disentangled his fingers from hers. “It’s nothing. Come on, let’s not keep the matriarch waiting.”