Morning heat pressed against the shutters before any of them were fully awake. Aseran never eased into the day. It rose all at once—light flooding through gaps in the walls, warmth gathering in the air as if the three suns had crept closer overnight. Even the stones felt warm beneath their feet as Raizō pushed the door open and glanced out into the street.

  Taren groaned loudly behind him, rubbing his face. “Why does the sun here feel personal? Like it’s targeting me specifically.”

  “It targets everyone,” Shizume said.

  “It hates me more.”

  Shizume didn’t respond. She stood near the doorway, arms crossed, posture composed despite the heat. Her cloak hung loosely around her shoulders, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Frostmarch conditioning did that to people, even Aseran’s three suns couldn’t blister through that upbringing. Raizō finished adjusting his hand-wraps. The calm in him carried over from the day before, same steady breath, same quiet discipline. The room felt different when he moved, as if the air shifted to make space for his presence.

  Taren noticed it too, glancing between the two of them before smirking. “You’re quiet again, Shizume.”

  “It’s hot,” she said.

  “It was hot yesterday.”

  “It’s hotter today.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s… not wrong.”

  Raizō stepped toward the door. “We need supplies. We’ll move through the upper market.”

  Taren groaned. “The upper market? That’s where the merchants yell even louder.”

  Shizume walked past him. “Then walk faster.”

  He blinked. “She’s getting bossy.”

  Raizō didn’t look back. “She always was.”

  Shizume stiffened for half a second before forcing her expression back into neutrality. They stepped outside. A wave of heat hit them instantly. It rolled up from the ground, radiated off the walls, beat down from the swollen suns. Aseran’s people had already adapted, shawls wrapped over heads, water flasks carried close, steps slow and economical. Even animals took shelter in narrow strips of shade. Raizō began walking. Shizume matched his pace. She realized it after two steps and deliberately slowed, only for Taren to fall into step beside her with a knowing look.

  “You keep doing that.”

  “Doing what?” she snapped.

  “Copying him.”

  She glared. “I am adjusting my posture to the temperature.”

  “That’s… definitely not a thing.”

  “Be quiet.”

  He grinned and obeyed but Raizō had heard them, even if he didn’t show it.

  The upper market was already bustling by midmorning. Fabric awnings stretched across stands, creating patchwork shade. Vendors shouted over each other, competing prices, rare ingredients, promises of healing concoctions no one trusted. The scent of spices, metal, and heated stone merged into something uniquely Aseran.

  Taren fanned his face with his hand. “Why do people choose to live here?”

  “Trade,” Shizume said.

  “That can’t be worth this.”

  “It is.”

  Raizō quietly scanned faces and side streets as they moved, eyes catching details without lingering. Shizume had watched enough seasoned killers to understand how someone tracked threats, but Raizō’s approach was different. He didn’t look tense. He didn’t look ready to strike. He simply… saw everything. She hated how often she noticed that. They made their way to a row of apothecaries. Taren needed more of the herbal solution he’d been using during his recovery, and only one place in Aseran carried it fresh.

  Shizume stopped suddenly. “There.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  A stall tucked between two stone pillars, run by a woman with silver-streaked hair and quick hands.

  Taren squinted. “Is she the one that yelled at you last week?”

  “No,” Shizume said. “That one is dead.”

  Taren froze. Shizume blinked once.

  “…I mean the business is dead,” she corrected flatly.

  Taren exhaled. “You cannot pause in the middle of that sentence.”

  Raizō adjusted his cloak. “Let’s go.”

  Shizume stepped toward the stall, just as someone shoulder-checked her hard. She reacted instantly. Her hand shot toward her blade but stopped. Her fingers curled into an empty fist instead of reaching steel. She didn’t strike. She didn’t cut. She didn’t even shove the man back. She simply caught her balance, exhaled, and let him pass. Exactly the way Raizō had done the day before. The realization hit her so hard her stomach tightened. The man never looked back. He blended into the crowd, oblivious.

  Taren blinked. “You didn’t stab him.”

  Shizume glared. “Why would I stab him?”

  “Well, normally—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence.”

  Taren raised his hands. “I’m just saying you handled that almost exactly like Raizō does.”

  Shizume’s face heated, not from the suns.

  “I didn’t do anything like him.”

  Raizō spoke without turning. “You did.”

  Her pulse jumped. But Raizō didn’t look judgmental. He said it like an observation. A fact. That made it worse. She tightened her jaw, walked ahead, and pretended the moment meant nothing. Inside the apothecary stall, the heat settled under the awning in dense layers. Glass bottles lined the shaded shelves, filled with crushed herbs and liquids of varying colors. A single fan on the back wall spun lazily, pushing warm air around the space but doing little else.

  Taren leaned against the counter. “Please tell me you have the good stuff.”

  The apothecary raised an eyebrow. “I have many ‘good stuffs.’ Which one keeps you alive?”

  Shizume answered with a brief gesture toward the shelf behind her. “That one.”

  The woman smiled. “Ah, yes. The bitter one.”

  Taren groaned. “Why do the ones that work always taste like suffering?”

  Shizume folded her arms. “Because you complain too much.”

  “I complain the perfect amount.”

  Raizō paid for the medicine. “Let’s get out of the heat.”

  Shizume followed without hesitation, again matching his step, again stopping herself when she caught it. The suns beat down harder as they returned to the main road. Heat shimmered above the cobblestones; voices blurred into a constant background drone. The city felt alive in a suffocating way, every breath heavy and warm. They moved toward the shadowed side of the street where the buildings leaned inward. Taren looked relieved to step into the shade.

  “Never thought I’d be grateful for a wall trying to fall on me,” he said.

  Raizō allowed a small breath of amusement. “The heat is worse today.”

  “It’s always worse,” Shizume replied.

  “That’s not true,” Taren said. “Sometimes it’s aggressively worse.”

  Shizume didn’t admit it, but he wasn’t wrong.

  As they continued, a minor scuffle broke out ahead, two vendors arguing loudly over whose stall had rights to a stretch of shade. A small crowd gathered but kept their distance, letting the confrontation burn itself out. Neither Raizō nor Shizume moved toward it. The difference was subtle. The day before, she would have tensed. Today, she assessed the angle, posture, tension, and saw no threat. Just irritation. Just noise. She walked on. Raizō noticed.

  His voice came quietly beside her. “Good call.”

  Shizume froze for a fraction of a second.

  Good call.

  Recognition, not praise, but acknowledgment. She swallowed and kept walking.

  Taren fell into step behind them. “Look at you two. You move like you’re sharing a brain.”

  Shizume snapped, “We are not.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  Raizō kept walking, but Shizume saw his shoulders shift slightly, the smallest hint of amusement. She looked away quickly. They reached a quieter district where the roads widened and the noise dipped. The shade was better here, cast by taller structures and tighter alleys. A faint breeze slipped between buildings.

  Taren sighed dramatically. “Oh, thank the suns, I can breathe again.”

  “You’re dramatic,” Shizume said.

  “I’m heat sensitive.”

  “You grew up in the Wildlands. You should be used to heat.”

  “Exactly. I’m supposed to be used to normal heat. This isn’t normal heat. This is punishment.”

  Shizume almost smiled. Almost. Raizō slowed slightly, signaling them to take a break under an angled awning. They sat for a bit. Taren slumped against a crate, drinking water slowly. Shizume leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the street out of habit. Raizō remained standing, his breathing steady.

  Taren glanced between them. “You two are getting weirdly similar.”

  Shizume glared. “Stop saying that.”

  “It’s true. You walk like him. You look around like him. Pretty soon you’re going to start brooding like him.”

  Raizō: “…I don’t brood.”

  Shizume: “…I don’t copy him.”

  Taren grinned. “Denial’s a disease, and I think both of you caught it.”

  Shizume exhaled sharply and pushed off the wall. “Are we done resting?”

  Raizō nodded. “Yes. Let’s head back.”

  Taren stood with a groan. “I’m dying.”

  “You’re fine,” Shizume said.

  “I’m dying a little.”

  “You’ll live.”

  She didn’t say it warmly. But she said it.

  Taren blinked. Then smiled. “You’re starting to care.”

  “I’m starting to want you quiet.”

  Raizō walked past them. “Let’s go.”

  On the way back, the streets had shifted tone again, the hottest part of the day passing, leaving the air thick but less blinding. People moved with renewed activity, preparing for evening. Raizō walked ahead. Taren drifted between them, humming off-key. Shizume followed one step behind Raizō. Matching his pace, his pace, awareness. She didn't try to. But because something about walking with them had become… familiar. Uncomfortably familiar. When they reached the inn, Raizō held the door open without thinking. Taren ducked inside. Shizume paused. Just long enough to recognize the pattern. Just long enough to feel the weight of her own hesitation. Then she stepped inside after them. Again. As if it were natural. As if it were dangerous. As if she couldn’t seem to stop. And that realization followed her all the way up the stairs and into the dim coolness of her room, a flicker of unease settling quietly beneath her ribs.