7

A STREET SHADOW

The early hour of the phase envelopes the streets of Kithe in a cosy calm.

Humans, owned by the town, perch on the high steps of ladders to feed the flames in the street lanterns; vendors unhook their stalls from their carriages; servants sweep bristled brooms along the roads.

The bitter, cinnamon fragrance of brewing coffees in cauldrons snakes through the air, thickened by the salt of the waters rushing through the canals, and sharpened by the stench of hot metal that comes from the narrower lanes, down which the blacksmiths start their Warmth.

Besides the early vendors and the human townkeepers, three fae walk the main street. One male carries a wicker basket of soiled clothes in the direction of the nearest canal. A halfling girl with a lazy run smacks her way down the street, holding the phase’s parchment of news and gossips.

And then there is the male who stalks down the middle of the road. His pointed chin is raised with the same self-importance as the lift of his fine nose, his stride confident.

His auburn hair is fastened to the crown of his head in a ribboned roll, not unlike the glazed swirl buns from Baker’s Maid in the heart of town. Those buns sell out before the first hour of the Warmth is gone.

But this male doesn’t make for Baker’s Maid.

A scoff catches in his throat, a phlegmy sound of annoyance, as he staggers around the rear of a moody kelpie. The steed scrapes its back hoof over the road, a wretched screech that causes the vendor to turn and hiss a warning at the creature.

The auburn-haired male snaps, “Control your beast,” before he stalks off-road for the mouth of a darkly shadowed lane.

As he reaches the lane, the human on the ladder above wobbles—and the ladder skids back.

The male staggers—and his boot smacks into a pile of fresh kelpie manure. He goes rigid. Hands fist at his sides, then, slowly, he turns a twisted, ugly sneer up at the pale-faced human who clings to the unsteady ladder.

His face twists, ugly, and he turns it on the human. “These boots cost more than your life.”

The litalf boots out at the ladder.

It falls. And the human with it.

Before the human can even hit the road and break some bones on landing, the male has sidestepped to the lane’s wall, muttering curses under his breath.

There, he hikes his leg to inspect the smooth, polished sole of his boot. Carefully, he threads out a pinkie-sized knife from the ankle, then uses it to scrape off the manure around the edges of the sole.

Gold thread weaves through the seams of the white leather boots. The unicorn leather would fall apart with any thread weaker than spindled gold.

He drops his boot to the damp stone ground, then pushes from the wall.

He moves onwards, heading up the lane to the path that will take him to Comlar—all the while, the screams of the fallen human split the air.

The male is unwavering in his brisk pace. And entirely unaware of the crouched, silent silhouette on the roof, shadowing him.