Chapter Five

I glance over at the gardener who’d been the harbinger of my misfortune, my humiliation intensifying at the teasing glint in his eyes. “What do you know?” I snap.

One well-formed shoulder lifts in an indolent shrug. “I suppose I know my place here. The real question is do you, Lady Suraya Saab of House Aldebaran?”

The truth stings, but he’s not wrong. This is the royal courtyard, not the inn in Coban; I’d behaved like a boorish country bumpkin, and I know my behavior will be nothing but fodder for juicy gossip. I force back a rush of self-pity as the man standing beside me hands me the now dusty headdress that Laleh had crafted so carefully.

“Thank you,”

I mutter, and then glance around, still feeling the press of many eyes, not just from the women but from the guards. The way they’d reacted earlier, as if I were running to attack the queen. Me. “Are there so many guards because of the Dahaka and what happened yesterday?”

I blurt out.

Face inscrutable, he follows my gaze. “Yes. Or so I’ve heard.”

“They thought I was a threat?” I ask.

“Well, you were running hell-bent toward our esteemed sovereign,”

he replies, putting his hands into his pockets and lifting his brows.

“I was only trying to get my veil!”

He purses his lips with solemn gravitas. “With the most murderous look on your face. Even I was scared for my life.”

Beyond irritated, I glower at him. “You should be the court jester.”

His eyes gleam with humor. “Goals!”

The amusement is tempered slightly by the barest hint of empathy in their warm golden-brown depths. Then I curse myself for noticing any emotion in those pretty gold-flecked eyes in the first place. Or that they’re pretty at all. In fact, they looked like gold-flecked mud. Mud-flecked mud, even.

Yes, that’s much better.

My gaze drifts down the rest of his face, taking in the untidy sable scruff on his hard jaw, a slightly hooked nose, and the lushest lips I’ve ever seen on a man. It’s just my luck that this nosy palace worker is more attractive than any of the men in Coban. Unfairly so.

“The queen doesn’t like you,”

he says idly.

“Thank you for enlightening me,”

I lash out. “Don’t you have work to do? A tree to trim or something?”

“Don’t worry,”

he says with a crooked smile. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

“Not even you?”

“Especially me.”

I frown at the strange answer. “Why?”

“I expect because I’m not very good with my tree-trimming duties.”

Maybe it’s his sardonic answer or the hint of a smirk on his lips, but I get the sudden sense that I’m the butt of some unspecified joke that amuses him greatly. My simmering anger finds an easy target. “Then perhaps you should focus on doing your job instead of pretending to fall off walls and ogling people.”

“Is that so?”

he says, lips parting into a fuller smile and drawing my attention to his slightly crooked white front teeth. I ignore the fact that I find the imperfection appealing, as well as the appearance of a deep dimple in his left cheek that gives him a boyish look, though he’s older than me for sure. Maybe late twenties. “What if I like ogling people?”

he says, eyes sparkling with mirth, most certainly at my expense.

“There are better ways to entertain yourself.”

“I don’t know about that. I like to imagine things about the people I see.”

Unable to resist, I point to one of the women who had laughed at me earlier. “What do you imagine about her?”

An obscenely thick fringe of sooty eyelashes sweeps down as he squints in her direction, and I have a moment of pure envy, wishing mine were half as long. “House of Regulus. She’s the daughter of a powerful alderman and a doctor. She, too, has an aptitude for medicine, but wants more than the life of her parents. She dreams of running away and being rescued by a handsome prince.”

“That’s original.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You know, not every woman wants to be rescued by some prince. Perhaps she’ll rescue herself.”

The gardener nods, clasping his hands behind his back as if we’re having a scintillating debate. “I thought every girl dreamed of being rescued by a prince.”

“Maybe when they’re five. As they get older, they learn that men—gardeners and princes alike—are arrogant, self-absorbed, and overrated.”

His eyes settle on me, an enigmatic expression flicking across that stupidly handsome face. “Good to know.”

“And what do you imagine when you look at me?”

The question falls from my lips before I can stop it, and I immediately want to kick myself.

The gardener studies me with such obvious relish at the opening I’ve given him that I almost groan. He strokes his scruffy chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I see someone who has never left her home before.”

My mouth tightens, a biting retort at the ready, but the man continues, his mischievous gaze sliding to my gloveless fingers. Intrigue flares in his eyes for a brief moment, and I turn my wrist to hide the small burn scars from my kiln, the freshest of them still raised and red. “The daughter of a blacksmith or a weapons maker. I see a strong spirit and liking for honest hard work. You wear your heart on your sleeve and you don’t trust easily. You aim to please, but I also see fire and an impetuous will.”

Taken aback, I can’t decide whether he means to be insulting. The corner of his mouth tips up, and I gather that he’s baiting me. I arch an eyebrow and keep my tone even. “You see all that from looking at me?”

“You asked. So, was I right?”

“You couldn’t be further from the truth. My father owns an inn in Coban—the finest inn in all of Coban, in fact. My heart is in my body where it belongs, I don’t trust strangers, and I aspire only to please myself.”

I frown, oddly irritated at the succinct and too-close-to-home summary. “You should stick to tree trimming. People don’t like being stared at. Or judged.”

“Including you?”

“Especially me,”

I say, mocking his previous words.

At that, the humor leaches from his eyes. “You should get used to it. Many people, including our esteemed crown prince, will be staring at you. You are, after all, only here for his viewing pleasure.”

Outraged at his deprecating tone, I open my mouth and shut it just as quickly. I don’t want to give the crowd in the courtyard any more reason to notice me and think me a fool, and arguing with this stranger of no importance is the perfect way to do that. I spin on my heel and make my way back toward the palace entrance, where veiled handmaidens wait to greet the arriving guests.

I feel the infuriating gardener’s gaze boring into my back, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But the people in the courtyard part for me like I have the Droonish plague, and I have to force myself to keep my chin high, my eyes staring straight ahead—so much so that I nearly crash into a petite girl. “Sorry,”

I mutter as my heart sinks further. Ashes below, can’t I do anything right in this city?

“Are you all right?”

she asks in a sweet voice, one that is surprisingly sincere.

I don’t even try to pretend or act like I’m above it all now. My shoulders slump. “Not really, no.”

Sincere, sparkling dark eyes in a creamy, heart-shaped face meet mine. She is tiny, barely coming to my chin—and I’m not exactly willowy. Her hair is black and sleek, falling in a glossy sheet down to her back, and she’s garbed in a plain but finely made gray traveling dress. She’s about my age, so she, too, must be one of the chosen.

“I’m Clem Jinn,”

she introduces herself, surprising me further. “Well, Clementine, but no one calls me that. From Veniar, House Antares.”

“Antares?”

I can’t help it, my eyes widen. I know size doesn’t matter, but she barely has any muscle on her slender frame. Usually anyone from that house looks like they can lift a carriage with their pinkie finger. I’d have pegged her as an artist from House Fomalhaut or a scholar from Regulus.

She laughs at my expression and shrugs. “I get that a lot. I’m stronger than I look, but honestly, I’m a pacifist at heart. Being invited here is”—she grimaces and deepens her voice to a mocking tone—“‘one last chance for me to bring honor to the family name . . . or else.’”

A derisive noise leaves her.

“I’m Suraya Saab from—”

“House Aldebaran,”

she finishes, making me wince at the fact that everyone here now knows who I am. “Well met.”

Clem smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

I say. “I’m practically a leper at this point. It’s not going to do you any favors being seen with me.”

She scrunches her button nose. “If I were to judge everyone on every misstep they made, I’d miss out on knowing some wonderful people.”

I send her a sidelong look and a small smile at the unexpected kindness. “That’s much too logical from someone entering a competition to win a prince’s hand.”

“It’s my greatest flaw,”

she says, and pats me on the arm. “But us iconoclasts need to stick together.”

“Iconoclasts? Are you sure you’re not from House Regulus?”

I tease. “Brain over brawn for the win!”

Clem laughs. “Tell that to my father during our nightly who-can-eat-the-most-eggs-to-bulk-up contest.”

She shoots me an over-the-top pleading look. “Please say you don’t have an aversion to books.”

“I love them,” I say.

Her eyes brighten with hope. “Romance?”

“No better genre.”

“Berserkers or ancient gods?” she asks.

I think for a second. “The first. Ancient gods sound older than dirt.”

I swear I hear an amused grunt at my words, but when I glance around, Clem isn’t laughing, and there’s no one else near us. Great, now I’m imagining sounds too!

She grins and bumps her shoulder into mine. “I knew we were going to be kindred spirits the second I saw you sprinting across that courtyard.”

Clem glances at the veil gripped in my fingers. “Lovely headpiece, by the way.”

“My best friend, Laleh, made it for me.”

Surreptitiously, I look around for the unpleasant, wiseacre gardener, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“See you in there?”

Clem says as a group of handmaidens approaches us.

“Sure. I’ll be the one by herself, most likely near the food.”

She laughs. “I’ve heard the palace library is to die for. Maybe we can sneak out and find it later?”

“I’d love that,”

I say, perking up considerably as she’s ushered away.

Maybe things might not be so bad here after all.

But when my own palace attendants won’t meet my eyes, I am harshly reminded that my hullabaloo with the queen might have shamed them as well. And now, they’re stuck with me . . . the uncouth desert dweller who has drawn the scathing derision of Queen Morvarid.

Clem might be a refreshing exception, but she won’t be the rule. I’d do well to remember that.

* * *

Inside my chamber, the handmaidens bow and move in unison to undress me in silence, one unfastening my dusty traveling garments while the other readies a fresh bath in the adjoining bathing room. Once I hear the water, I can’t get out of my clothes fast enough.

The heavenly soak does wonders to take the edge off my ragged emotions, and the brief respite seems to have warmed the tempers of the women as well. The smaller of the two women offers a tiny smile beneath her veil as she lays one of Laleh’s coordinated ensembles across the massive bed.

“Beautiful,”

she says, pointing to one of the more risqué garments of Laleh’s own design: a brilliant fitted teal top with intricate beadwork and meticulously pleated, scandalously sheer bottoms. So this is the one Laleh had said to wear if I wanted my life to change.

Too bad I can’t get a magical do-over of the last hour.

Without much enthusiasm, I point to a demure ivory shift with a stomacher made of silver disks and a matching tailored jacket instead. It’s the plainest thing I brought. I pull on the accompanying loose silk skirts and slip my feet into the cushioned silver slippers. I needn’t have worried about being able to apply any face paint, as the two women seem more than capable of lining my eyes with kohl and patting shimmery powder on my cheeks.

They wind my hair into intricate braids flat along the sides of my scalp to a high ponytail falling into a mass of curls, then fasten a silver headpiece at my crown whose tiny seed pearls cascade down to my brows. Even those annoying colorless bits have been cleverly concealed.

I look much more confident than I feel.

Flaunt it like you’ve got it is one of Laleh’s favorite mantras.

Though whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I lost that back in the courtyard.

When I arrive downstairs, the receiving hall is crowded with all manner of ladies, though everyone appears to be around the same age. It’s hard to tell, though, with all the fancy headdresses and face paint. The prince himself is twenty-eight. Why he hasn’t married yet is anyone’s guess.

With a sigh, I hopefully scan the crowd for Clem, but I don’t see her, and within moments, we are all shepherded toward the lavish throne room to be presented one by one to the king, the queen, and Crown Prince Javed. Holding my breath, I enter as the royal viceroy, a stout man with a friendly smile—one of the only friendly smiles I have seen, in fact—announces me.

“Lady Suraya Saab of House Aldebaran.”

If Queen Morvarid remembers me from the courtyard, she gives no indication of it . . . or perhaps I have sunk well and truly beyond redemption. Her body and her bearing are equally stony, the complete opposite of the frailness of her husband sitting beside her. I wonder if their son’s engagement is his idea or hers, given the lung disease that has eaten away at King Zarek over the last handful of years. He looks like a walking corpse. I curtsy, making the required formal greetings to them both, and then am presented to the prince.

Laleh was certainly not wrong—Prince Javed is indeed capable of melting all female undergarments in a ten-mile radius. His pale blue eyes are hypnotic against his rich brown skin, set like twin aquamarines in a handsome, aristocratic face. His dark hair is smartly trimmed, a fitted jacket tailored to perfection over a pair of broad, muscular shoulders. Something in his refined features makes me think of the gardener from the courtyard, the only other man I’ve met here, not that there’s any comparison between the two, of course. This is the crown prince, not some lackey.

“Your Highness,”

I manage after an awkward pause. I drop into a graceless curtsy with legs that feel as sturdy as toothpicks.

“Lady Suraya,”

he greets me. His voice is deep and resonant as he steps forward to take my hand in his.

My entire body tenses as alternating bands of cold and hot envelope my spine, the feeling of being in danger intensifying. My father’s warnings blare through my brain. I wasn’t supposed to touch anyone . . . but this is the prince.

Flustered beyond belief, I want to yank my hand away, but I can only stare at him in stupefied silence when he turns it over to examine my palm.

“How is Coban these days?” he asks.

“H-hot.”

His bare thumb strokes the heart of my palm, and for an instant, I remember the touch of the crone and recoil without meaning to, nearly snatching my fingers away. Horrified, I freeze in place, hoping he won’t take the reaction as an insult. The prince’s gaze lingers on my face, and something in those magnetic eyes chills me for a moment. But then his mother makes an impatient noise, and his gaze moves past me, to the next woman in line.

Exhaling in relief at the dismissal, I take the waiting arm of an attendant, wanting nothing more than to lose myself among the other ladies. But it’s clear I am a pariah. They all avoid me as though I’m pestilence personified, without bothering to mask their scorn. Or their pity.

I’ve sidled to the corner of the room when the viceroy silences the crowd and announces that the queen wishes to say a few words. I feel her stare lash toward me like the bite of an arctic wind and instantly try to make myself smaller, shifting farther behind a marble pillar. Will she single me out? Condone my behavior? Mark me as the icon of uncouth vulgarity?

“What in the realms are you doing?”

a low voice asks, and I jump. A curious Clem, radiant in a shimmering pale pink gown that looks like a thousand petals sewn together, is peering around the pillar at me.

“Hiding,”

I confess. “The queen looks like she might behead me for fun.”

“That’s just her,”

Clem whispers. “Serious resting b—”

“Chosen, welcome to Kaldari.”

“—itch face.”

The entire room falls instantly silent, including Clem, who swallows the last part of her sentence with a yelp. The urge to giggle at her unrepentant smirk makes my nose burn, but I smash my lips together.

Queen Morvarid addresses the crowd in those same clipped, aristocratic tones from the courtyard, a deceptively soft smile touching her mouth. “You special few have been invited here as contenders for my son’s hand, and he will select his bride by the end of our celebrations.”

Excited squeals follow her announcement. “But first, you must demonstrate that you are also up to the task.”

The queen’s benevolent smile grows teeth. “Can you be the princess my son needs? Will you serve your future king without question? Kneel to the crown and pledge your blood, body, and soul?”

Sands, I’m going to fucking gag. I notice the besotted expressions of the women beside me. Are they actually buying this horseshit? Prince Javed should be proving himself to us, not the reverse. I scoff quietly, and Clem shoots me a droll expression so like Laleh’s that a bolt of homesickness hits me.

“Some of you will not make it past the first round of the festivities,”

the queen continues with a deliberate arch of a manicured eyebrow.

First round? Clem and I exchange a baffled look.

“There are key trials at each stage of the celebrations, some small, some large, to determine the caliber of the crown prince’s future queen. Beauty, elegance, cleverness, resilience, power.”

She pauses and cants her chin. “May the gods deliver the worthy.”

Women around me are clapping and whispering, but I only feel alarm spreading like an oil slick. Had she said gods or odds? Queen Morvarid wouldn’t be so blasphemous in her own court, would she? May the odds deliver the worthy—that’s what she’d declared.

Without further fanfare, we’re herded from the throne room to a wide hall where several liveried servants wait in four neat rows, holding the pennant flags and colors of each house: burgundy for Regulus, dark gray for Antares, navy blue for Fomalhaut, and forest green for Aldebaran. More armed imperial guards line the perimeter of the space, which, after the incident in the courtyard, seems logical now. Maybe any one of the women here could be behind an assassination plot. The Dahaka had already tried once—what’s to stop them from doing so again? It would be a perfect time to make a move against the crown with so many guests in the palace.

I wonder what Clem thinks of the rebellion, but I suppose that’s too personal—or dangerous—of a thing to ask someone you just met.

“Sorting by house?”

she scoffs. “How unoriginal.”

“Maybe it’s just efficient to organize the herd,”

I say. “What do you think this is for?”

“I guess we will see,”

Clem says as she moves toward the gray pennant. “Save me a seat on the other side!”

Before I can answer, I’m steered toward the line for the House of Aldebaran. From what I can discern, it looks as though each woman is being subjected to a short interrogation or interview. Laughter bubbles into my throat. Maybe they’re curious about our dietary requirements or want to determine our fine dining skills.

If there are forks, work your way in from the outer end.

Laleh’s courtly advice makes me chuckle. Sands, I miss her so much.

I move past Fatima standing in the Antares line and Parvi in Fomalhaut, but both look past me, which makes my throat tight even though they were so cold in the carriage. Not like we all didn’t attend grammar school together for years in Coban or their families don’t eat weekly at the Saab Inn. I could be invisible for all their notice. But I keep my head high. I might not be the most beautiful woman here or the most battle hardened, but I do have some pride.

I was chosen, same as them.

As I wait for my turn, I notice some of the girls being welcomed into the next hall, while others are removed rather forcibly by the waiting guards, ushered through a set of side doors. At one point, I think I hear muffled screams echo into the chamber. I crane my neck toward the sound but can spot nothing. And none of the servants or guards seem perturbed.

We surge forward, and I peer over to the Antares line to see Clem reading something before giving an answer. She’s expressionless when she’s approached by two grim-faced guards, though her eyes flick to mine, conveying encouragement, of all things. My stomach dives as she’s efficiently expelled from the room. I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s been cut.

When it’s my turn to speak to the liveried attendant, I’m handed a sealed scroll.

“Answer correctly and you may enter the dining room,”

the attendant intones. “This is your first challenge.”

Eyes narrowing, I take the ornate scroll and unwind it to reveal a . . . riddle.

Well, this is unexpected. Maybe the crown prince doesn’t want a wife with a walnut brain after all. Or maybe this is an intricate trap in the guise of a simple riddle, some devious test of the queen’s. But what? Riddles are children’s games, and a challenge like this seems almost deceptively infantile.

Then again, it had stumped Clem. I focus my attention on the scroll.

It is soundless, unseen, tasteless, untouchable, and odorless. It is present at the start and appears after the close. It delves into hollow spaces, burrows below mountains, and cradles the moon and the stars. It destroys joy, breaks realms.

A trickle of terror winds through me—what are the odds I would get such a riddle? Heart pounding, I read it again for good measure, but my fear only deepens. I can’t help but think of the crone’s premonition: where it walks, death follows.

I jump as the brunette from Antares who’d laughed at me in the courtyard cries out. She’s being dragged away, pleading for another chance.

Perhaps I should fail on purpose, and then I’ll get sent home as well. If that’s where they’re going—it sounds like failure means more than missing dinner in the dining room. My belly rumbles hard in protest.

“What happens to those women who don’t answer the riddle correctly?” I ask.

“They do not eat,”

the attendant says.

I frown. “But where do they go? Back to their rooms? Back to their homes? To the dungeons?”

His eyes flicker on the last. “Your answer, my lady.”

My stomach gives another obnoxious growl as if daring me to fail. Starvation as a punishment seems unnecessarily cruel, but then again, this is a competition, and no one but Clem gave a shit about me in that courtyard. If this is the way to get fed, I’m going to eat.

I close my eyes and tune out the other people in the room, pulling apart the riddle in my brain. It is soundless, unseen, tasteless, untouchable, and odorless. It is present at the start and appears after the close. It delves into hollow spaces, burrows below mountains, and cradles the moon and the stars. It destroys joy, breaks realms.

Is death the answer?

I open my mouth, the reply on the tip of my tongue, and snap my lips shut. Death fits all the boxes except one: it isn’t present at the start. Birth is. But what’s the one thing that’s even more insidious than death? I suppress a shiver, recalling the multilayered voice in the alley behind the Saab Inn when I’d been trying to convince myself I wasn’t afraid . . .

“Darkness,”

I say. But my voice is unsteady.

The servant bows and signals for my attendant, who resumes his place to escort me into the dining room. Relief fills me, though dread also wriggles like sandworms in my veins.

Everything is not as it seems here, and I have to remind myself of that . . . just like my father had warned.

* * *

Dinner is an extravagant affair. Beautifully decorated round tables dot the opulent banquet hall, while the royal family sits on a raised dais at the far end of the room. I’ve been relegated to a distant side table, which suits me fine. The farther away, the better. Some of my companions look crestfallen at our location, but I’ve garnered enough notice from the royal family today to last me a lifetime. I smile at the women flanking me, but neither of them seems inclined to reciprocate, so I resign myself to eating my meal in silence.

As expected, the food is divine: trenches of thick soups, herb-infused savory goat and lamb stews, salted rice, and steaming flatbread stuffed with spiced potatoes. Mounds of ripe apricots, eggplant, and sweet dates crowd the tabletop. I savor each succulent morsel, committing the flavors to memory so that I can share them with Amma. She would love this, even though in my humble opinion, the palace cooks don’t hold a candle to her. I lick the tips of my fingers behind my napkin, sighing with exquisite pleasure at the lingering taste of saffron and cardamom.

“This is delicious,”

I remark to no one in particular, and reach for more. I don’t care that my stomach is filled to bursting or that it’s most likely rude to eat second helpings. I’ve already embarrassed myself, so I might as well enjoy the little that’s left of my stay. For someone who adores good food as much as I do, this is a more than worthy consolation prize.

As I lift the next bite to my lips, I feel the weight of someone staring at me. I look up, only to catch the familiar, amused gaze of the aggravating gardener once more. Only he is not perched indolently atop a garden wall. Instead, my vexing nemesis is seated at the end of the royal table nearest my side of the room.

My enjoyment dies a slow, agonizing death.

Because that’s the royal table.

My fingers freeze halfway between my plate and my mouth. A smile tugs on the corners of his lips at my justifiably horrified expression. Jaw agape, I scan the faces at his table before returning to him, but there’s no escaping my sudden, alarming, and much-too-late conclusion about who he must be: Prince Roshan Acharia, the king’s second son, rumored to be illegitimate and the child of his father’s mistress. Despite being born on the wrong side of the blanket, he’s still a member of the royal family, hence his presence at court.

He’s not wearing simple brown and navy clothes now. No, the shameless, posturing jackass is dressed in rich ceremonial garments, looking every inch like the royal he is. And so obviously not a gardener.

Sands on fucking fire.

I resist the urge to slide beneath the tablecloth. My neck grows hot at the memory of our conversation, of my utter insolence. As if he can read my thoughts, Prince Roshan tips his goblet toward me. I wrench my eyes away. He’d been so maddening that it hadn’t even occurred to me he’d be anyone other than a grunt working in the palace. And what in the fiery pits of Droon was he doing on top of that wall anyway? He could have snapped his precious royal neck, and what a tragedy that would have been!

In the unforgiving glare of hindsight, I also belatedly understand that all the other people in the courtyard, especially the palace guards, had probably been watching him as well as me. If I truly had been an assassin, I could have taken out one of the royal family with ease. Internally, I curse myself with every foul word I know and push my plate aside, unable to enjoy the sumptuous meal any longer.

I desperately want to flee. But drawing more notice by leaving before the royal family does would not be wise. So, I keep my eyes focused on the table despite feeling the pressure of the prince’s stare a few times over the remaining courses. By the time dessert comes, including one of my favorites—ginger-spiced hard fried dough that I can barely taste—I feel like screaming.

Finally, the king departs, signaling that we are free to go. I’m one of the first to sneak past the attendants.

I consider trying to find Clem but discard the idea. I’d only get hopelessly lost and bumble into some other embarrassing situation. In despair, I end up retreating to the safety and solitude of my chamber, staying there for the duration of the evening after dismissing my horrified handmaids. They’re adamant that I’m making an egregious faux pas, but I’m positive no one will notice my absence.

I’m not usually a coward. But insulting not one but technically three members of the Imperial House makes me less resilient than usual. Lying back on the satiny bedding, I close my eyes and wish that Laleh were here with me. She’d know what to do. In all honesty, she’d probably tell me not to be a quitter.

Stop being such a baby, she’d scold. So what that you chased a headpiece? And so what that you were rude to the obnoxious son of the king? He was rude to you. Don’t let him or anyone else stop you from having the time of your life. Go have your adventure. Get lost in the palace forge. Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that why you’re there?

Invisible Laleh makes an excellent point.

I’m in Kaldari, the sandsdamned capital city. A place I’ve dreamed of for years. And instead of exploring and making the most of the occasion, I’m holed up in my room with my head buried in my pillows like a sad wallflower.

I sigh and make myself a promise. Tomorrow is another day, and one I won’t squander.