Like a living wave, the crowd ebbed and flowed along the street, each step brisk with purpose as people hurried toward their destinations.

  Wagons rattled by in chaotic bursts, drivers shouting warnings to pedestrians who narrowly dodged their passing wheels.

  Yet, there was a rhythm to the madness—a pattern that kept disaster at bay.

  Müller hadn’t been to the East before, but scenes like this weren’t new to him, and adapting came quickly.

  Before long, he moved like a local, swept along by the press of bodies. Still, his head remained on a swivel, scanning for the well the old man had mentioned. He heard it before he saw it.

  The soft splash of water carried through the air, guiding him further up the street.

  He waited for a wagon to pass before stepping out of the crowd and crossing quickly to the other side.

  The sound grew clearer with each step until he came upon a courtyard just off the street. A polished walkway led up to a stone well at its center. The courtyard was tastefully designed with stone benches placed in pairs, shaded by stalls draped in palm fronds.

  Müller’s gaze swept across the courtyard before he stepped inside.

  Old men dozed in the shade of the benches while the young gathered in a corner, exchanging news and gossip.

  Luckily, the well was unoccupied—the last person to use it passed by Müller, bucket in hand, as she left the courtyard.

  Müller stepped up the walkway to the well and grabbed the lever. A wooden bucket already hung from the hook, so he released the lever, letting the bucket descend into the well.

  He waited until the rope slackened, then turned the lever the other way, hauling the bucket back up.

  Müller unhooked the bucket and fell upon the water, gulping down mouthfuls.

  Once satisfied, he raised his head with a sigh, droplets rolling off his chin. Reaching into his satchel, he withdrew his water pouch and carefully refilled it with what remained.

  With some water still left, he cupped his hands, dipped them into the bucket, and splashed his face, washing away as much dust and sweat as possible. He repeated the motion until the bucket ran dry, then hung it back on the hook before leaving the courtyard.

  Now that his immediate water concerns were solved, Müller stood at the side of the street, thinking through his next steps.

  Should I head to Raha first? Secure it before going anywhere else? He shook his head, his gaze drifting left before he continued down the street. No, that won’t work—Abarran’s Inn comes first.

  He pushed through a group stepping out of a building, ignoring their indignant cries. I’ve already delayed enough. Who knows if she’s even still there?

  Müller followed the old man's instructions upon reaching the fork, turning down the right side and walking until he eventually reached the fountain. There, he searched until he spotted a path leading left. After a quick look around to confirm he was on the right track, he took it, blending into the flow of people and wagons heading down the street.

  It didn’t take long for Müller to notice that traffic along this street was far heavier than the others. Wagons and carriages passed constantly, and the crowds of pedestrians were just as thick.

  Where’s the inn district, anyway? Müller wondered, stopping at a stall to finger a trinket. The old man said it was close—but how close?

  The stallkeeper launched into his pitch as soon as he'd arrived, but Müller raised a hand to cut him off. "Where’s the inn district?"

  The man blinked in confusion. "You’re standing in it. Can’t see any from here, but there’s a few just a short walk away."

  That makes sense, Müller thought, dropping the trinket and turning away. With all the travelers and merchants passing through on their way to Raha, it’s the only logical place for inns. Anything else would be pure folly.

  "So..." the man said, rubbing his hands together. "What do you think of my wares? Does anything here speak to you?"

  Müller glanced down and scoffed, a hand on his blade's hilt as he pointed at a few items. "Cheap... fake..." His finger hovered over the last one. "Stolen."

  With each word, the man edged further back, his legs trembling.

  Müller turned to leave, his words biting as they trailed behind him. "Leave before the guards arrive."

  He walked away, and within moments, the encounter was already forgotten. As he continued down the street, Müller noticed a shift in the crowd. It was no longer just Easterners—now foreigners of all kinds walked the street.

  Stalls grew fewer, revealing the buildings behind them. Large inns stood in neat rows, their signs boldly hung and painted with names meant to catch the eyes of passing travelers.

  I should ask at one of the older inns, Müller thought, keeping his head on a swivel. They’re more likely to know all the others.

  He studied each inn as he passed, but none felt right.

  Eventually, one caught his attention.

  At a glance, it was nothing special: a tidy courtyard bordered by carved wood, a squat building with a canopy and curtains draped over the entrance to fend off the sun. But first glances were often wrong.

  Architecture shifts with the passing cycles: the shape of windows, the type of stone, and the fortune carvings along the walls.

  Details like that can’t be hidden.

  Müller had been in enough towns like this to know the difference between a new face and an old foundation. And this one had stood for cycles.

  He noted those details before stepping into the stone-paved courtyard. The air shifted at once, turning fragrant and fresh as the scents of desert flowers filled the space.

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  A pedestal stood at the courtyard’s center, supporting a large, smooth stone basin. Beside it sat a plain jug on a low stool.

  Müller paused, eyeing the setup. What’s this for?

  He stepped closer and peered into the basin. Water. His gaze flicked to the jug—more water.

  Water... what for? A ritual wash? A courtesy for guests? Müller frowned, then sighed and let it go. Standing around in the sun won't solve anything; it's better to head inside.

  He climbed the short flight of steps, brushed aside the thickly woven entrance curtain, and disappeared into the building.

  The street's clamor fell away, and cool air enveloped him as he stepped inside, soothing his sun-scorched skin. Müller nearly moaned with relief. He tugged off his ghutra and threw his head back, sweat beading and sliding down his face.

  “Did the guest miss the drawn curtain?” a voice asked, low and clipped.

  Müller’s head snapped forward.

  A low counter stood ahead, and behind it lounged a young girl, a wooden ledger open before her, the end of a reed pen resting between her teeth.

  She glanced up, eyes locking onto him.

  Müller’s gaze drifted across the room—whitewashed walls, a domed ceiling, a shelf lining the right wall, and a wide archway behind the counter—before settling back on the girl. "What do you mean, lass?"

  Her eyes narrowed as she scanned him from head to toe, a flicker of disdain crossing her face. With a sigh, she drummed her fingers on the counter. "Tunic, hose—a traveler. Of course."

  Müller returned the favor, his gaze sweeping over her. She wore a linen robe dyed pale sand, its hem brushing her ankles. Along her sleeves ran a wave-like embroidery, nothing too elaborate, but enough to suggest modest prestige.

  A deep indigo sash cinched her waist, while a matching scarf, pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, covered her hair and framed her face. A few dark curls had escaped, clinging to her sweat-dampened temples. From her belt hung a leather cord, its keys jingling softly whenever she shifted.

  His eyes flicked back to hers. "Hmm... interesting service."

  The girl straightened her back and offered Müller a polite smile—neither familiar nor distant, the careful balance of someone trained to handle guests.

  "I'm sorry, dear guest. I would have welcomed you properly, but I can see from the dust on your face and the dirt on your hands that you didn’t wash at the basin outside. Perhaps you weren’t aware, but it’s a basic courtesy around here."

  She gestured toward the entrance with a tilt of her chin before turning back to her tablet. "And in any case, the drawn curtains mean we’re fully occupied. We aren’t taking any more guests."

  "There’s no issue, then." Müller stepped to the counter, resting an elbow on it. "I’m not here for a room—I need information."

  Her eyes flicked up, scanning him cautiously. "Information?"

  Müller leaned in just a touch. "The location of a particular inn."

  Her gaze drifted, focus sliding inward. Then, a smile curled at the corner of her mouth. "You look half-dead from the heat. Let me fetch you something to eat and drink."

  Müller blinked, straightening. "That’s not necessary—"

  "No, no, I insist." She was already turning away.

  Without waiting for his reply, the girl disappeared through the archway, stepping into the inn’s inner courtyard. From where Müller stood, he could hear low murmurs and bursts of laughter drifting through the opening. Curious, he shifted to the side and glanced in. Guests lounged at low tables beneath fluttering awnings, the air alive with the murmur of gossip, idle conversation, and the occasional clink and clatter of cups and cutlery. The smell of hot, steaming bread and roasting meat drifted from within, stirring a hungry rumble in Müller’s stomach.

  As if summoned by the growl, the girl appeared in the archway, a tray balanced in her hands. One after the other, she placed bowls and a porcelain cup on the counter.

  Müller eyed the spread warily. "What’s this?"

  Without pause, the girl pointed to each dish in turn. "Lamb stew, hard bread, pickled vegetables, spiced roast meat—and finally, baklava, a honeyed sweet."

  Müller pushed away from the counter. "What’s this going to cost me? Fifteen silver? I don’t have that kind of coin!"

  "Nineteen, actually," the girl said, her voice quite cheerful. Her eyes flicked to his satchel. "Your clothes might be worn and common, but that satchel—that’s something else. Excellent quality. If you’re short on silver, you could pay with that."

  Müller’s pupils sharpened, his gaze drilling into hers. "I could just walk out."

  "Then walk." Her smile only widened. "As I already mentioned, we don't have any available rooms."

  Their eyes locked—a silent duel played out between them.

  The girl lifted her chin, hands folded neatly in front of her waist.

  Müller exhaled deeply and swore, stepping back to the counter. "The information—after I eat?"

  She nodded, a smirk widening her face as she picked up the tray.

  Müller grabbed the bowl of stew, inhaling deeply, eyes momentarily shutting in appreciation of its rich aroma.

  A bell suddenly rang. The girl turned toward the archway. "A guest." Without hesitation, she strode away, her steps brisk yet controlled.

  "Wait!" Müller called. He glanced around, then back at her. "Where can I sit?"

  "Sit?" She turned, a saccharine smile gracing her lips. "That privilege is reserved for guests of this establishment. And since you are not one of them, you get no seat." She nodded toward the counter. "Eat there. Or, if you'd prefer, the dusty ground is always an option."

  Müller's eyes narrowed, but she only tapped her chin in mock contemplation.

  "Oh, right—something to quench your thirst." Her eyes glinted with satisfaction. "I’ll bring you something. Though that will bring your total to twenty silver."

  With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared through the archway, a smug smile lingering.

  Müller watched her go, staring daggers into her back. He sighed and looked down at the food.

  "No utensils," he muttered, shrugging off his satchel and placing it on the counter. "That wench's attitude was amusing at first. Now it's just getting on my nerves."

  He got to work on the meal, and before long, only the lamb stew remained—half-full.

  The girl reappeared as he raised the bowl to his lips, gulping down the broth in steady mouthfuls. Without a word, she set down a platter of dates and slammed a wooden flagon onto the counter.

  Müller exhaled a steaming breath, licking the last traces of broth from his lips. He placed the bowl down, then turned to her.

  "I'm finished. Now, hold up your end."

  She tapped the rim of the porcelain cup. "Won't you drink first, dear customer? Or maybe try the dates? Those aren’t cheap, you know. I would charge you, but unfortunately, they’re complimentary."

  Müller clicked his tongue, grabbed the tankard, and poured a generous serving into the cup. He didn’t bother checking what it was before raising it to his lips and taking a deep gulp.

  His eyes widened. Lowering the cup, he stared into the light green liquid.

  "Good, isn’t it?" The girl leaned forward, watching him closely. "I brewed it myself."

  Müller took another deep drink. "What is it?"

  She smiled. "If we gave away our recipes to every dusty, road-worn traveler, we'd be out of business, wouldn’t we?"

  Müller raised the cup in a small salute. "Fair point."

  The girl’s gaze flicked to the dates. "Are you going to eat them?"

  Müller shook his head, setting the cup down and pushing it aside. "No, I’m full." He met her eyes. "Satisfied now?"

  "No," she said, holding out her hand. "Pay up." Her eyes dropped to his satchel. "Unless you can't..." She reached for it.

  Müller placed a firm hand on the satchel, locking eyes with her as he pulled it toward himself. "No... I'll pay."

  He undid the latches, flipped the flap open, and rummaged briefly before withdrawing a pouch wider than his hand.

  Loosening the string, he pulled out a single gold coin.

  The girl's expression tightened, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. "You can pay."

  "Yes, I can," Müller said, stepping around the counter.

  She swallowed and backed away. "I'll... I'll get your change," she said, her voice barely above a squeak.

  Müller paused before her, his gaze sharpening as he studied her face. "Are you all right?" he asked, noting the sudden pallor of her skin and the tremor in her eyes.

  "I'm fine," she muttered, though her fingers trembled. "Can you step back behind the counter? You're neither a guest nor a worker, so you can't be back here."

  Müller extended a hand. "You don't seem fine, lass. What's wrong?"

  SHRIEK!

  Müller yanked his hand back as if burned, staring in astonishment.

  The girl—Sanna—was huddled on the ground, her entire body quaking.

  He took a cautious step forward, arms slightly raised. "Hey—"

  Another scream tore from her throat.

  Müller froze, hands clenching. Heavy footsteps pounded against the floor, and a woman burst through the doorway. Her face was flushed, her sharp eyes scanning the scene before she rushed to Sanna’s side, cradling her face.

  "Sanna, what's wrong? Are you all right?"

  Sanna gave a violent shudder—then, just as suddenly, she went deathly still.

  The woman pressed two fingers to her wrist, eyes closing. A moment passed. Then, a relieved sigh.

  Suddenly, her head snapped up, and her gaze locked onto Müller, boring a hole into him.

  "You!"

  Müller exhaled sharply and pinched his brows. This could be trouble.