The air was cool and refreshing, carrying the scent of fragrant spices and the woody tang of a slow-burning incense.

  Müller inhaled deeply, eyes shut, letting the rich aromas settle his nerves. As he exhaled, some of the stress and exhaustion weighing on him were released.

  He lounged on a carpet in the inner courtyard, propped up by several cushions.

  Opening his eyes, he took in his surroundings.

  The courtyard lay at the heart of the building, an open space paved with stone and adorned with palm trees, shrubs, and low bushes. A low fountain burbled at its center, providing a soothing ambiance. Carpets, low tables, and cushions dotted the ground, occupied by the inn’s guests. A polished wooden railing enclosed the space, with stairways at the four cardinal points leading to a sectioned walkway above, where curtained archways stood at intervals.

  Groups of men gathered throughout the courtyard—some seated around tables, others reclining on the carpets.

  The conversation was hushed, but Müller couldn't miss the frequent glances in his direction. Some were merely curious, others openly hostile.

  Müller sighed and leaned back into the cushion. It seems they don't like foreigners.

  As he observed the scene, the woman emerged from one of the curtained doorways. Her gaze swept the courtyard before landing on him—alone, set apart from the other guests.

  With her eyes locked on his and her hand trailing along the railing, the woman moved toward one of the four stairways leading down to the courtyard. Dark strokes framed her eyes, smudged just enough to soften the edges while deepening their intensity.

  She wore a white silk robe and was draped with a light cloak embroidered with accents of gold thread, billowing softly as she approached. Like her robe, her headscarf was a silky milk-white, adorned with delicate gold embroidery.

  As she stepped from the building’s shadow into the sun, her jewelry caught the light—gold glinting from her wrists, fingers, and ears, casting shimmering reflections around her.

  Grace and distinction in her every move, the woman crossed the courtyard toward him, her slippers barely making a sound across the stone paving.

  The murmurs ceased at once, replaced by silent, watchful eyes.

  Müller held her gaze until she lowered herself onto a cushion beside him.

  Slowly, conversation and banter resumed as the men lost interest.

  With unreadable faces, Müller and the woman studied each other, silent and calculating.

  What should I say? Müller considered, his mind racing. I already explained what happened, but she might not believe me.

  His fingers twitched, his gaze drifting to his satchel. Well, if worst comes to worst, I'll settle her. I'm sure she won't say no to a pouch of coins.

  With his mind made up, Müller opened his mouth to speak—but before he could utter a word, the woman bowed her head.

  "I'd like to apologize for my earlier reaction. After your explanation and hearing from Sanna, I realized I was wrong."

  "The lass has recovered from her faint?" Müller asked.

  The woman nodded. "Though she hasn't fully gathered her wits, she's feeling much better."

  "That's good."

  Silence briefly settled between them again until the woman gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Forgive me—I didn't introduce myself."

  She folded her hands in her lap and gave a slight bow. "Tiraz of Deshan, owner and proprietress of this humble establishment, The Fountain in Paradise, commonly known as Salsabil."

  Müller raised a hand in greeting. "Müller of Blackwood."

  Tiraz arched an elegant eyebrow. "That's all?"

  "That's all," Müller echoed firmly, cutting off that line of inquiry. He turned away from the woman, letting his gaze sweep across the courtyard.

  Whenever his eyes met a guest’s, the man would sneer before abruptly turning away.

  "Tough crowd," Müller commented.

  "Most purebred locals are like that," Tiraz replied, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "They don’t take kindly to outsiders—something about foreigners having a certain... smell."

  Müller reclined into the cushions, shifting until he found a comfortable position. "Is that why that girl seemed to despise me the instant she saw me? Because of a... smell?"

  Tiraz chuckled, the sound light and melodic. "Take from it what you will. But you get the message. Just know that most elders and those from prestigious backgrounds won’t have much goodwill toward you—especially if you drift toward the city's center."

  Tiraz leaned in until only a breath separated them. "That is, unless you have some deep..." Her finger traced a slow path down his chest. "Unfathomable background."

  Müller watched as Tiraz’s finger neared his lower abdomen before catching her hand and pressing it firmly to the carpet—all the while holding her gaze. "Hmm... thanks for the tip. I'll keep that in mind, in case I run into one of those... unfathomable figures."

  Tiraz chuckled before standing and dusting off her garments. "Indeed. Anyway, let's go."

  "Go?" Müller questioned, brows furrowing. "Go where?"

  "Sanna promised to direct you, didn't she? I can't very well tarnish this inn’s good name by allowing a promise to go unfulfilled, can I?"

  Müller rose to his feet. "That would be true—but that was only after I paid her for the meal. And since she fainted, I never gave it to her."

  At his words, a smile blossomed on Tiraz's face. She extended a fist before slowly opening it, revealing a gleaming gold coin.

  Müller's gaze snapped to it. Did she take it? His eyes darted from the coin to her face, narrowing with each glance. He grabbed his satchel and rummaged through it.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "When did you take it, wench?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. "I'm sure I kept it in my satchel."

  Tiraz lifted a hand, failing to hide a mischievous smile. "Who knows?" she replied coyly.

  Tiraz giggled softly and circled him, trailing the coin along his shoulders. "You know what? You can keep the gold."

  She placed the coin in his palm and gently curled his fingers around it. "To make it easier for you to accept, think of it as one of my good deeds for the cycle."

  Never one to turn down a free coin, Müller slipped it back into his pouch.

  "Alright, I'll accept your help."

  Tiraz smiled, giving a light clap. "Wonderful. So, where are you headed?"

  "Abarran’s Inn," he said.

  Tiraz echoed the name, her eyes drifting closed in thought. "Hmm… it’s been long since I last heard that name."

  Müller’s heart quickened. "So you know it?"

  She opened her eyes and nodded slowly. "You're lucky you asked here. It’s not commonly known among locals and can be difficult to find."

  Then I hope your directions are clear," Müller said, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and checking that his scabbard sat securely on his belt.

  "I’ll do you one better." Tiraz pivoted on her heel and strode away, each step carrying a deliberate, seductive sway, once more drawing eyes from around the courtyard. "Follow me—I’ll take you there."

  Müller fell in beside her as she climbed the steps onto the walkway. "Are you sure? What about your guests—or even Sanna? I don't know about you, but I don’t think she should be left alone."

  Tiraz turned to face him. "I never said it was just Sanna and me running this inn, did I? I have a few female slaves working in the kitchen. I trust I've trained them well enough to handle most problems that might arise."

  She passed several curtained chambers along the walkway before stopping at a thickly veiled archway. Turning, she gestured for Müller to step forward. "Wait for me in the outer courtyard. I wouldn't think you've already forgotten, but it's just past the next opening."

  Tiraz inclined her head slightly at Müller before parting the curtains and stepping through the archway.

  He paused, inhaling deeply, savoring the warmth of the aroma before turning away. I didn’t realize until now how much I missed good, hot food. The caravan had only offered stale, flavorless meals. And before that...

  Müller descended the steps into the outer courtyard, stepping straight into the sunlight. The sounds of the street immediately filled his ears—wagon wheels rattling by, the steady rhythm of passing footsteps, and the clamor of drunken men stumbling out of the surrounding inns.

  Was I that deep in thought? I don’t even remember passing the counter. He sighed, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. He remained that way for a few long, drawn-out moments before the soft shuffle of leather sandals reached his ears.

  "Are you ready?"

  Müller turned to find Tiraz standing behind him, a slight smile on her lips. "Lead the way."

  Tiraz stepped past him without a word, each movement effortlessly elegant. She paused at a stone basin, rolled up her sleeves, and washed her hands before retrieving a cotton handkerchief from her sash to dry them.

  Tiraz glanced at him before continuing to the exit and stepping out into the bustling street. "Okay, let's go," she said, her eyes shifting around before she turned up the street.

  Müller glanced down the street before following after her—Raha lay in the opposite direction, but reaching the caravan park was of lower priority for now.

  They moved against the flow of the crowd, putting more distance between themselves and Raha as they retraced the path Müller had taken earlier.

  As he walked, Müller scanned his surroundings. However, he slowed when he passed a particular stall, his gaze lingering on it.

  I guess he heeded my advice and left in a hurry, Müller thought, eyeing the now bare stall.

  Realizing Tiraz was slipping into the crowd ahead, he picked up his pace.

  Before long, they emerged from the street, standing before the splurting fountain.

  Tiraz fell silent, watching the water arc into the air before cascading down in shimmering streams.

  "Do you know why all fountains have blue or green tile accents?" she asked, her gaze fixed ahead.

  Müller glanced at her from the corner of his eye before looking forward again. "No. Is there a special reason?"

  Tiraz nodded. "Yes. They symbolize water and life—both essential for mortals, yet scarce in the harsh, arid East."

  "Blue for water, green for grass," Müller murmured. He grew quiet, turning her words over in his mind before shifting his gaze to her, eyes narrowing. "Why are you telling me this?"

  Tiraz sighed, shaking her head. "Sanna is just a child, but hardship has stripped her of innocence and faith in mortal decency." She clasped her hands together, lowering them in front of her body. "I implore you—find it in your heart to forgive her and not hold her transgressions against her."

  Müller exhaled sharply, scratching the back of his head. "Is that why you gave back the coin and are personally guiding me? To make sure I forgive her?" He huffed. "You needn't have gone to such lengths. If I held a grudge against every person who slighted me, every barber-surgeon, bard, merchant, beggar, and gravedigger from here to Primeva would have lost their heads."

  Tiraz chuckled, stepping forward with Müller close behind. "Quite a varied crowd. What could they possibly have done to you?"

  Müller's face darkened. "They all tried to rob me—some more directly than others."

  She glanced down the street just as a carriage came barreling toward them. Without hesitation, she hurried across, weaving past pedestrians and reaching the fountain before slipping onto the other side. Moments later, the carriage rumbled past, leaving Müller stranded. She stopped and beckoned him forward.

  Müller exhaled sharply before stepping into the street, zig-zagging between the animal-drawn carts and carriages. Once he cleared the road, Tiraz turned and pressed onward without another word.

  As they ventured deeper into the city, Müller found his gaze drawn to Tiraz, his focus narrowing until she commanded his full attention.

  So when he finally tore his gaze away, it caught him off guard to find they had entered an entirely different part of the city—where the streets were narrow, and dirt and rubbish lay in forgotten heaps, gathered at shadowed corners.

  The air hung thick with the scent of sweat and defeat, laced with the faint acrid tang of waste trickling through shallow stone gutters.

  Most buildings stood only a single story high, their flat roofs cluttered with drying laundry, stacks of firewood, or the occasional sleeping figure avoiding the stifling heat below. Here and there, some homes had been haphazardly expanded, with rickety wooden platforms jutting out overhead, casting patches of flickering shade upon the dirt-packed streets below.

  The walls, made of mud brick—some whitewashed—had uneven surfaces occasionally interrupted by shutterless windows, revealing entire families crammed into single rooms.

  Müller ran his hand along the cracked, sunbaked wall of one building, barely noticing as it blended into the next.

  What a dump," Müller muttered, rubbing his fingers together to shake off the dirt from the wall. He glanced around, nose wrinkling. "Almost as bad as Benedict in the late stages of the siege.

  Tiraz sidestepped a group of children rushing past. "Foul, isn't it?" she remarked, glancing back at him. "A stretch of land on the outer edges of Deshan pressed up against the wall. A place where broken foreigners and disavowed locals breed and coexist—a cesspool of rot and shattered dreams, with no hope of escape for those unfortunate enough to be born into it."

  Müller ducked beneath a clothesline. "Home to many, hell to most."

  Suddenly, he stopped, eyes narrowing as he slowly scanned his surroundings—from the rooftops to the windows, his gaze sweeping the shadowed corners.

  A hand settled on his shoulder. He turned to find Tiraz watching him.

  "You have good sense," she murmured, glancing at the sword at his side. "That will serve you well here. But I do have some advice. First, change those garments—tunics and hose are unheard of in the East and will only make you stand out. Second, lose the satchel. Even if you dress like a commoner, that single piece shatters the illusion of poverty at a glance. And lastly, never use a gold coin unless you're at an upscale establishment. The moment you do, you mark yourself."

  She crossed her arms. "Replace the satchel with a small pouch—bronze and silver should make up most of it. Keep a few gold Pharos' at the bottom, but only for emergencies. That's about it, the rest depends on you."

  Tiraz turned, her gaze settling on a narrow set of steps along the side of a building. "Abarran’s Inn—down there, through the door."

  Müller narrowed his eyes before stepping forward. "I appreciate the help."

  As he passed, Tiraz reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. He turned, meeting her gaze. She offered a small smile. "You'll always be welcome at The Fountain in Paradise. I hope we meet again."

  "As do I," Müller replied, matching her smile.

  Without another word, he descended the steps, vanishing into the shadows below.

  Tiraz lingered until his form disappeared completely, then turned away. "I hope you make it out," she murmured.

  With that, she slipped around a bend, her steps swift as she left Abarran’s Inn behind.