Our gazes collide, and something in me freezes. Watchful, alert, he’s aware of everything in his vicinity. He walks with predatory confidence, unhurried, and yet there’s no mistaking his potential for swift, explosive violence. His build is strong and masculine, his gait perfectly balanced and fluid. He’s striking in a dark, magnetic way, his size, weapons, and bearing all telling me he’s a tribal warlord. He’s looking at me, and it’s hard not to look back. I peel them off and tuck them back into my braid, scanning the crowd as I walk. Tonight, hemmed in on all sides in an amphitheater lit by hundreds of torches and filled to capacity, I feel like a Cyclops is sitting on my chest-suffocated.ĭamp curls cling to my neck. The rest of us surround them, carving out places for ourselves amid the crowd. The performers on the center stage are the main attraction.

Here, discreet only gets you noticed.Ĭraning my neck for a breath of fresh air, I navigate my way through the beehive of tables already set up for the circus fair. Heat and leather and heels don’t mix, but at least looking like a brigand means blending into the circus. The southern Sintan climate isn’t my worst nightmare, but it sometimes ranks pretty high, right along with the stifling layers of cosmetics masking my face, my leather pants, and my knee-high boots. I pluck at my crimson tunic, tenting the lightweight linen away from my sticky skin.

A Promise of Fire by Amanda Bouchet