The sun is doing its best impression of divine punishment. The ground's cracked. The air tastes like boiled leather. Somewhere, someone is screaming in the distance — probably over a dropped spear or a misaligned formation. Amazon discipline sounds a lot like losing your mind in stages.
I sit in the shade of a broken wall that smells faintly of piss and crushed thyme. My back is to the stone. My boots are off. My toes wiggle in the dust like they're trying to escape the rest of me.
Then I hear the soft shuffle of someone giving up.
Loma slumps down beside me like a puppet with cut strings, arms around her knees, head resting on them. She's flushed, sweating through her too-heavy tunic, curls stuck to her forehead in damp little spirals.
She doesn't speak. Just breathes. Shallow, miserable.
I glance sideways. "If you're here to cry again, pick another wall. This one's at capacity."
She doesn't answer. Just blinks slowly, like even moving her eyes hurts.
I sigh. Roll my shoulders. Reach into the folds of my sash and pull out treasure — a slightly squished, questionably fresh bun swiped from the supply tent while the quartermaster was flirting with a spear-maiden.
It smells like heaven and rebellion.
I'm about to bite in when I hear it.
Grgrggrrrrk.
The quiet, traitorous growl of a stomach trying to devour itself.
I freeze. Glance sideways again.
Loma's face is impassive. Eyes on her knees. Mouth pressed into a thin line. Not a word.
Gods damn it.
I stare at the bun. Then at her. Then back at the bun. I could eat the whole thing. I should.
But no. Of course not. I'm an idiot.
With a grumble of my own, I tear off a chunk. Not quite half. I'm generous, not saintly. I hold it out.
She doesn't move.
"You want it or not?" I mutter.
She looks at the bread, then at me. Suspicious. Like I might yank it back or laugh or throw it in the dust.
I don't.
Eventually, she reaches out. Fingers brush mine — delicate, soft, annoyingly clean-looking for someone who's been crawling through mud all week. She takes the bun.
"Mmm. Thanks," she mumbles, not meeting my eye. Then bites.
We sit in silence. The sounds of camp drift past us — clanking armor, distant shouting, the rhythm of discipline being handed out to someone else for once.
She chews quietly. I eat what's left of mine.
We don't talk.
But for a few minutes, the wall feels less cracked. The sun less cruel.
Moments pass.
We are still melting like half-finished wax dolls. The breeze gave up an hour ago. Camp drills rattle on in the background — the kind of yelling that sounds righteous until you've heard it enough times to recognize it's just someone mad about dust in their boots.
Loma's fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve like it's a puzzle. She hasn't said a word since the bun.
I'm on my back now, eyes half-lidded, chewing the last bite, thinking about nothing in particular.
Then, just because the silence feels too heavy to carry:
"Tell me something."
She looks up, eyes cautious.
"You really never stole anything?"
She blinks. "What?"
"You know." I wave a hand vaguely, crumbs scattering. "Anything. Ever. A coin. A sweet. A ribbon. Something from a shop. Or a person. Or a temple. Gods, even a crust of bread."
She looks away, like the question has an odor. "No."
I stare at her.
"You're telling me," I say slowly, "you've lived on this spinning disaster of a world for—what, fifteen, sixteen years?—and you've never taken something that wasn't yours?"
She shakes her head. Not defensive. Just simple. Like she's telling me her favorite color.
I narrow my eyes.
"No angry governess? No stolen book from a library? No heirloom pocketed out of spite?"
"No."
I watch her for a second longer.
And… for a moment…
I believe her.
Not because I'm an idiot. But because she says it with that particular kind of quiet that doesn't need convincing. The kind that doesn't come from pride or fear, but from something else. Like maybe she just never thought to want what wasn't hers.
Or maybe she has and she's just a better liar than me.
Either way, I don't push it.
I lean my head back, rest it against the wall.
"Gods," I mutter, "you're weird."
She smiles faintly. "So are you."
"Yeah, but at least I come with warning signs."
She goes back to her thread. I go back to staring at the sky.
Neither of us says anything else.