The next morning, the sun rose with its usual brutal enthusiasm, baking the mud walls of the town. But inside Fatima's tea stall, the atmosphere was colder than a winter storm.
Fatima was in a foul mood. Her son was still sick, the morning rush was approaching, and she was alone. She banged pots and pans, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush.
Ayon was there, quietly arranging the coal in the stove. He knew better than to speak to Fatima before her first cup of tea. He moved with his usual silent efficiency, sweeping the floor, wiping the tables.
He was tired. He had given away his food yesterday, and though Fatima had given him a biscuit, his body was still running on fumes. But his mind was clear.
He was thinking about the beggar woman. Sara.
He wondered where she had slept. He wondered if the bread had been enough. He didn't think of Ilma. He thought of the strange, dark eyes of the woman who looked at him as if he were a puzzle she couldn't solve.
Then, a shadow fell across the entrance.
"Excuse me."
The voice was soft, hesitant.
Ayon turned. Fatima looked up, ladle in hand, ready to shout at a customer.
It was Sara.
She looked better than yesterday, but only slightly. Her face was washed, streaks of clean skin visible through the grime she had artfully applied. She stood wringing her hands, looking at the floor.
"You?" Fatima barked. "The beggar? What do you want now? I have no more free bread."
Sumayra (playing Sara) took a deep breath. She had practiced this speech all night in the Jinn realm. She had to sound pathetic, but useful.
"I do not want charity, Mother," she said, her voice trembling just the right amount. "I want work."
"Work?" Fatima laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "Look at you! You look like a breeze would knock you over. What work can you do?"
"I can... I can wash," Sumayra lied. She had never washed a dish in her immortal life. In her palace, dishes cleaned themselves with a snap of her fingers. "I can serve. I can sweep."
She looked at Ayon. She didn't plead with her eyes, but she held his gaze.
"I have nowhere to go," she whispered. "Please."
Ayon looked at her. He saw the way she stood—too straight for a beggar. He saw her hands—too soft for a laborer. He knew she was hiding something. Maybe she was a runaway bride. Maybe she was a thief in hiding.
It does not matter, he decided. Everyone deserves a chance to survive.
"Fatima," Ayon said gently. "You need help. Your son is not here. The morning rush will begin in ten minutes."
Fatima glared at him, then at Sara. She looked at the mountain of dirty crates that needed moving. She did the math.
"Fine," she grunted. "But no money. You get food. Three meals. And you can sleep in the storage room at the back. It smells of onions and rats, but it has a roof."
Sumayra suppressed a shudder. Rats?
"Thank you," she said, lowering her head.
"Don't thank me yet," Fatima warned. "Go to the back. Start washing. If you break anything, you leave."
The next hour was a disaster.
Sumayra, the Princess of the Highborn, the Commander of Smokeless Fire, found herself knee-deep in a reality she was wholly unprepared for.
The water in the tub was cold and greasy. The soap was harsh, smelling of chemicals that stung her nose.
She picked up a glass. It was slippery.
Smash.
It slipped from her fingers and shattered on the stone floor.
Fatima whipped around. "That is one!" she screamed. "Five coppers from your imaginary pay!"
Sumayra bit her lip. "I am sorry."
She picked up another. She scrubbed it too hard.
Crack.
The glass snapped in her hand.
"Two!" Fatima roared. "Are you trying to bankrupt me, girl? Do you have butter on your fingers?"
Ayon was watching from the stove. He wasn't annoyed. He was... amused.
He had seen many things in his life, but he had never seen a beggar who held a dish rag like it was a dead snake. She moved with a strange elegance, but she had zero practical skill. It was as if she had just landed on Earth today.
He walked over to her.
Sumayra flinched as he approached. She expected him to scold her. She expected him to tell Fatima to fire her.
Instead, Ayon reached into the tub.
He took her hands in his.
His hands were rough, calloused, and warm. Her hands were soft, cold, and trembling.
"Not like that," he whispered. His voice was low, below the noise of the market, a secret shared between them. "You are fighting the glass. You are trying to conquer it."
He guided her hands. He showed her how to hold the sponge, how to cup the glass gently, how to twist the wrist without applying pressure.
"Treat it like a friend," Ayon said, a smile playing on his lips. "Not an enemy. The glass wants to be clean. Just help it."
Sumayra stared at him. He was teaching her how to wash dishes with the same seriousness a General would use to teach swordplay.
She felt the warmth of his skin against hers. A strange, electric jolt ran up her arms. It wasn't magic. It was... biology.
"I... I am clumsy," she whispered, feeling foolish.
"We are all clumsy at first," Ayon said. He let go of her hands. "Try again. Slowly."
She tried. She washed a glass. It didn't break.
Ayon nodded. "Perfect."
He went back to the stove to pour tea.
Sumayra stood there, holding the wet glass. Her heart was beating fast. She looked at his back.
He didn't mock me, she thought. He didn't get angry.
For the first time, she wasn't analyzing him. She was just... grateful.
By midday, the rush had slowed. The heat was oppressive.
Sumayra was exhausted. Her back ached. Her beautiful, disguise-ridden hands were pruned and red from the water. She had broken three glasses in total, and Fatima had yelled at her six times.
But she was still there.
Ayon brought her a plate. Rice, lentils, and a pickle. It was simple food, peasant food.
"Eat," he said. "You earned it."
Sumayra sat on a crate in the shade. She was starving. This time, the hunger was real. She wasn't pretending. Physical labor had burned through her energy.
She ate. It wasn't the ambrosia of the Jinn realm, but it tasted incredible.
Ayon sat opposite her with his own plate. He ate quietly, looking out at the market.
"You are not from here," he said suddenly.
Sumayra froze, a spoon halfway to her mouth. Did he know?
"What?"
"You," Ayon gestured to her hands. "You do not know how to wash. You do not know how to sit on a crate. You walk like you are afraid the ground will dirty your feet."
He looked at her, his dark eyes curious, not accusatory.
"You are a runaway, aren't you?"
Sumayra exhaled. He didn't know she was a Jinn. He just thought she was a runaway noble or a servant from a rich house.
"Yes," she lied, leaning into the story. "I... I served in a rich house. But the master... he was cruel. I ran away."
It was a cliché story. But Ayon nodded as if it explained everything.
"Cruelty is a common master," he said softly. "You are safe here, Sara. Fatima barks, but she does not bite. And I..."
He paused. He looked at the sky.
"I have nothing," he said with a shrug. "So I cannot take anything from you."
Sumayra looked at him. He was so open. So unguarded.
"Why are you so kind?" she asked. The question slipped out before she could stop it. "You have nothing. You live in the dirt. People mock you. Yet you help everyone. Why?"
She expected a tragic story. She expected him to talk about the past, about loss.
Ayon smiled. He picked up a small pebble from the ground and rolled it between his fingers.
"Do you see this stone?" he asked.
"Yes."
"If I throw it at a dog, the dog yelps. If I throw it in the river, it ripples. Every action has an echo."
He placed the stone gently back on the ground.
"I am kind, Sara, because the world is hard enough already. If I add more hardness, I only make the wall higher. If I add a little softness... maybe, just maybe, I make a small crack in the wall where the light can get in."
He looked at her.
"And besides," he added, his eyes twinkling with that sudden, disarming humor. "It takes much less energy to smile than to frown. And I am a very lazy man."
Sumayra laughed. It was a genuine laugh, surprising her.
He is lazy, she thought, amused. The man who moved a mountain of bricks yesterday calls himself lazy.
"You are strange, Ayon," she said.
"I am just clay," he replied, standing up. "Now, come. The afternoon tea crowd will be here soon. And if you break another glass, Fatima might actually cook you in the stew."
That night, Sumayra lay on the mat in the storage room.
It smelled of onions. It smelled of damp earth. A rat scurried in the corner, making her flinch.
It was the worst bedroom she had ever had in her existence.
But as she lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, she realized something strange.
She wasn't angry.
She was tired, yes. Her body ached. But her mind was quiet. For centuries, her mind had been a whirl of politics, power, and strategy.
Tonight, her only worry was not breaking a glass.
She thought of Ayon. She thought of his hands guiding hers in the water. She thought of his philosophy of "lazy kindness."
He wasn't a tragedy. He wasn't a broken thing mourning a dead lover.
He was just a man trying to be good in a bad world.
And for the first time, Sumayra didn't want to break him. She wanted to know him.
She touched her chest. The stone of her heart felt a little warmer.
I will stay, she decided, closing her eyes. Not to test him. But to see... if he can teach me how to be human.
Outside, under the canopy of stars, Ayon sat by the river.
He wasn't looking at the past tonight. He wasn't thinking of the Pearl City.
He was thinking of the girl with the clumsy hands and the eyes that held too many secrets.
"Sara," he whispered to the water.
He didn't know who she really was. But he knew one thing.
She made the silence a little less loud.
And for Ayon, that was everything.