“Go,” Ung Li says with a dismissive flick of her finger toward the door. She gives Trystan a shrewd look. “Replace your clothing so you have something to wear off-hours. Take a day to explore the city and see what you’re defending.” One black brow rises as a sardonic smile lifts her lips. “Try not to create too much havoc in Voloi.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

TRANSFORMATION

Trystan Gardner & Vothendrile Xanthile

City of Voloi, Noilaan
Eastern Realm
Sixth Month

Trystan

“I don’t sell to Roaches.”

The Noi man glares at me, his eyes narrowed with fury. I notice he’s wearing a Vo necklace. Across the street, other merchants in Noilaan’s clothing district stand, arms crossed, positioned in front of their open-air clothing shoppes as if guarding them from a hostile invasion.

Vothe stands a little to the side, his muscular arms crossed, as well. A cool breeze eases up off the river toward this Fourth Tier of the mountain city of Voloi, ruffling the silver tips of Vothe’s hair as it gleams in the morning sun. He’s almost too handsome to take in, even watching me with what looks like an edge of frustration. Perturbed, no doubt, over my insistence that I manage this myself without his proffered help.

Because I need to use my own voice and my own coin to become my own true self. No more hiding or sequestering who I truly want to be.

I scan the sun-drenched storefronts as white clouds scud across the vivid blue sky, violet Toi’nir birds wheeling overhead. The bustling city is a wonder, already adorned for the Xishlon holiday. Purple banners imprinted with Vo’s ivory and purple dragon goddess manifestations hang from practically every storefront and snap in the wind. Tables laden with clothing and jewelry, scarves, and hair ornaments in every hue of purple spill onto the street’s edges. Kiosks dotting the streets proffer rows and rows of the holiday’s traditional heart-shaped wreathes of lavender flowers and pressed, purple flower cards. And interspersed amongst the stores are tattoo parlors and hairstylists advertising violet Xishlon designs, beckoning Noi’khin to begin their celebration early.

But every merchant here has turned down my coin, each refusal like a fresh blow.

“I’m looking to buy some clothing,” I say to a Noi woman with a kind face. A little girl clutches her arm and peers up at me innocently. The child is hugging a lilac cloth dragon doll to her chest, both mother and child wearing tunics and pants with the same elaborate, embroidered design—bright violet irises, large as real flowers, sewn onto glistening purple silk, their hair decorated with glittering lavender gems.

The woman glances at my Wyvernguard uniform, then scrutinizes my Mage features, a trace of sympathy in her expression. But then she catches the eyes of other nearby merchants and takes in the warning in their gazes.