Without any breeze, everything smelled spoiled and hot.

The man bent over and brushed the sand from Cion’s feet, an honor usually reserved for royalty. Many nobles had done so with me after I’d won my first match in the arena. They were all trying to show their loyalty, to show they knew I would win. Of course, they’d be just as quick to congratulate any man lucky enough to beat me in the same manner.

But this man wasn’t wiping Cion’s feet to curry favor. No, there was something more meaningful in the glances he cast upward.

Cion gently helped the man to his feet. “Thank you, Lison,” he said. “You don’t have to do that.”

The old man merely smiled and patted Cion on the shoulder.

“I’ll drop this in the back.” Cion held up the bucket.

Lison motioned for him to go ahead.

Cion headed through a curtain hung at the back of the room. I didn’t know if I should follow or not. The man looked at me with bright eyes as he sat on one of the pillows and picked up a small hammer and slats of wood no longer than my forearm, which looked rotted and ready to break under the slightest touch.

His knobby fingers shook as he ran them over the wood until he found a spot he liked. He picked up a nail and started driving it through one piece and into another. I bit my lip to keep from telling him that he was going to break the wood.

But his smooth tapping slowly drove the nail in without breaking the planks. He picked up another couple slats and added them to his project until he’d formed a small box.

Before I could figure out what he was making, Cion reappeared through the curtain and held his hand out for the bucket I was carrying.

I hastily followed him through the curtain.

Inside, an older woman with hunched shoulders turned to greet us. In her arms was a tiny bundle.

A baby.

And all behind her on the floor were misshapen wooden boxes, each one containing a small form.

There must’ve been at least twelve or fifteen. But it was dead silent in the room. I couldn’t understand why none of the children were crying or fussing.

Coffins.

The man had been building coffins.

But no, one of the babies kicked, and another stretched its tiny fist into the air defiantly.

I let out a relieved sigh. They weren’t dead, but they were weak. And there were just so many of them. I couldn’t fathom what they were doing here.

“This is Lison’s wife, Insa,” Cion said.

Insa was a bit taller than her husband, though her hunched shoulders hid her true height. Her hair had also gone white, and she wore it tied up off her shoulders as most women did to escape the extra heat. Her weathered skin was visible in the holes in the shoulders and hem of the simple shift she wore.