"Sakhrat?" she asked. Her nose turned up, and her lip curled. "You're taking me to Sakhrat?" The poor excuse of a town was home to the lowest rung of Desierto's inhabitants: thieves, prostitutes, conmen, and mercenaries. As a scholar, Miss McGarden had no reason nor intention of ever visiting the "Sakhrat Slums," as the town was often called.

"No," he drawled, and his smirk was both visible and audible. "I ain't taking you to Sack Rat. I said Sakhrat." He steered the truck over a bump that jostled her. "For someone so smart, yer pronunciation is shit."

She turned back to glaring out the window. Pursing her lips, she said, "I suppose that makes the most sense. First you kidnap me from Oro, then you drag me halfway through the desert, and now you're dragging me again through the desert to some forsaken, ramshackle, crumbling, criminal-infested—"

"Oi," he rumbled, flicking his eyes toward her. "That's my home yer talkin' about, sweetheart."

"Oh," she snorted. "Well, that explains it. The world isn't that difficult to understand, after all." She squealed when her teeth clacked against her tongue. He drove over another bump for good measure.

"You've got a lot of opinions," he said. His brows were pulled together. "I'm startin' to think all you're really good at is running that mouth of yers."

"When I begin valuing a criminal's opinion, Mister Redfox," she said with a pleased lilt to her voice, "I'll send word to your dearly beloved Sakhrat." Her lips pursed in triumph after his response was mere silence.

And then she scowled.

"Sock Rot, huh? Never heard of it."

Miss McGarden shook her head and counted to five before speaking. "What makes you think Sakhrat isn't the first place your master will look?" His silence prompted her to whirl in her seat and say, "Mister Redfox, if he finds me, then I'm as good as dead."

"Jose ain't gonna kill you," he said, sparing her a glance. "You're the only person in this damned country who knows all about Black Steel, and he needs that."

"That isn't true," she said. "You know about Black Steel." As expected, his eyes hardened and a scowl tugged at the corners of his mouth. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel.

"He ain't gonna kill you," he said, finally.

"But he'll hurt me," she said, her voice dropping. She stared at the dashboard with furrowed brows. "He'll hurt me."

"Not if he can't find you."

She closed her eyes. "If I was looking for a shady character, Sakhrat would be the place to look."

"He won't look in Sakhrat."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause," Mister Redfox started. He jerked the wheel to the left to avoid a crack that would have lost him a tire. Her shoulder bumped into his. "'Cause word's gonna start spreadin' that I'm in Lusin. I know people who can make me disappear."

"An honest man wouldn't need to disappear," she mused to herself. Her mouth twitched after hearing him snort.

"Never said I was an honest man."

"Oh," she hummed, "and I wouldn't believe you if you had. Do you disappear often, Mister Redfox?"

He chuckled, then drawled, "I haven't reappeared yet, lady." The cargo bed jostled when the rear-tires bit into the sand. The dry, rocky terrain of the canyon was behind them, and in front of them was the Voskor Desert.

Though much of Desierto was sand and ancient ruins, the sections of deserts had different names. To honor the different territories of the past, scholars explained. The Voskor Desert, located in the middle of the country just north of the Kanash Gulf and between Oro, Sakhrat, and the ruins of Karma, was known for its harsh winds and unpredictable sandstorms. Further to the east was the H'Partut Dunes, a smaller desert closer to Bellum that was home to nomads who preferred to sleep under the stars. It's what their ancestors did, scholars reasoned.

And if the scholars, wearing their Fioran suits and jackets with bowties tightly cinched at their necks, thought that the H'Partuti people were uncivilized gypsies who danced naked, save for tiger skins and jaguar coats wrapped about their waists, around tall fires to celebrate some feline god, well. They kept that out of their textbooks, and out of earshot of Miss McGarden's employer, who was of the H'Partut.

Though, Shagotte's Fioran manners had exceeded most of the scholars' expectations, for a H'Partuti, of course.

Miss McGarden slowly frowned. Her hand slid to the door handle.

"Either yer thinkin' of new words," he said, "or yer thinkin' about how to make my job even harder."

She huffed and crossed her arms. "I'm not—" Pausing, her frown deepened, and she twisted her lips. "Your 'job?'"

"How 'bout," he said, training his eyes on the endless sands ahead of them, "you make it easier by lettin' me know if anyone's expecting you."

"Expecting me?"

He grunted in affirmation. "Any appointments, anyone who would come looking for you? You've been gone for almost a month, now."

She laughed, a cold, hollow sound that lifted the hair on his arms. "No, no one's expecting me, Mister Redfox." Sucking in a breath, she let it out and stared at the plumes of sand outside of the window. In a quieter voice—so quiet that he almost didn't hear her over the hum of the engine—she said, "I'm on vacation."

"Huh?"

She leaned her head against the window, now that he was driving over sand and not rock. The chances of him running over a bump were slim to none, now. "I'm on vacation," she said again. She felt his eyes on her, and though she knew that she shouldn't be telling him any of this, for he had treated her so poorly, the need to tell someone was overwhelming.

And so the words poured out of her mouth like rushing tides, all slurred and jumbled and knotted together.

"The museum's running out of government funding," she started. She rubbed her chafed wrists beneath her cuffs. The skin was too tender to touch. She settled with pulling on her fingers. "It's ridiculous, really. The Desertian government is supposed to fund all exhibits showcasing the country's history and natural oddities. But with the war between the Alliance countries and Pergrande, the government is saying that more funding needs to be allocated to the army 'just in case.'"

"No shit," he rumbled. His voice made her shoulders quake; for a moment, she'd forgotten he was less than two feet away from her. "Taxes have been higher than a Desertian trafficker's prostitutes." Miss McGarden frowned. "Everything's got a damned tax on it, now. Water, food, income—soon they're gonna tax our piss and shit."

After clearing her throat, she said, "I imagine the financial situations of the less fortunate communities have been difficult for the past few years."

He barked a laugh and tightened his fingers around the wheel. "'Less fortunate.' Yeah, lady. Don't think any tourists are lining up to see the slums."

"I didn't mean—"

"Sure, lady. I've seen where you come from: backyards, fences, sculptures, and everything nice Oro's got for the more fortunate. Must be nice to see the sunset from your window instead of concrete. Yeah, you didn't mean to offend anyone." She was quiet, and he smirked. "Hell, you can even go on vacation whenever your little heart pleases. Wanna tell me how your vacation fits into the government?"

"If you were done making assumptions," she snapped, "then maybe I'd have gotten to that already." She gathered a shuddering breath and shook her head. "So, what that means is that the museum is losing money—has been losing money for years. We need a discovery, and not just more vases hidden in chambers beneath a city. We need something big, like an excavation, for more government funding.

"That's where my research comes in," she continued, despite his narrowed eyes. "I've been studying scripture carved into the bathhouses and temples in Old Viath. Most of the writing is written in Viathese and worships the Aquar, but there have been multiple passages written in a different language." She bit her lip and turned to him. Her chains jingled as she began gesturing with her hands. "During one of the explorations in Old Viath's libraries, I found a stone tablet etched with the same foreign language. The tablet also had Viathese etchings." She grasped his arm. He'd have shaken her off if not for the excitement in her eyes. "Do you know what that means, Mister Redfox?"

"They were translations," she beamed before he could answer. "Some Ferrian way back when translated their language into Viathese. After cross-referencing the tablet and the Viathan scripture in the temples, I found that they both referred to the same phrase over and over."

She used her index finger to draw imaginary symbols in the air, as if her mind could miraculously form solid letters. "Anac'Atelim," she said. "The Iron Dragon of Ferroc."

"You don't know that fer sure," he grumbled. "Coulda been just bad Viathan handwriting, or chicken-scratch. Or someone pulling a joke."

She pouted and shook her head again. "No," she insisted, "they were translations." The excitement—and was that admiration?—colored her eyes once more. "I found more tablets in Lusin, Arev, Yaqut, and a trader in the H'Partut showed me a tapestry detailing how iron and steel was forged in Karma. In Viath, I found these metal sheets, about the size of a tire, with numbers and dates etched in the corners."

He ground his teeth together.

"At first, I thought they were logs describing day-to-day activities of Karma and the construction of the aqueducts throughout the city, but oh Mister Redfox, I was so incredibly wrong." Somehow, she began speaking quicker. "Yes, some of the sheets described the construction throughout the city, but some of them were incredibly personal. Using context clues, I believe that a man was the author of those sheets. I don't think I've found all of his etchings, but further into his story, he mentions a woman—a slave turned lover and wife—and I am almost entirely positive that the woman was Yvell, and the author was—"

"This is such garbage," he scowled. Her cheeks flushed. "You find some love letters, and your brain automatically think it's from Black Steel to his whore. Where's your proof, huh? Bet the museum wanted some evidence before you started making your goddamned conclusions." He shoved her hand off of his arm.

"You are infuriating," she hissed. "First of all, Yvell was not a whore."

"Oh, right," he snickered, "and what would you call a woman who purposely flashed some skin to tempt the two most powerful leaders in Desierto's history to go to war?" They lurched forward in their seats as he stepped harder on the pedal. He steered the cargo truck down a dune.

"She didn't tempt anyone."

"Right. 'Cause of her, Black Steel nearly lost the war between Ferroc and Van'i of the Nevar-Ilat." He waited for her denial, for her biting voice to snap at him. He glanced at her and found a sly grin curling her lips.

"You know your history, Mister Redfox," she mused.

"Tch." He stomped his foot on the pedal as he began ascending a dune. Their backs slammed against the seat. He didn't dare to look away from the windshield. "Just sayin' what all the kids' tales say about Karma. Don't go gettin' any ideas, lady."

Mister Redfox cursed himself. There wasn't a trace of anger in her expression, and she was fit to bursting with her smug satisfaction.

"But to answer your question," she said, graciously avoiding the subject of Black Steel and his bride, "to summarize how I'm on a 'vacation,' the museum never believed me. You were right: they needed proof, and I never seemed to have adequate evidence. I became a pest to the directors to the point where if they saw me in the museum, they'd scurry away like meerkats chased by hyenas." Finally, the truck leveled onto even sand.

Miss McGarden slumped in her seat. "So, to appease the directors, Shagotte told me to take some time off. 'Go to Viath, visit the spas, treat yourself,' she said. She paid for all expenses to Viath and gave me leave for two months. Can you believe that? The directors were so disgusted by me that I had to disappear for two months!" She crossed her arms and huffed. "I don't know what I did that was so terribly annoying."

Mister Redfox snorted. He could name a few things.

"So I decided: if I was being shipped to Viath, then I was going to make the most of it. I'd explore the old palace again and see if there was anything I missed." She nodded in affirmation.

"I bet the directors woulda loved to extend your 'vacation' after hearing you went snooping without a permit," he sneered.

"I know people in charge of the security for the places off-limits to tourists," she lightly mused. "They would have gotten me in. Jet and Droy have done it before."

Mister Redfox couldn't help but to wonder if there was a way for the people he knew to give Miss Researcher a longer vacation.

"That night," she said, quietly, "when you broke into my apartment. I was supposed to leave in the morning." She sighed and tipped her head back. "I guess I was never meant to go on vacation. Serves me right for taking advantage of my employer, huh?"

He figured her incurable need to talk was like a trough filling with water: she could only take so much silence before it all bubbled over, and then her mouth went running and the gums went flapping. Her silence was a blessing, and he spent every precious second grating over what she'd said. The chit knew much more about Ferroc's history than he'd thought, and she had seen and touched artifacts from forty-thousand years ago.

His knuckles turned white around the wheel. He'd spent the better part of a decade trying to find just one thing, and he'd turned up empty-handed at every corner. Yet this girl, this loudmouthed researcher, had no idea what she was searching for and had a basket of stories to tell, all wrapped up in a pretty blue Viathan bow.

In the silence, Mister Redfox found some comfort. Good, he thought. Good that the museum ain't listenin' to her. So long as the directors never believed her, Karma would remain a myth, and this chatterbox wouldn't have anything to gloat over.

His piercings pushed together in a frown. For years, she'd been mocked, and yet she was still so impassioned about researching the forgotten kingdom. Though it baffled him, he couldn't help but to hold an ounce of respect for her resolution.

Just an ounce, though.

The librarian had dozed off about an hour into the silence. The faintest touches of pink blotted the sky, and in a few more hours, the sun would set. They were making good time and should reach Sakhrat before dawn of the following morning.

Mister Redfox grunted when he felt something bump against him. Peeling his eyes away from the endless sand, he glanced down to find her head slumped against his shoulder. Grumbling, he nudged her off. She sat straight in her seat, and then rolled back to his shoulder. Clicking his tongue, he pushed her. Thankfully, she leaned against the passenger window. He scowled at the stain on his shoulder.

She blinked herself awake and turned to look at him, all bleary-eyed and bruised. Then, clarity returned, and she grasped her gut. "Stop the truck," she breathed.

"What?" Frowning, he pushed the vehicle to go faster. "I ain't stopping the truck."

"By Mavis, stop the truck!" Her shriek pierced his eardrum, and with a snarl, he grabbed her arm.

"The hell—"

"If you don't stop right now, Mister Redfox, I will do duty number two on this seat!" His mouth hung open in confusion, and after several seconds, comprehension smacked him in the face. Eyes bulging, he slammed his foot on the brake. The tires spat sand into the air, and she didn't wait until the truck came to a complete stop before shoving herself out of the passenger door.

He cranked the hand brake down and threw open the door. With a snarl stretched across his mug, he swung out of the truck. His knees buckled as soon as his feet touched the ground. He skidded through the sand and grabbed the fender for balance. Inside the truck, though it had been hot enough for sweat to dampen his shirt, he hadn't felt dizzy or thirsty.

Now, outside and trying to stand up, he realized how much he craved a long drink and something to eat. It must have been at least a day since the last time he had eaten anything.

Smacking his lips together, Mister Redfox closed his eyes for a moment. He pulled himself up and frowned after hearing grunts come from the other side of the truck. By steel, if the little nuisance was trying to run away into the vast desert, he was going to give her a reason to run. Using the hood of the truck as leverage, he grappled his way to the passenger side.

He gaped and quickly turned his eyes down to his feet. She had crawled a few feet away from the truck. Her khakis were pulled down, and she was squatting in the sand. The red strings he had seen dripping into the sand made him grateful that he'd been born as male. A distinct odor filled the air. He covered his nose with his shemagh.

"Coulda said you had to shit," was his muffled commentary to what he'd just witnessed.

"Could you give me some privacy!" she managed to shout amidst her grunts.

He trudged back to his side of the truck and leaned against the door. The engine still hummed with life, but not loud enough to gurgle out the librarian's strained groans. "Shouldn't have eaten that snake," he said.

"This is the aftermath of menstruation!" she said. "I can't help it!"

Mister Redfox weighed his options. He could tell her to hurry up with her business, but the chit actually listening to him seemed unlikely. They needed to get their asses and the truck back in gear if they wanted to make it to Sakhrat. Then there was still the matter of his parched throat and rumbling stomach. Sighing, he chose to hold his peace and tore off a length of his sleeve. Balling the fabric up, he tossed it over his shoulder, then staggered to the back of the truck. He tore open the flaps and hopped into the bed.

There was a bulging burlap sack with strings that looked to be barely holding on for dear life. Tearing open the bag, Mister Redfox snatched a canteen, uncorked it, and threw his head back.

Nothing. Not even a drop.

He shook the canteen and then chucked it at the floor. There were more canteens in the sack, and each one was just the same as the first: empty. His fingers dug into the curved edges, and with a snarl, he stormed out of the truck. She was right where he left her, squatting in the sand. Using the torn piece of his button-down, she wiped at her backside, and then hurried to pull her khakis back up after spotting him.

"I don't know what's worse," he barked. Her shoulders quaked at the jagged gravel in his words. She fumbled backward, narrowly avoiding squashing her palm in her excrement. "This," he threw the canteen in the runny pile of droppings, "or the shit you just pulled. 'The provisions are in the back. This truck came fully equipped' my ass." Sweat trickled down his neck and back, making his shirt and hair stick to him. His body shook with pants, and his tongue darted out to wet his cracked lips.

Had he anything to drink, the action may have proven useful.

"You didn't even check the truck, did you?" He took a step closer. The heat made his shadow waver. Her eyes lowered. "Yeah, I thought so, lady. You go talkin' about all this stuff you know, but you don't know shit." His shoulders trembled, and just when he thought he'd be able to breathe his anger out, she had to open her mouth and say something.

"I thought the sack was full."

"Yeah, it was full, alright," he said. He hauled her up by her wrist, his rough fingers narrowly avoiding the burns on her palm, and shoved her toward the truck. "Full of nothing, just like yer damned head." He pursed his lips when she made to turn around. The solution was to shove her again.

"But I'm not done—"

"Yes. You are." She still fought him, and without warning, he latched his hands under her arms and tossed her into her seat. She yelped and most likely had something to say—since that was all she was good for: talking—and he promptly slammed the door in her face.

Mister Redfox settled himself in his seat. His shoulders were raised. The wheels turned and kicked up dust until they found enough traction. The engine couldn't drown out his schooled breaths.

"I'm sorr—"

"Shut," he growled, "your goddamned mouth."

"I thought—"

"What the hell did I just say!" One hand gripped the wheel, while the other gripped her sleeve. It tore at her shoulder, but he still pulled her close enough so that she couldn't escape the fury in his eyes. "I tell you to sit your skinny ass in the canyon so that I can find a truck. No, whaddya do instead? You pick a truck that has no food, no water—it has shit, that's what it has. And you wanna talk all goddamned high and mighty, like yer better or somethin'. Well lemme tell you something, lady: I ain't surprised that your museum's had enough of you. I'm close to leavin' yer ass out here."

"Then why don't you," she said without missing a beat. He didn't answer; he only shoved her hard enough for her elbow to ram against the passenger door. The impact jarred her funny-bone. She bit her lip, rubbed the tingling joint, and chanced looking at Mister Redfox. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and his tongue slipped over his dry lips again.

He was parched, and most likely hungry. "I'm sorry," she said, without any venom or irritation. She was sincere, the damned broad. "I was just trying to help."

"Tch." He shook his head and yanked at his shemagh. "Damned women should stay in their kitchens."

"That wasn't necessary," she said.

"Neither was your shit."

Her silence could only stretch so far until her Viathan curiosity reigned ruler supreme. For several moments, Miss McGarden pulled on her fingers and stared at her bruised and burned feet. Mister Redfox tried to ignore her nervous fidgeting. Finally, she sucked in a breath and asked, quietly like the Viathan turtle she was, "Are you alright?"

Anger creased into lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

"Mister Redfox," she tried again, "are you… well? You aren't going to start hallucinating, are you? You haven't had anything to drink for hours I suppose, and that isn't good at all in this heat. If you don't have water soon, you'll start getting dizzy and seeing things—"

He jerked the wheel to the left. The tires skid through the sand, struggling to find traction as the vehicle lurched to the side. Miss McGarden, thrown against the passenger door, squealed and grabbed onto the dashboard. "Mister Redfox—"

"One more word out of your mouth," he said, spearing her with blazing eyes as he righted the truck, "and I'll tie yer tongue into a knot and pin yer lips back." Blessed steel, the chit listened to him. Mister Redfox waited a few more cautious moments before exhaling in relief.

Unbeknownst to him, Miss McGarden ducked her chin into her collarbone. She sucked her lips into her mouth to hide her smile. What he'd just described was an ancient form of Ferrian torture: traitors would have slits sliced into their tongue, and then the slits would be braided. Pins would nail their lips to their cheeks, and then the forsaken souls would be chained to a post outside until the desert heat would shrivel them whole. There have been accounts, Miss McGarden recalled, detailing how their tongues would be pruned, cracked, and white, fit for carrion birds to pluck.

The skeletons would be left to bleach and to serve as a warning for all conquered lands and foreign enemies.

Miss McGarden shook her head. That haskara didn't even know when he was revealing his tells.

The stars and moon in the inky blue sky knew he would not make it to Sakhrat before the sun would rip into the world in the morning. No, not with the headache pounding at his skull, his tongue darting out, his chapped lips flapping, and not with his eyes blinking too often. Miss McGarden openly watched him, and so long as she was quiet, he said nothing.

He needed water.

She herself was thirsty, yet she didn't dare tell him this. If she needed to cough from how dry her throat was, she suppressed the urge by distracting herself. She had many questions, after all, and it would do her good to categorize them in her mind for future reference. However, there was one observation she could not help but to make: Mister Redfox knew how to navigate without a compass or map.

Indeed, she had not questioned him on his sense of direction. He knew where Jose's camp was located, and so when they made their reckless escape earlier that day, he had to know which direction to steer the truck. Now, though, with the hundreds of stars dotting the inky blue sky, Miss McGarden found herself respecting him. Mister Redfox frequently ducked his head to peek below the windshield; he searched for the bright light of Polaris, and he followed the heaven's torch.

She had a comment tucked away in her brain. The Viathans were known for their interest and complex ideas regarding astronomy and astrology, after all. And here he was relying on Polaris, or Hyusis in Viathese, and N'aaj in Ferrian. The Viathans believed Hyusis was the Aquar's tear—for Her tears gave the Earth water after Her lover banished Her to only show at night as a round, eggshell white mass in the sky. All the stars were Her tears, in fact, but Hyusis was the first to be shed after Her lover betrayed Her.

And then there were the Ferrians. They swore that the N'aaj was the Anac'Atelim's nighttime form. Always present, regardless of day or night. The stars were His armies. Come morning, His likeness would be forged into a fiery mass in the heavens.

Miss McGarden kept these tidbits to herself. She didn't want her tongue braided.

She glanced away from him, and then frowned. Leaning closer to the windshield, she twisted her mouth in thought. At the edge of the endless baked Voskor Desert was a structure. Mister Redfox forced the truck even faster. That couldn't have been Sakhrat; it was not possible for him to reach the impoverished town this soon. She racked her brain. There were multiple waypoints between cities providing shelter for travelers, but which one they were approaching was beyond her.

"What—"

"Mawaa," he answered. He cleared his throat, and then coughs rattled his shoulders and chest. Good, the librarian saw the outpost, too; that meant his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

Unless the most annoying woman in history was pulling his leg.

"Mawaa?" she repeated. Then she clamped her mouth shut, hands flying to her face, and made herself as small as possible in her seat. "Sorry," she murmured behind her hands.

He rolled his eyes and slowed the truck into a crawl. Mawaa was a waypoint a few hours from Sakhrat. Had he anything in his belly—and something to wet his whistle—he'd be able to make the last stretch. Thanks to her, however, that was not going to happen.

Unlike its neighboring town, Mawaa was all polished limestone and red clay. The whitewashed walls of the town were trimmed with blue canopies and banners, and acacias full of green needles lined the gates. Torches hung near the gates. In daylight, no doubt the town would be gleaming.

He drove the truck beside a fenced lot. The men at the gates stirred from their posts. While it was unusual for travelers to take refuge in the town so late at night, it wasn't unheard of. The guards, dressed in lightweight robes, watched them.

Mister Redfox pushed the hand brake down and killed the engine. His ears rang from the piercing silence that followed; they'd spent hours with the backdrop of hums, whirs, and rumbles. He smacked his lips. "You stay here," he croaked. "I'll be back with supplies."

"There won't be any stalls or shops open at this hour," she said with a frown. "We have no money, either."

"Never said I was gonna buy anything." He opened his door and then turned back to her. "Stay here. I mean it."

She nodded, and the Viathan turtle retreated into her shell. He closed the door. His gait was wobbly, and she peered over the dashboard to watch him. He gestured and nodded his head, and the guards ushered him into the town.

Miss McGarden huffed. He was a snarly viper to boot when it came to handling her, but apparently Mister Redfox could be a charmer when the occasion called for it. Even though his clothes were still singed and full of holes.

Sighing, she settled in her seat and rubbed her sore ankles. She'd stay, just as he told her to.

Mawaa was a town with rich history, as were many of Desierto's smaller urban locations. Throughout Desierto's more violent history, Mawaa had survived battles, wars, pillages, and savage sandstorms. During Black Steel's reign, the town was a hub used to sell slaves of conquered nations. The central location of Mawaa was ideal for determining property that would be sold into slavery, or those chained peoples who would be left to bleach in the desert.

Only the sturdy survived the walks to Mawaa.

Now, though, the town was a slave to ridiculous Fioran marketing strategies. The buildings were large and box-like, as was most of Desierto's traditional architecture, but the atmosphere was largely Fioran. Blue banners, blue trimmings, carpets with blue patterns, leafy trees, trimmed shrubs, flowers, fences—Mawaa couldn't just be a refuge; it had to feel like one. And in the courtyard was a statue of a Viathese mythological creature, the Pegasus, rearing and kicking his forelegs into the air. The only place bluer than Mawaa was Viath.

Gajeel snorted. Give a man a bed, roof, meal, and water, and he was good to go. It was too much for his tastes, and he could only imagine the unnecessary expenses the government added to their balance sheets to finance such extravagance.

The librarian was correct: all the stores were closed, save for the tap rooms. Laughter and idle chatter rang throughout the town, as patrons enjoyed a late drink on cozy verandas and romantic balconies. Somewhere, a musician plucked the mellow strings of an oud.

He prowled through the spacious streets, trying not to trudge through the sand, and passed a well-lit rest. Servers dressed in fancy silk robes and dainty slippers poured drinks, all of which were probably alcoholic. In Sakhrat, the girls would have had much more leg showing. Had he not looked like he'd just survived the traps of an ancient forgotten kingdom, Gajeel would have seduced a drink or two out of the serving girl.

That was out of the question.

He turned down a side alley. Above him, clothes lines zigged and zagged between the buildings. Closer to the gates was a pen for horses and camels. He'd take what he needed from the closed shops and stalls, but first things first: water.

There weren't many torches here, and there were no guards in sight. After all, who were they to stop a traveler from deciding to tack up and leave? Still, Gajeel swept his eyes across the pen as a precaution.

Precaution. All-things metal, he was starting to take a page from the librarian's book.

He was quiet, despite his wobbling legs, as he unlatched the gate and entered the pen. Beneath the roofing of the stables were troughs filled with water. He couldn't push past the curious, albeit annoyed, heads of camels fast enough.

He guzzled the water by the handful. Splashing the back of his neck, dunking his head in. He gripped the edge of the trough and sighed. Water dripped from his nose and chin. He reached for another handful.

Torchlight twinkled against the water, and something soft padded behind him. Taking in a deep breath, for the chit was no doubt testing his limits on purpose, he braced for impact.

Someone cleared their throat. That was not the librarian. Turning, Gajeel frowned to find five men flanking him, all of their hands casually resting on their pistols inside of their waistcoats. "What have we here? What do we make of a man bent over a trough this late at night?" one of the men mused aloud. His accent reeked of Fiore.

Shit.

"Not like the camels need much of it," Mister Redfox said, gesturing at the water. "What's it to you?"

They smirked at each other before one of them pulled their pistol out. "You know, Desertian law says it's legal to shoot a thief. Is that what you are? A thief in the night?"

Scowling, he answered, "Well it ain't mornin'." Mister Redfox reached for his revolver.

"Calm down, men," a suave voice drawled from behind the group. The lackeys parted to reveal a portly man adorned in a Fioran suit and polished leather shoes that reflected the firelight, regardless of all the sand and dust. "There's no need for that. Give this gentleman some breathing room."

Mister Redfox curled his lip. He didn't have the head for this pansy.

The rotund man stopped a handful of feet in front of Mister Redfox. "I believe this squabble can be solved peacefully, if you are willing to listen, man."

Snorting, Mister Redfox shot his men a doubtful look. "Depends how trigger-happy their fingers are." The portly man nodded and raised a hand. His lackeys holstered their guns. Sliding his revolver back into his vest, Mister Redfox said, "Didn't catch a name from you, either."

"Nor did I," the suave man answered. Fine, then. Mister Redfox could play his game. "Consider me the 'ace' of Mawaa, my good man."

"Ace?" Mister Redfox frowned. He grimaced when the stout man twirled and bowed before him. Mister Redfox wasn't sure how many more theatrics he could tolerate from this circus reject.

"The overseer, the man in charge, the boss. Call me what you like. But you," he drawled, shooting him a two-fingered salute, "are a man of the world, are you not? You have a smell about you."

Ignoring that comment, for Mister Redfox hadn't bathed in about a week—and he himself thought he was ripe around the pits and crotch—he growled, "Well? My ears ain't stuffed. I'm listenin'."

He nodded and swept his hair back. "I am a man of opportunity. A businessman, you may say, open to negotiations and trades." He looked Mister Redfox up and down. "You've nothing to trade, I take it?"

"And if I did?"

"Well," he sighed, and straightened the lapels of his coat, "then you'd be paid the present value of all goods, and this night never happened. You have nothing, not even in your truck?"

"What truck," Mister Redfox said with a straight face.

The businessman laughed and clasped his hands together. "Oh, my good man," he announced. As if this action were a cue, three men marched into the pen, dragging a struggling and kicking librarian between them. They had her—his—revolver policed. Mister Redfox's brow creased as he gauged the situation. These three new men were pretty boys, and their suits didn't boast the telltale signs of muscle. The other five men, however, seemed to be the brawn of the operation, and they had pistols.

Shit!

The three pansies dropped the librarian at their feet. Mister Redfox was surprised her neck didn't snap from how fast she looked between her captors until her gaze finally settled on him. Those big hazel eyes were spooked. Quickly, she scurried and hid behind him.

"What is this?" the businessman asked. Interest quirked his brow, and he swept his hair back in a grand gesture. "A surprise? A reunion?" His lackeys nodded in agreement, and a calculating gleam streaked across the businessman's eyes as he watched the librarian grip Mister Redfox's vest. "Oh yes, oh yes!"

Mister Redfox grimaced. This clown needed to stop now. His head felt like a log that had one too many axes taken to it.

"Man," he began, "what about this lovely creature? A precious desert flower—"

"An oasis," one of the three pretty boys chirped.

"A songbird," another chimed.

"A diamond," the third and—thank steel—final one chattered.

Mister Redfox had several other choice words he preferred to describe her as.

The businessman nodded. "A lovely young lady is worth much to those who know the right people. Our offer stands, my good man: the little bird behind you for what has been promised."

"What," the librarian hissed. She looked back and forth between Mister Redfox and the other men. "I am a person!" she insisted, waving a shackled fist at them. "I'm not a piece of property to be sold—"

"How much?"

"What!" She gaped at Mister Redfox and shook her head. The other men had encircled them; the odds of fleeing were not in her favor. She pounded her fists against Mister Redfox's biceps in a weak barrage. "What did you just say!"

"I said," he repeated, not paying her any mind when she started yanking on his vest, "how much? For the girl?"

The librarian's assault halted in shock. The businessman smiled in pleased triumph. "One-hundred Fioran jewels."

Mister Redfox spat. "That's a week's tab at a hotel. Six-hundred."

"Are you really selling me—"

"Three-hundred," the businessman said.

"Six."

"Three-hundred fifty."

"Six."

"I'm not for sale—you can't—!"

"Five-hundred is my last offer."

"Deal." Mister Redfox locked an arm around her waist and walked her over to the men. She fought against him, but his hands were stronger than her skinny arms.

"Fi'nnek haskara! Mesh'ish unlat pa'halel undz dzi'ir rhepshat mo harri fer'tir de!" She snarled and cursed him, flinging her fists against his studded arm. Her curses teetered and fell into every language she knew. By Mavis, she was cursing him in every country's native tongue. He wasn't sure how she knew so many slurs. Women shouldn't know that many expletives.

"You have made a fine bargain, my good man," the businessman said as he thumbed through his wallet. Mister Redfox eyed the fat wallet. The businessman produced the crisp notes and offered them to Mister Redfox between two fingers. Gajeel paused, staring at the money, and hope seared its way up Miss McGarden's stomach.

Mister Redfox, still with a thoughtful frown on his face, said, "Did ya a favor by chaining her up. Should be another fifty jewel, don't ya think?"

She shrieked and started pounding his arm with renewed vigor.

"Five-hundred fifty," the businessman agreed. He folded another bill into his hand. His lackeys took the librarian off Mister Redfox's hands, and then the two men shook. "A pleasure doing business with you, my good man. Oh yes, oh yes!"

Shoving the bills in his shirt pocket, Mister Redfox nodded and said, loud enough for the librarian to hear, "Broad was a pain in my ass, anyway. Talks too much for a woman." He was taken aback by the glare she sent him over her shoulder. The raw anger there was fiercer than her tiny fists, and damn him, there was betrayal burning in those hazel eyes. He scowled.

"Indeed, I am sure," the businessman chuckled. "As promised: the money, and this night never happened."

"Just one more thing," Mister Redfox said, walking over to the pansies trying to restrain the screaming and kicking researcher. "Gotta make sure the goods ain't damaged." Ignoring the confused looks the pretty boys gave him, he gripped the librarian by her shoulders and crushed his mouth against hers.

It lasted for only a few seconds, but for each of them, she was utterly shell-shocked and braindead. He released her with a pop, leaving her scabbed lips parted and plump, and nipped her jaw.

"Get his wallet," he breathed into her ear.

A/N: ...And I'm back! Hello, everyone! Anyone out there still reading? Ah, sorry for such a late update. University is very demanding, and most days I'm so, so so so so tired and after I'm done with homework, club activities, job hunting, interviews, all I do is sleep. I'm such a grandma.

But hey! A new chapter :D Any guesses as to whom the businessman is? XD

...And now that I've had some sleep, I'll extend this author's note. First and foremost, I'd like to address a reviewer of this chapter, Yotsvrru: you can find your lemons at the grocery store. Should be less than three bucks. But for real, get out of here if that's all you came for. Did you even read the chapter? Go look elsewhere if that's all you want from a fanfiction.

Anyways. I've been picking at this chapter since January; it took me 3 months to finally be satisfied with it. I'm not thrilled with the chapter, but if I look at it any longer my head is going to explode. Aside from that, my job search is still on. I'm applying everywhere in the US and in Japan (I speak Japanese), but so far nothing. Sigh. I just need a job after graduation that actually has to do with my major. I'm terrified of graduating and having 0 income when Penn State starts sending me reminders of my student loans that need to be paid. Oh, the dreary life of a college student.

And SHAMELESS PLUG right here: one of my best friends has launched a YouTube channel. She has dwarfism, so her channel has a lot to do with her day-to-day life and how people treat her differently because she has dwarfism. If you are interested in checking out her videos, just search for Jaz Brown on YouTube.

I'll answer reviews now!

JadeOccelot: Yes, his bloodline has something to do with it :) And yeah, Gajeel won't start referring to Levy by her first name until, well... he actually cares enough to know her first name. Teehee! Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy this chapter too!

MoonbeamMadness: Hey! Hope this chapter answered some questions (and of course made you wonder more). Thanks for reading and sticking around! :)

Painting Dandelions: Yes yes yes thank you for noticing why I don't have them refer to each other by first names. This chapter isn't as action-packed as the last one, but I hope it doesn't disappoint! :)

levyredfoxx3: Oh gosh you're going to squeal at the ending of this one aren't you XD And yeah, he does care from a human to human sort of way, but he isn't entirely interested in her wellbeing. For whatever purpose he has in mind for her, he needs her to stay alive and well.

xblood kittenx: FIX MY DOOR! XD Thanks for sticking around and reading!

Shortycake: Thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it :)

Usweasil: ...but will they stay looking up? Thanks for reading! :)

OziGirl16: Hi! Hope this chapter didn't disappoint! :)

MissGhoulie: Oh I cannot tell you how many fics botch Gajeel's characterization. There is room for author interpretation, but making him too nice is just... not him. He has his shining moments, but he can still be an asshole. And besides, he is a man with reservations. He isn't one of the Trimens. And heehee yes, Levy isn't exactly ready to go strutting down the runway, and he's being a jerk about it. But he has his moments! Haha, thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed the chapter! :)

Guest: Thank you! Hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

lynnekelly87: Hi! Thank you, I appreciate your feedback and the time you took to read my story. Hope you stick around, and that you enjoyed this chapter! :)