“You have fallen so low this time.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

The city is colder at night. Even with the summer solstice fast approaching, a woman with a green headscarf can see her breath. There is somebody already waiting for her under one of the numerous bridges in Dustlight. She sits on her foldable chair, with a thick, woolen blanket over her shoulders.

“Look what the fox dragged in.” A woman with a butterfly mask enunciates every syllable, in an unholy mix of elvish and Zemnian. Kalia grimaces.

“You know there are other places we could meet up, right?” she asks, but not really. There is an unscrewed bottle of clear alcohol in one hand and a coat in another.

“Yes, but I’m not going to step on Thieves’ territory, not today.” Kalia hands her the bottle. It has a decorative, albeit pathetic blue ribbon tied around its neck, in the same shade as the woman’s mask. “Not while your goody two-shoes acquaintances are inside city walls.”

“That’s fair.” Kalia leans back on the stone underside of the bridge. She folds her arms, but not before the other woman can see a wedding ring on her finger. She doesn’t comment – instead, she unscrews the bottle and takes a swing. Kalia waits for her turn.

The vodka burns their tongues in a familiar way. They were once again fifteen or sixteen, sitting around a campfire and sharing a half-full metal cup and body heat. Sneaking out into the forest, away from the rest of the caravan. Doing whatever it is that teenagers do on the shortest night of the year.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened? If things went differently that night?” Kalia asks, only a whisper over almost complete silence. She hands back the bottle. The other woman shrugs.

“Sometimes.” she pauses, and takes another sip. “You know, I’ve never forgiven you for that.”

It’s Kalia’s turn to shrug. “Never expected you to.”

“I think we turned out alright, all things considered.”

They both laughed, bright and clear, in the almost-summer air of Dustlight.