Fallien burned. The sun, in protest of its own torrid brilliance refused to set as summer reached its zenith and threatened to slay the onset of autumn with vengeance. Mordelain, freshly home from a semester in the Library City of Adages regretted returning the moment she stepped through the Void Between Worlds.

“What in the high hells is this?”

Though tanned and well-versed in the climate of her newfound home, this summer threatened to break her title as Fallien’s prime Runner; a messenger come defender who had risen through the ranks to the highest of accolades in the city. Rumour had it she was threatening to start her own House, to give the Freerunners who had taught her everything something to worry about.

“It is a trifle warm, yes.”

The il’Jhain glowered at her companion from across the table. She slumped onto the mound of cushions and gestured for an attendant to bring them a parasol. As their needs were tended to, she wiped her forehead with her sleeve and grimaced at the damp patch.

“I’ve never known it to be this hot.”

Her companion smiled. Before he spoke, Mordelain knew exactly what he was going to say.

“Oh save it, I’m not in the mood for frivolities and wordplay.” She nodded politely to the assistant when the sun was hidden from view. Even beneath the parasol she could feel the rays clawing at her skin. “Give me some good news.”

“Frivolities indeed.” Buckahn frowned. “I was merely going to inform you that the climate has soured these past few years in the wake of the fall of Lornius. Volcanic ash has sealed in the heat from the cold expanse of the stars.”

“Spare me the history lesson. The semester has ended, and I am done with teaching for the season of death.” She meant summer, but with no hope of relaxation whilst her homeland in parts literally burned, she was starting to wish it were autumn.

“We must adapt, as ever we have to survive.”

“Irrakam seems to be unphased by this change. If anything, the bazaar is busier in the midday inferno than ever it was. Did I miss something?” Tantalised by the array of food on the table between them Mordelain helped herself to dates and poured them both a draft of what she hoped was intoxicatingly strong liquor.

“Though it is appreciated you taking the children to other worlds to teach them of bigger things, it is time I taught you about your other responsibilities.” Buckahn’s frown turned into an expression Mordelain knew all too well: scorn.

“Hold on a moment.” She drained the glass and smiled broadly when her throat began to burn. “Ah, perfect. It’s Antlion Whiskey.” So called for its similar burning sensation and paralytic effect if drunken carelessly to the creature of its namesake. “Makes anything bearable. Go on.”

“The heat has caused great change in the capital. As water levels dropped our way of life was upended. Half the docks are dry now, dismantled to build palisades around the city’s noria.”

Mordelain raised an eyebrow. “They’re rationing water?”

“There was no choice. Either that or watch Irrakam crumble to dust. Few ships come here now, and we have had to resort to new frontiers to see through these humid months.”

“You can say scorching. Insufferable. Volcanic. It won’t hurt you.” She popped a date into her mouth and chewed it noisily.

Unphased by her attempts at humour, the merchant continued. “You have been on our world for four decades, give or take. But this is not the first time Fallien has endured the Sayf Tawil.”

“Sayf Tawil? I don’t know those words.” Mordelain tried to remember her Fallien but struggled.

“The Long Summer. Some call it the Sahr Alzajaj – melting glass, because the fields of storm glass turn to a sea.”

“The glass has literally melted?” Mordelain tried to picture it. “I have to see that.”

“Much of Fallien is inhospitable at the best of times, even for the Bedouin. But with the glass unusable for construction and crafting our resources are drawn thin.” Buckahn pointed skyward. “Even her Lady’s tower has wilted.”

Mordelain followed his finger to the palace. Its stoic heights were visible from across Fallien, a black needle set against a golden skyline. Centuries ago artisans had cladded the tower with glass that made it shine brilliant in the midday sun. Now, she could see, most of the glass was gone.

“How did they survive the last Sayf Tawil?” Mordelain turned her gaze back to her companion.

“With great difficulty. Each Long Summer took thousands of lives, and this one has been no exception. The Bedouin have returned to Irrakam and only by the mercy of their stores and willingness to share their wells has our home survived.”

“How are they carrying the water south?”

“Constant caravans which are dwindling in number. The heat has brought a wave of fear and aggression to Fallien’s beasts. The il’Jhain have lent their strength to help, but it is not enough.”

“I feel like this history lesson is leading to a job.”

“The Freerunners have abandoned the outpost to protect the caravans. Somebody, however, needs to deliver the messages of Fallieni businesses to ensure what trade we have remains.” Buckahn pointed at Mordelain. “That means you.”

Mordelain rolled her eyes. “You want me to single-handily delivery thousands of messages and packages every month?”

The merchant’s silence gave her an answer.

“In this heat?”

“Who else but the Daughter of Nine Worlds?”

Mordelain scoffed. “You tell your friend you can teleport and suddenly you’re everybody’s darling.” He was right, though. No other il’Jhain could claim to have the reach she did. “I can’t do it alone.”

Buckahn broke his solemn expression. “I did not expect you to. Long Summer or not, now is the time to build connections and make a claim on the Outpost. You can finally exchange those tokens for an office.”

Mordelain smirked. “An office with lots of fans.”