Khysan raced through the village, desperate to find water. He had enough food in his pack to last the day, but it's been far too long without a proper drink. The sword on his back felt increasingly heavy, and his legs felt like the bones would shatter any moment. He was tired. So tired. But he had to keep pushing.

Auriela was back at home and needed him. Since their parents died three years ago, Khysan was the only one able to provide for them, but with the regime the way it was now, finding anything was difficult.

He shook the thoughts from his head and continued onward. The smell of fresh pastries from a shop enticed him and he stumbled inside, barely able to hold himself up.

Khysan stumbled into the Forge Tailors with the last of his pride crumbling beneath him. His pack, as empty as it was, felt like lead strapped to him, and his arms were too weak to even unhook the sword form his back. He coughed dryly, and shook as he hauled himself to the counter. A woman stood behind it, poring over a large stretch of dry, scratchy linen with fabric shears held aloft.

"Please, Miss, do you have help?" He sputtered.

The woman peered at him through her smudged glasses and set the shears down beside her.

"What is your name, boy?"

"Khysan," he croaked out. "Khysan Heron."

The woman rose, long dress scraping the dusty wood floor and retrieved a small vial of what looked like water. She pressed it into his hands and he drank greedily, liquid slipping down his throat and coating in a thick, syrupy soothing balm. His cough disappeared instantly, and his arms became enough to support him once more.

"Come," she said, motioning him into a back room, lit by candles and scented with rose petals.

Khysan obeyed, and sat down on a large orange pouf, allowing the warmth and softness around him to envelop him. The woman presented him with a warm glass of saffron milk, and lay out semolina cookie and pastries. Khysan ate greedily, allowing the perfumed taste of pistachio and fat to nourish him. He began to wrap a pastry in a clean-ish cloth, to take home for Aurelia, but the woman turned on her heel and stopped him.

"None of my food may be taken outside, Khysan," she said, wresting the bundle from his hands. Khysan's stomach lurched as the woman pulled the cloth from his grasp. The pastry tumbled to the floor, scattering crumbs across the carpeted ground.

"But my sister--" he started, rising from the pouf. His legs, though restored moments before, suddenly felt wobblyagain.

"Your sister." The woman smiled, and Khysan noticed for the first time that her teeth were whiter than he had seen anyone's since the regime's rations to healthcare. "You have a sister. How sweet."

She turned away from him, her long dress trailing through the petals like they parted for her of their own accord. When she moved to the window, Khysan could have sworn her feet didn't quite touch the ground.

"What is your name?" he asked, attempting to regain some semblance of control. "I gave you mine."

"Names are currency, boy." She glanced back, and her eyes were the color of burnished copper, shot through with veins of gold. "And you've already paid for more than you know."

Khysan's throat tightened. he had given her his name. He had eaten her food. Suddenly, he remembered his mother's old poems, the nursery rhymes, the old wives' tales he had long buried in a box marked childhood follies. Hospitality freely given is a gift, but hospitality accepted is a contract. Never eat the food of the fae. Never give to them your birthname. It will bind you to them eternally.

He tried to stand, to leave, but his legs wouldn't obey. It was as though roots had grown from the pouf and wrapped around his ankles. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"What have you done to me?" His voice came out smaller than he intended.

The woman approached him slowly, and as she drew near, Khysan could smell on her the scent of forests that had never known sunlight, dark and damp and wild.

"I offered you sustenance. That is a debt." She reached out and tilted his chin up with one delicate finger. "And we do not forgive lightly."

"I don't understand," Khysan breathed, if to delay his acceptance of the situation more than anything.

"You will," the woman said, releasing him, feet springing back to being under his command instantly. "For now, you may go. Tell your sister Auriela that you'll be back every evening at sunset." Her copper eyes glinted. "Don't be late."

Khysan stumbled toward the door, half-expecting her to stop him. But she simply returned to her linen, as though the encounter had been no more than a passing fancy.

"Oh, and Khysan?" she called just as his hand touched the door frame. "My name is Isadora. And we're going to be seeing quite a lot of each other."

He ran.