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“Yes.” I look at him funny, because he’s gone rigid. “What’s wrong with my name?”

“It’s an Old Rhavnan word for water.”

“I know.”

Ara actually, at its core, means a specific kind of water – warm, salty, nourishing seawater. The kind of water old Rhavnan ladies like to bathe in, believing it will cure all their ailments.

His mouth creases, like something has bothered him.

And then I get the ridiculous idea that actually, he might be blushing.

“It is…” he trails off.

“What?”

“My name is Drake.”

“Oh.”

His name means fire.

It’s very rare, and considered very good luck in Rhavnan tradition, to meet someone with a complimentary name to yours.

“Fate or chance?” he asks, with something like humour.

As Rhavnan people are highly superstitious, the answer to that often-asked question is almost always fate.

“Chance, probably. Although you can never meet my grandmother. She’d be planning a wedding.”

He says, half-smiling, “My mother would be, too.”

Just then, the sun seems to change. Becomes harsh. It’s catching his face in a different way, highlighting his deep-set eyes, his strong jaw.

I sit up swiftly. “You didn’t work at the Palace, did you? You look familiar.”

His smile fades fast.

“No. No, I’m from the west.”

I frown. “You don’t have a Banko accent.”

For some reason, that makes him laugh. Just once. It’s a strange sound, coming from him. I’d started to think he wasn’t capable of it.

Funny how the only time he’s laughed at something I’ve said is when it wasn’t a joke.

I wait, but he offers me nothing more, so I let it go. I suppose it wasn’t really my business anyway.

I suddenly find myself thinking about Eric. He must have made it home by now. But what if he’s hurt, or afraid?

“I need to go,” I state, fast. “I need to find my brother.”

“May I offer you some advice before you do? My way of paying my debt.”

“Yes?” I say, half expecting his advice to be something ridiculous.

It is.

“You should become a soldier. Your brother, too.”