Late afternoon settled warm and honey-colored across the terraces of the Exile’s Oasis. The sandstone still held the day’s heat, and thin veins of fulgurite glinted faintly where they cut through walls and steps like frozen lightning. Market stalls were in the slow process of folding in on themselves. Cloth awnings sagged. Clay jars were corked. Someone carried a shallow basket toward the low steps near the Council Dome, its contents wrapped in damp cloth.

The children saw the basket before they saw anything else.

They abandoned whatever half-finished argument had occupied them and converged as one body. The cloth slipped just enough to reveal the thick, thorn-brushed skins beneath. Exile’s Delight, deep rose and gold, beaded with condensation. The split-prick fruit was heavy with sweet water, the kind that stained lips and wrists and left seeds stuck between teeth.

The basket was set down in the shade, and a hand remained firmly on the lid.

A fulgurite orb lay not far away, abandoned from some earlier contest. It was the size of two fists together, polished to a dull shine, its surface faintly clouded where sand had scuffed it. In the sun it had warmed to the temperature of the terrace itself.

One of the children snatched it up, and Heatball began without ceremony.

They split by instinct, half to the left, half to the right, shoving and pointing until two loose clusters formed. A girl with budding deer-horns vaulted onto a low wall and thumped her heels in triumph. Opposite her, a broad-shouldered boy with scaled forearms the color of sun-burnished bronze cracked his knuckles and bared sharp teeth in a grin. Another child with hair that never quite lay flat bounced in place, ozone sharp in the air around her. A boy with smooth gray skin rolled his shoulders and dug his heels into the sand as though preparing to brace a door. Another girl wiped her palms down her tunic and eyed the orb with fluid suspicion.

And among them, the smallest boy with nothing visible at all shifted from foot to foot, watching.

Two breaths. Then you lobbed it. Everyone knew the rules.

The scaled boy took the first hold. 

One. He pressed the orb to his chest and drew in a deep breath.

Two. His grip tightened. Heat bled faintly into the glass.

He flung it hard toward his side.

Lob.

The orb flashed faint amber where his warmth lingered. The next catcher sucked in air through clenched teeth, nearly dropping it as heat bit into her palms. She steadied herself.

One.

Two.

Lob.

The storm-touched child intercepted mid-arc, static already prickling across her fingers. The orb snapped once, a small white crackle that made a merchant standing nearby stiffen visibly. She grinned, shoulders high with triumph.

One.

Two.

Lob.

It struck the ground short of its target and rolled. Every child within reach dove.

Sand erupted in a golden cloud. Knees skidded. Elbows hooked. The orb hissed faintly where it met the ground, shedding heat and charge in the same breath. For a moment it was only glass and weight.

The water-touched girl came up with it next. Moisture bloomed across its surface almost immediately, a thin sheen that made it slick in her grip. She blinked, startled, as it slid half an inch through her fingers. She clutched tighter.

One.

Two.

Lob.

The fae-touched girl leapt, horns catching the light, and snagged it one-handed. The throw that followed bent just slightly, curving farther than expected. The stone-aspected boy stepped into its path. When he caught it, it grew denser. His arms dipped before he steadied, boots grinding deeper into the sand.

One.

Two.

Lob.

The orb dropped faster than it should have.

The smallest boy lunged, barely getting both palms under it before it thudded against his forearms. He staggered, breath bursting from him, then found his balance. In his hands it was only warm and heavy, nothing more.

One.

Two.

Lob.

The Dunewarden on the steps counted each hold on her fingers. Two taps against her thigh. A shift of her gaze when possession changed sides. She did not speak, but her breath moved in quiet rhythm with theirs. A young Sothren pup lay in the shade at her boots, tail thumping lazily whenever sand sprayed too close.

The foreign merchant stood stiff-backed, satchel strap pulled tight in his grip. His eyes followed every spark, every flash of amber light, every curl of mist. When static crawled across the orb’s surface, he flinched. When it struck the sand and hissed, he took an involuntary step back.

Heatball found its cadence regardless.

Pass. Intercept. Breath. Breath. Lob.

Each child left something behind in the glass. A flicker of warmth. A bite of static. A slick sheen. A dragging weight. A subtle bend in flight. The orb became a small, shifting inheritance. The next pair of hands had to deal with whatever remained.

The children adjusted without thinking. They wiped the orb on their tunics when it grew slick. They braced elbows when it felt heavy. They lifted higher when its arc had curved. They shook out stung fingers and lunged again.

When it hit the ground, it was always chaos.

The first real tangle came when lingering moisture met a crackle of static. The orb snapped bright and leapt from two sets of fingers at once, bouncing in a jittering arc before settling in the sand. Six bodies collided over it. Someone came up coughing grit. Someone else emerged triumphant, orb pinned against their shoulder.

One.

Two.

Lob.

The scent of cut fruit began to slip into the air as the basket lid shifted slightly under the adult’s steady hand. The children felt it. The stakes tightened. Breaths grew sharper. Throws grew harder. The orb grew too hot in one child’s grip, then too slick in the next, then stubbornly heavy before resetting again in the sand. The merchant’s gaze darted from face to face, nervousness plain on his features.

The smallest boy waited for the reset.

The orb struck the ground once more and shed its last shimmer in a soft hiss. He dove with the others, slid through sand, and came up clutching glass. It was stable. Warm. Manageable.

One. A shoulder slammed into his side. He pivoted away.

Two. The Dunewarden’s hands came together in a sharp clap that pierced the dusty air.

He was still holding it.

The Dunewarden gave a single, sharp nod and lifted the lid of the basket. 

The smallest boy cheered and lobbed the orb straight up. It landed in the sand and lay there, faint heat shimmer rising, while the children surged toward the steps. Having had the orb at the game’s close, the smallest boy chose first and did not hurry. He selected one of the largest halves and sat cross-legged in the sand to eat it.

The Dunewarden marked the final tally across her knuckles and indicated the second team’s turn. Immediately, hands began flying in protest. Several children insisted, with emphatic gestures and indignant faces, that their side had held it longer during the middle stretch when the orb had grown heavy. Others argued just as fiercely that the slick passes counted twice.

The Dunewarden listened without interrupting. When the motions grew too exaggerated, she simply held up the hand she had used to count. The children fell quiet long enough to examine her knuckles. The tally stood.

Exile’s Delight was split open in quick, practiced motions. Thick skins peeled back to reveal wet, jeweled flesh. Juice ran down chins and wrists alike. The scaled boy’s bronze forearms gleamed with pink sheen. The fae-touched girl wiped sticky fingers across her skirt without concern for the small horns at her brow. The storm-touched child’s hair finally settled, static dampened by sugar. The water-touched girl laughed as juice dripped from her elbows. The stone-aspected boy leaned back against warm sandstone and bit into his share with solemn satisfaction.

Any grumbling that remained subsided into chewing.

The merchant watched them eat, earlier tension settling into something less certain. His gaze drifted to the fulgurite orb half-buried nearby, then to the lightning-veins lacing the terrace beneath his boots. He glanced once more at the Dunewarden, who had leaned back against the wall, entirely at ease.

The Sothren pup lifted its head, sniffed the sweet air, and thumped its tail once before settling again.

The children finished their fruit and began loudly renegotiating the rules for the next round, arguing over whether interceptions counted as full holds, whether ground time should subtract from totals, and whether slick passes ought to earn a bonus breath.

Across the terrace, the Flame of Mercy burned steady against the paling sky.