color your judgment

Chapter 2

"They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate."

— from Lord of the Flies, by William Golding

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Even in midsummer, Aberleen remained cloaked in mist.

Suppressing a shiver, I rubbed at my forearms, hoping the friction would be enough to temporarily chase away the chill that threatened to settle inside my bones. At half past eleven in the evening, most of the taverns were already closed, but I squinted in the darkness anyway, my eyes straining to catch sight of any shop window that still had its lights on.

Gods, I was starving. My last meeting for today had been with a particularly difficult client—an old lord so unbearably fastidious and demanding that I immediately regretted ever placing his scheduled consultation at the end of my day. Even though we had already reached an agreement on our project design last week, he only brought up his grievances and revisions today, so it took extra hours to address and settle all of them. Suffice to say, that meant a skipped dinner—but such was the life of a humble architect, because such was the privilege of the client.

Pulling my coat tighter around myself, I hurried along the dark streets, each of my footfalls a resounding clack against the damp pavement. Tough luck, I thought absently as I rounded a dim corner. Someone's going to sleep hungr—

A hiss escaped my lips as I crashed into someone, my arms instinctively coming up to brace myself against the impact. Was I so tired that I couldn't even pay attention to my periphery? As I caught my bearings, I immediately tried to identify what I had collided with.

Before me stood a tall, looming figure, presence almost impalpable, as if a shadow.

Cloaked and hooded in the darkness, however, it was near impossible to even see the person's face. A cold sort of dread suddenly seized at my chest, igniting my fight-or-flight response, but before I could turn to sprint in the opposite direction, the person's hand had already shot out to catch my wrist.

"What business do you have to be out this late?" said the stranger, his voice as cold and clipped as the mists that hung above our heads.

Despite the alarm bells that started ringing in my head about how dangerous this situation could possibly become, I still heard myself click my tongue in annoyance as I tried to tug my wrist free. "None of yours."

The grip on my arm only tightened in response, and it took a considerable amount of effort on my end to not wince. Granted, I probably did look a tad suspicious, skulking about the streets in a dark coat and a hood, hours past curfew. But perhaps it was the tiredness, the overwork, the frustration, and even the hunger that ultimately made me demand, "Let go of me."

"Don't be foolish. It is not safe for anyone to be out at this hour," came his frigid reply. Dragging me underneath the sputtering firelight of a nondescript alley, I suddenly felt the weight of his gaze scrutinize what little visual information the dying torch could provide, even if it was, at best, only my silhouette. Strangely, I felt more judged rather than appraised. "Especially someone like you."

"But you're out here, too," I countered, an indignant crease worrying itself between my brows. Truth be told, I knew that I really should just keep my mouth shut to be safe, but I was already having a bad day, and I was enduring it on an empty stomach, too. I simply did not have the time nor patience to be chided, much less by a stranger. "With how you're hurting my arm, I'd say you're the one making me unsafe."