It was boiling in thos useless excuse for a kingdom.
Or maybe it felt that way because Celaena Sardothien had been lounging on the lip of the terra cotta roof since midmorning an arm flung over her eyes showly baking in the sun like the loaves of flatbread the city's poorest cizens left on their windowsills becauuse they couldn't afford brick ovens.
And god's she was sick o1f flatbread they called it.
