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features. Something in the way her buttery voice resonated in his ears. When she took his hand, electricity jolted up his arm and into his lungs, stealing his breath. He had never been the kind of guy to chase girls around with wide-eyed infatuation—he didn’t have time for such frivolous things  when there were vines to be tended and knives to hurl against unsuspecting tree trunks. But it wasn’t like that with her. When he was with El…it was like the rest of the world faded into the background.
    Although she adamantly refused to talk about her family or background, she couldn’t hide that she was every bit a well-bred, high-born girl—he guessed the daughter of a government official or land baron. Someone high-ranking enough that their meetings had to be kept an absolute secret under what she dramatically swore was “the pain of death.” Her mystery only fueled the inferno growing in him. And, although he could never claim to be an expert on the aristocracy, she was different than what he would have expected from some heiress. The sheer fact that she wanted to hang around him at all was proof of that.
    He glanced over at her as she chatted on about her last trip to the northern province of Batem as they snuck through the dank alley to watch the sunset from the best rock point he knew. She went on, completely oblivious to the fact they were climbing into the depths of Arelanda City’s underbelly with each step, carefully avoiding shattered glass and decaying rats. Without warning, a skeletal figure manifested in the shadows in front of them.  El shrieked, her eyes widening in fear. She grabbed his hand so tightly he felt bones grinding. Instinctively, he put his arm out to protect her from any potential danger, but sighed when he realized it was just a withering gray woman clutching what he was sure was a dead baby. A tattered beggar woman was the least of their worries in the dismal shipyard backstreets. The woman was curled against a wooden crate, draped in rat-eaten shawls, clutching the tiny, skeletal infant to her deflated bare breast. She cooed and willed the tiny thing to nurse in a nearly inaudible voice, but her milk appeared as dried up as the rest of her frail body. Rogan instantly regretted taking El down this way. It was so easy to forget her skin was paper thin compared to his. He turned to pull her away.
    “C’mon,” he whispered, taking her arm, but she hesitated. Realizing the lack of threat, El’s eyes fell into sadness. She shook off Rogan’s grip and gingerly edged forward, staring in bewilderment at the sight of the frail woman.
    “El, don’t,” he insisted, but she ignored him. It dawned on him at that moment that she had probably never actually seen starvation’s vicious face. She had probably never even known a growling stomach.
    “Is she…” El began in a choked whisper. “Is the baby dead?” The words barely came out. Rogan examined the pair more closely. The infant was a sliver of frail gray life, but he detected a faint heave of breath in its sallow face.
    “It’s alive,” he whispered. “But I don’t think it will be for long.” He reached for her hand. “We should keep moving.”
    She scowled and huffed at him, jerking her hand from his grip.
    “You mean to just walk past a dying baby without fetching a physician?” She said it with such a mix of hauteur and naiveté that Rogan had to stifle a smirk. “Oh it’s amusing?”
    Rogan stifled a heated retort. He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed.
    “You think the woman starving to death in a shipyard alley, trying to feed her nearly dead infant from a powdered breast, never thought a doctor could be useful?” He asked emphatically. El opened her mouth but the sudden realization of her ignorance crept across her face.
    “I don’t suppose she would have the means,” she murmured, more of a statement than a question. Rogan took her hand again and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
    “No,” he sighed,