A guard stops me as soon as I've stepped foot under the stone archway.

"Line's that way," he grumbles, pointing to a string of people. How did I miss that? I duck my head in embarrassment and shuffle over to the end of the line. Sam's already gone by now, so I just rock back and forth on my feet, studying the guards stationed at the doorway.

Mostly, they lean in and talk to the person passing through, but occasionally, they'll draw them aside and search their belongings. It's the men traveling alone that they target—a silly, sexist practice, if you ask me. I can't help but be thankful, though. It's their idiocy that will help me get past unbothered. I won't complain.

As the line shortens and the sun creeps closer to the horizon, I'm finally able to hear some of the conversations between the guards and those entering. Four people ahead of me, a woman and her young son whisper softly to each other until called to step up to the uniformed man.

"Names," he barks, staring down at the two of them. The mother mumbles the information he demanded. "Purpose for entering the city."

"We're visiting my sister," the woman explains, blissfully louder this time.

"What's your sister's name?"

"Jensen. Teresa Jensen."

The guard doesn't flash even a hint of emotion as he stares down at her. "I'll need to check your bags."

She nods and hands over the large sack that once hung over her shoulder. Her boy does the same with his own pack. The guard hands it off to another man, who begins to search through it. No one says anything, even as the second guard takes a ripe red apple from the woman's bag and pops it in his mouth.

"All clear," he says, but the chunk of apple in his mouth muffles the words. He hands the bags back to the other guard and his partner ushers them through. Still, no one remarks on how he just stole from her. The hair on my neck bristles with mistrust.

The line creeps forward.

Giving them my name won't be an issue, "Arielle" means nothing to them, but I'll have to make up a reason for entering the city. Visiting a made up relative? Seeking work? Sightseeing? Everything I think up has so many holes in it that I'm able to see straight through it.

And what happens if they search me? There's nothing in my bag that would interest them, spare a letter from an "uncle" about how my friend's in a necklace. But if they searched my person... then I'd be arrested. Without a doubt. My nerves take themselves up a notch, and I wipe my palms on my skirt to be rid of the sweat pooling there.

The next person in line is a man with a small cart. It's pulled by an aged gray horse, shorter than Milly was. The horse has a bristle of dark gray hair running from its ears to its tail. Maybe a different species of animal than Milly?

A white sheet covers the cart the steed is pulling. It looks like a snow-covered group of hillsides—all rounded lumps. I lean in and take a deep breath.

Fruit.

"Name." The guard's tone drips with boredom. If he hadn't just ignored his partner's thievery, I might feel sorry for him. After the man answers, he continues his monotonous interview. "Purpose for entering the city."

"To sell fruits from my orchard," the elderly man says. "I pass through this gate every week at the exact same time."

"Doesn't matter if I see you every day, old man. I still have to ask the questions." He snaps his fingers at the other guard. "Hey! Come search this cart." His partner pockets the half-eaten apple and walks over. The old man's posture shifts—just barely. The guards couldn't have noticed. He shoves his hands in his pockets and watches them carefully.

The way he shrinks away from the men as they tug at the tied corners of the covering, his sudden stillness and caution, his dilated eyes following their every movement...

He's hiding something.

I brace myself, wondering what he's stowed away under the white sheet of cloth.

Whatever I expected, the chaos that ensues next is anything but. As soon as the covering is untied and pulled back, two shadows jump out at the men. Children of all ages latch onto the two guards. Even more lunge at the others who rush forward to help.

Shouts rise up around us as the alleged fruit merchant bolts. Several guards chase after him, and the line dissolves into madness. Most of those two were waiting turn away from the city's door, but a few seize the opportunity and sneak through.

I push forward and duck behind the cart. More guards rush out, trying to contain the anxious swell of people, to prevent anyone from getting inside the gate, and to capture rabid children all at the same time. The small horse that was pulling the man's cart brays angrily, kicking his little back hooves up in distress.

"Shh," I say gently, stroking his neck the way I saw Sam do when Milly was startled. His black eyes dart back to study me, and two huge ears rise up from where they'd once flattened against his head. "I'll let you out. Just hold on."

Drawing the dagger out of my waistband, I slice through the leather strap that connects him to the cart. He shakes himself off but doesn't stop watching me.

"Go on," I coo, patting him on the rump. He flashes his teeth, maybe to say thanks, and bolts away from the scene.

The guards still haven't caught all the slippery kids, and it doesn't help when I tilt the cart over and spill hundreds of small round pears onto the grass. The men proceed to slip, crashing to the ground in what has to be the most comic fashion I've ever seen. Their arms pinwheel uselessly as their feet flail for purchase against the pears.

But it's the perfect distraction.

I slide my dagger back into its hiding place and hurry through the door, completely unnoticed.

Compared to the racket outside, Lykke is dead quiet. Ahead of me is a mixture of gray, cube, stone buildings and the shadows they cast between them. The walls of two structures rise on each side of me within a mere arm's reach, and instantly, I'm shut in.

I reach out to touch the rough stone, to stop it from closing in on me, to make sure it can't suffocate me.

But the walls still tilt inwards, squeezing my lungs. I keep looking up, but every jerk of my head sends me into a new wave of dizziness. My heart races.

Desperate to breathe again, I step out of the cool shadows and rush forward. Any escape, any way out, I'll take it. My eyes dart around the small walkway, scan the sides of buildings, watch the people pass on each side of me, inspect the clothes hanging across the walkways on thin strings—it's too much.

Finally, I see a ladder. Attached to the side of a nearby building, it leads up onto a flat roof. It isn't the tallest building in the vicinity, but I'm too desperate to care. I grab the rungs with both hands and scale it like my life depends on it. Once the metal ends, my body hoists itself up, rolls forward, and springs back up in a kneeling position.

With my eyes closed, I lift my chin as close to the sky as I can and drink it in. My lungs scream in blissful relief, and my chest pumps with the speed at which I gulp down fresh air. A breeze tugs at my braid. I imagine that it's water, cooling me down, refueling my senses.

There's no way of knowing exactly how long I kneel there. Eventually, a faint burning in my thighs causes me to sit back on my feet, but otherwise, I don't move. I just want to soak it all in—the wind, the open space, the soft orange sunshine. I hear a woman shouting for someone nearby, her husband or child maybe, and then there's an animal barking at my other ear. Wafts of freshly baked bread drift around me, and the smell of freshly drawn up soap tickles my nose. I taste the tiniest hint of salt in the air, undertoned by the sweat and stink of the city.

If I stay motionless, I'm back home again, sunning on a rock and listening to Finn sing about long-lost lovers. Blessed Divine, what I wouldn't give to be back in the isles. With Finn.

No. You have a war to stop. You have to do this.

My eyes slowly open, and I blink the orange light out of my vision. The horizon wavers in the distance like a mirage, folding under the heat of a yellow-flame sun. A few lone clouds have crept inland for the night. Already, the temperature has dropped.

I take a few more deep breaths and study the city. From up here, I can see everything—the two inner walls that separate the different zones of the city, the greenery of personal guards nestled in yards and on rooftops, the emptying marketplace in a large square area, and in the center of it all, the palace complex. It's so large and sprawling that I can't see the city on the other side. Instead, it's just stone and wall and patches of green until they disappear from view. It sits like a pompous monarch, staring down at lowly peasants.

Made of the same gray stone as the buildings of the city, it's twice as tall, complete with turrets and towers, flags and pinnacles. Honestly, it doesn't look real. It reminds me more of the illustrations in Mama's storybooks than any building I've ever seen before.

I'm almost impressed.

If I didn't know who was sitting inside that castle right now.

Planning an attack and skipping through his gardens with a polished crown on his head.

Suddenly, my chest aches. Finn. I touch the pendant hanging from my neck and whisper, "I wish you could see this, Finny. It really is beautiful."

The castle, the sunset, the city...

"Shame it all belongs to that prince," I growl, rolling my eyes.

Speaking of that disgusting waste of oxygen, I should be moving. It'd be in my best interest to get to the palace before darkness finally sets in.

So, even though I dread being stuck between the buildings again, I drop down the ladder and make my way into the city.

Even though no one speaks to me, the walk is anything but quiet.

Like Hygge, the city of Lykke is a living, breathing organism. Its people constantly mill about, chattering among themselves, laughing, playing games, and gossiping. The familiarity of it all softens the shell I've built up in my chest.

They're just people—not so different from us merfolk.

As I walk past a building with a sitting area out front, a group of women look up at me. They're folding laundry, their hair pulled high off the necks to ward off the heat. Most of them have bronze, sun-kissed skin and sleek black hair, but their eyes are different. Each of them stare at me with a different expression: curiosity, indifference, dislike, and admiration. Without as much as hello, they all go back to their chatting and folding. Some of their words drift towards me, but they're talking in Anjordian, though. I recognize it from the pirates but don't speak it.

I smile and keep walking. How dare I interrupt their work.

A few blocks later, once I'm inside the secondary wall, I pass a large intersection of paths where a herd of children are playing a game. The dirty, rubber ball bounces my way, and the stampede of little feet comes to a screeching halt. They seem to trip over themselves in an effort to not run me over.

I glance down at the ball and grin. It's not that much different from a ball that the young merfolk might play with. I've competed in my fair share of handball tournaments, but I'm sure this isn't the same game at all.

"Miss?" a small voice prods, interrupting my thoughts. I tear my eyes away from the ball and find a girl with a mess of brown curls exploding out of twin hair ties on each side of her head.

She says something in a long string of Anjordian, but it's all I can do to blink at her.

"I don't speak Anjordian," I say with a wince.

But the girl just grins. "It's okay. I asked for our ball," she says in the common tongue.

"Oh! Of course." Instead of picking it up, though, I place one of my bare feet on the top of the ball. "Can you teach me how to play? If it's okay with you, I think I'd like to play."

You're in a hurry, the nagging voice reminds.

I haven't forgotten, but what will five minutes of playing hurt?

As the girl grins up at me with an excitement that is unbelievably contagious, I realize I couldn't take it back if I wanted to.

"Sure!" she squeaks. "It's super easy. All you have to do is—"

She launches herself at me, followed quickly by the rest of the girls, and begins a quick explanation of the rules. It really is extremely simple. Kick the ball back and forth among your teammates, move across and down the "field," and eventually score a goal on the other side. The "goal" is just two wooden barrels, but it works the same.

"Got it?" the little girl asks, bouncing slightly in front of me.

"I think so," I answer with a laugh. "Who's team am I on?"

"Ours!" a shorter, blonde girl replies. She has a smear of dirt across her nose and left cheek. She's barefoot like me, but her clothes are nicer. "It's girls versus boys, anyway. You can't be on their team." The way she says "their" makes me laugh again. Such innocence in that dislike.

"Works for me. Let's go win."

The girls let out a high-pitched chorus of squeals, grab at whatever part of me they can reach, and drag me onto the field. The boys glare, clearly unhappy to have an adult playing with them. If they only knew that I'm essentially on a child's level with these newborn legs, they wouldn't be upset. As a last thought, I slide my bag off and nonchalantly sneak my dagger into it. One of the little ones takes the satchel from me, depositing it by a row of chairs along the perimeter.

The kick-off is quick, but the game is even quicker. Before I've even had a chance to move, the boys have it in our goal and are whooping amongst themselves. The girls grumble but exchange determined looks. I grit my teeth, tie my skirt up at the knee, and really focus on the game.

Within a few moments, the score sits at an even five-five. My chest heaves with the effort of running up and down the field, and there's a welt rising on my ankle where one of the boys kicked me. Both of my knees are bloody from falling in the packed-dirt street; sweat runs in rivulets down my face. I haven't been this active in years.

When the little brunette—who I've come to know is Andrea—lines up at the halfway line, rubbing sweat off her forehead, I feel the pressure hanging in the air. For a game, these kids sure do take it seriously. They brace their shoulders and ball up their fists, push their hair back and glare at their opponents.

I'd hate to disappoint them if I'm the one who makes us lose.

Andrea kicks off the ball, and the round is afoot. It bounces quickly between two girls, is stolen by a dark-haired boy, gets passed to another boy, and then heads towards me. I take a deep breath and plan how I can get it away from him.

But when the carrier gets to me, his feet tangle. His fragile body collapses in slow motion, sliding roughly across the ground. The game freezes around him.

The first thing I see is blood. Red is everywhere. He lies face down in the dirt, hands clenched at his sides. A low, painful moan eases its way out of his mouth. Instinctively, I reach down and sweep him into my arms. The state of his face makes me gasp. Both lips have been busted, probably when his teeth crashed into them, and his nose is clearly broken.

"It's okay. You'll be okay," I coo, carrying him to the sideline. Some of the other children scamper over to check on him, but others run off, hopefully to get his mother. He begins to cry, his shoulders shaking softly.

I've patched up my younger siblings a dozen times. This is routine. But there's something nerve wracking about the fact that he's not my child. Refusing to panic, I untie my skirt, shake out the accumulated dust, and use it to dab at his bleeding face as I force him into a sitting position.

"Lean forward," I whisper gently. "I know it hurts, but I need to pinch your nose. It'll stop the bleeding."

He barely nods, and I hurry to apply pressure to the bridge of his nose. It isn't too serious now that I've had a good look at it, but the amount of blood is frightening. I can understand why he's scared. Clutching him to my chest, I rock back and forth, trying to shush his cries.

Just as a tense silence falls over us, a deep shout breaks it. All the children gathered around us skitter back. I freeze.

Standing on the other side of the makeshift field is a red-faced woman. She has her dress gathered in both of her hands and is yanking the fabric up to her knees. A cloud of dust puffs up behind her. She meets my eyes, and her demeanor instantly changes from worried to...

Furious?

The woman stampedes towards me, shoulders high, elbows swinging. Her dress moves along with her, stirring up even more dust. I've never seen someone look more like an attacking barracuda than this person does. Why is she so angry?

When she finally reaches me, she kneels down and wrenches the poor boy out of my arms. I still can't move; I'm too shocked.

"What did you do to him?" she growls, fury in her eyes.

"Nothing!" I gasp. "He fell! We were playing a game and—"

"You were playing with the kids? What are you—ten?"

I glance around at the children, but I don't know what I'm hoping to find in them. Reassurance? Help? They all look away, cheeks red and mouths tight. Even little Andrea wraps her arms around herself and avoids my gaze.

"We were just having fun," I whisper. Heat crawls into my cheeks.

"Fun doesn't end with my son covered in blood." Her voice is so sharp that I wince. "Get lost, outsider. Leave the children alone."

With another huff, she stands and storms away, taking several of the other kids with her. The rest shuffle back into the thinning crowd and increasing shadows. Something melts deep down inside me as I'm left sitting alone on the ground.

What did I do wrong?

I was just playing with the children, just enjoying myself, just...

Feeling too at home.

Forgetting who I am. Who they are. What they've done.

While I was busy finding similarities, I lost sight of the most important difference. They're humans—children or not—and I'm a mermaid. We don't socialize. They may be too young to know any better and I might be under a spell to make me look like them, but fundamentally, I don't belong here.

How could I have forgotten?