Sienna felt as if she had been thrown out of the Fire Temple with a red, hand-shaped welt on her face from a vengeful slap. Her face was certainly hot, and her chest tugged in the same way as it usually did with slaps or strikes or shoves—tugging to somewhere private where shame could be absolved. Bowing her now-covered head as if to cover the mark she felt she'd been given, Sienna trudged through the market.

In a way, she had been given a mark: the Sienna Diaz, Esteemed One. And, in a way, it was a slap. A slap from Fajhiro, certainly. A slap from the mouths of those who uttered it—who in Azarahn deserved to hear her true name even if they did not understand, and who was worthy to know anything about her home-world? The pull in her chest strengthened.

But she had not been struck in the slightest. The priests at the temple had decidedly attended to her even after her strong protests, even going so far as to order the acolytes to redress her in the same manner of Zimorrah: white silk and a white organza veil that felt soft as fresh snow. They'd wanted to bathe her—offering rosewater and a room that smelled of incense and heat—but she'd insisted on doing it herself and that, they could not allow, for it would cause them shame. So she'd declined respectfully, letting them dress her as a show of apology. They'd marveled at the strange clothes underneath the robe she'd stolen and had told her they disapproved of the way the acolytes in Djianora were dressed, but they had not hesitated to assure her of their compliance with it as they redressed her. The priests had given her jewelry, threading earrings in her ears, sliding rings onto her fingers, and placing gold armbands above her elbow to signify status.

If anything, she had been sent back into the market with a soft embrace and a tender kiss on each cheek.

She stopped at a stand of lumber in the market, contemplating whether she should obtain the means to make a match, or whether she would even be able to make one, or whether she had means to obtain it at all. But there was nothing. Sienna had nothing but the clothes she wore, and she suspected that offering any of her jewelry would be a disgraceful act to the temple even if Zimorrah had done the same earlier. It was always best to be careful.

"An earring would do finely for a bundle of this wood and my old sandals, lady." the voice from behind the stand startled her. As their eyes met through the window of her veil, the merchant's bold words dulled as he shyly explained, "Your eyes spoke of necessity."

Her ears burned and rang. Sienna ducked her head and started to walk away before something was shoved into her arms. A bundle of wood. She whirled around, eyes wild—

"A gift, Farrah, the Sienna Diaz," announced another man at the wood stand, casting a withering glare on the younger man beside him. "May Fajhiro bless the given and the giver."

"He has blessed me well enough." She felt it hotly, but the words came out soft as snow.

The man smiled warmly, hiding the worry in his eyes as he glanced at the bundle of wood in Sienna's arms. "As he has with all, I'm sure."

"Thank you for this. I accept your generous gift." To not accept, after all, was to place shame upon the man and his family—and that kind of attention was something Sienna desired the least. Praise was one thing to acquire, and scorn was another. However, to avoid receiving both—and receiving more gifts from the whole market in hopes of gaining Fajhiro's favor—Sienna dashed through tent flaps and into the empty streets.

The desert sun was the reason for the emptiness, and while Sienna was grateful for the isolation, the heat was blistering. It addled the brain with warmth and fuzz, making air feel like shimmering, thick water and making water turn to air. The blazing star in the sky—Fajhiro's star—pulsated and shimmered with mirage. As Sienna wandered through the vacant streets, she hazily wondered if Azarahn was a mirage. Maybe she'd turn a corner and be surrounded by oceans of sand again. Maybe it was more than a mirage and she'd fall and fall into a true ocean, like Djianora. Maybe her papá was preparing the carnitas and champurrado for that day in September . . .

Candles. Nine, unlit candles staked out in icing like flags claiming land. A smaller version of Sienna had seen it before: her birthday cake. It was ready for celebration the next day, tucked safely covered in the refrigerator, but it was all the more unsafe from the prying, longing eyes of an eight-year-old girl. Every time she went to retrieve milk for her daily cereal; every time she went to grab fresh vegetables to help her mother prepare dinner; every time she opened up that white door, the promise of celebration was there. Waiting. The unlit candles stared back at her for days, taunting her with the temptation of wishes and sweet frosting and melting wax.

The day before her ninth birthday. She'd thought maybe she'd learn to light the candles herself and, after climbing up and retrieving the matchbox, she'd sat down on the counter with a match in hand and tried to strike it.

Don't play with fire! She remembered thinking the echoing warning of her parents. It's dangerous. Don't touch it; it'll hurt you.

Stumbling across the red strip, the match had faltered and had not sparked. A younger Sienna tried again and—after failing a second time—took the time to read the directions on the box.

Swiftly drag the head of the match in a striking motion along the striker.

The match in her hands, eight-year-old Sienna tried and failed. Tried and failed. But she was determined, her self-will of arrogant adolescence and blind naïvety spurring her to do this one thing all on her own—because perhaps her birthday wishes could only come true if she was the one to light it. It was sensibly foolish. It was safely dangerous.

It was guiltily innocent.

In all the frustration young Sienna could muster, she'd struck the match with a firm hold and—triumph!—it ignited. Instantly, her gaze had caught the fire creeping down toward her hand and stared at the bright-eyed flame that suddenly seemed to envelop her vision in raging sparks.

Her mother had entered the room as it tilted with angry fire, mouth falling open as she started, "Young lady, what are you—"

Sienna blinked, the world falling behind the lens of her organza veil and the rhythm of her walking feet once again. She hugged the bundle of wood close to her chest, for though she knew it was not a parcel of her means to escape, the familiar weight comforted her all the same. But despite the comfort, she mourned.

Azarahn was not a mirage. The streets Sienna wandered through were solid, real—and it pained her that if she were to approach the city and reach out to try and touch it in the desert, its image would not shimmer and fade away. She would stay in this nightmare as Fajhiro ordained, but she had no hope of waking up.

She reached the edge of the city and did not stop walking.

The immense ocean of bronze waves, rolling and rolling as far as the eye could see, threatened to drown her in memory. Cirash and the ship-building—she'd sail across this desert; Paracii and the forest-dwellers—she'd climb each dune in this desert; Porathi and the chariots—she'd ride away and away from this desert. Djianora. She'd spill a governor's blood and watch in horror as it'd drip and slide down a hill of sand, pooling at the bottom with more opaque crimson than the foreboding red of a sailor's dawn.

Surrounded by only the shifting sand and the whistling wind, Sienna fell to her knees with wet eyes, the wood tumbling out of her arms and down the dune.

She didn't know how long she was there, just that it had gotten cold and dark, but she felt hot with turmoil. Her veil had flown off, her loose hair flowing and knotting around her neck like a noose. Her chest hurt, and Sienna resented the fact that it burned like fire, fire Fajhiro had control over. Any way she felt was like fire—blazing fury, inflamed heartache, igniting loss . . . and she could not control it. The more she tried, the more it burned, and she just wanted to get a match—no, she just wanted Fajhiro's help—but . . . but no. That wasn't it. That wasn't it at all.

She just wanted to go home.

"The Sienna Diaz should not be kneeling in the wilderness alone even if she is praying," a sudden voice reached through the howling wind with a gentle hand and struck her down with her name.

Sienna Diaz, Esteemed One in the eyes of Fajhiro the fire god, said nothing as she curled up inside herself and lay very, very still. Her eyes stung.

"Do you not have a place to rest your head this night, Farrah of Djianora?"

At that, Sienna turned to see Zimorrah and shook her head slightly, wild-eyed.

"My family will provide you a home. Come." Zimorrah held out a delicate hand and Sienna took it, for not accepting would bring shame upon Zimorrah's family, wouldn't it? That was the reason, the reason of utmost importance. It was a part of the routine: observe the world. Adapt. Play the part. Move on to the next when it becomes necessary.

The House Nazirad—Zimorrah's family house—was across the lake of the oasis. Though small against the daunting facade of the Fire Temple, it was still impressive compared to the other adobe structures in Azarahn. Multiple dome roofs and a hanging garden were obviously signs of great wealth, and if Azarahn hadn't had the Fire Temple, Sienna would have assumed its rulers to live here.

However, when they arrived at the house it seemed as though Sienna were the ruler. Zimorrah's family had prepared to have servants wash her feet with rosewater, replace her lost veil for another lined with silver, and have the guests of the night informed she would be staying for dinner and for the night. Sienna was told the Brotherhood was celebrating a moon cycle that night and there would be a feast.

She did not have an appetite.

Escorted to an empty seat next to Zimorrah's at the table full of priests, Sienna sat. The table suddenly went silent.

"Farrah of Djianora," announced Zimorrah when no one else spoke. "The Sienna Diaz, Esteemed One."

Again, her cheeks burned as if they'd been slapped, but Sienna regained her icy composure when all the eyes in the room gazed expectantly at her. They wanted a word from her. What word? A blessing, perhaps? She chose her words carefully.

"I give you the gift of my sincerest gratitude for allowing me to celebrate with you tonight. May Fajhiro bless the given and the giver."

Resounding agreements showed approval in what she'd said, and Sienna sunk back into her seat, satisfied at her performance and dissatisfied with her situation. Surrounded by the followers of that insolent god, surrounded by people—Sienna felt the need to isolate herself. But, as she glanced around at the display of exotic fruits for show and the wine cups for festivities and the twittering crowds around her, she realized she was isolated already. No one said a word to the Esteemed One the entire night until Zimorrah called a servant to show Sienna to her room so she could rest from her travels.

The bed-like structure was more of a long cushion stretched out on the ground between countless pillows, but it was better than cold sand to lull Sienna to sleep. She was safe for now, and warm. Gleaming starlight reflected off the lake and cast the room in a dim blue. The candle near the cushion started to melt as the hours waned, and she thought back to that day in September.

Don't play with fire!

No, she wouldn't play with Fire. She would not even think to touch it.

Sienna blew out the candle without making a wish.

A/N: It's been a while, but the 8k milestone for ONC has officially been achieved! It feels good to finally get a chapter out; I think I'm getting into the story after a bit of a break with it. I'm excited to write the rest of the plot line. Sienna's story is not over!