William Cheng. The Place It Happened

The heat continued to beat down upon the square as the sun continued its ascent to its peak height in the sky. Midday was always the worst, as there never seemed to be an escape from the burning rays. No matter where Will stood, there was always a part of him exposed, and sweat started to escape from every surface of his skin. He wiped away the trickling droplets from above his brows before they could start to sting his eyes.

As he was paying for a few sticks of cubed grilled chicken, he heard someone call his name from behind him. He turned to find the source of the voice. Standing in front of a produce stall, smiling exuberantly at him, was the Keeper of Weaponry. His extravagant attire looked out of place in the grubby market and patches of sweat was forming in the pits of his silk shirt. He was waving a satay fan in front of his face, trying to cool the red flush of his cheeks. Will was sure the man was not used to be unsheltered in this kind of heat.