The air in Dawnstar's middle district market hung thick and heavy, the summer sun beating down mercilessly on the cobbled streets. Sweat trickled down Joren's brow as he hauled another crate of Mystdalin goods off the caravan, his wool-lined tunic clinging uncomfortably to his back. The scent of spices from neighboring stalls mingled with the metallic tang of sweat and the earthy aroma of fresh produce.

Gods above, this heat was unbearable. Back home, the mountains offered crisp breezes and the occasional snowstorm—not this oppressive, suffocating oven of a city. He could feel the burn of sun on his neck and the tightness in his muscles from hours of labor under the sweltering conditions.

Around him, the rest of the caravan grumbled as they worked, their usual boisterous energy dampened by the sweltering weather. Even the normally unflappable Bjorn, their lead trader, had stripped down to his undershirt, his face red as he barked orders between gulps of water. The sound of hammering from a nearby blacksmith shop echoed through the square, mixing with the chatter of merchants and the occasional clatter of falling merchandise.

Joren wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, squinting as he surveyed their half-assembled trading tent. The damn thing was refusing to cooperate, its heavy canvas sagging limply in the still air like a drunkard after too much mead. One of the support poles wobbled dangerously, and Joren barely managed to catch it before the whole structure collapsed.

"By Odin's beard," he muttered, glaring at the offending pole as if it had personally insulted him. "You'd think a kingdom this rich could spare a breeze or two."

Nearby, a group of Dawnstar merchants watched with poorly concealed amusement, their fine silks and perfumes making them look absurdly out of place next to the sweat-drenched, fur-clad Mystdalin. One particularly smug-looking fellow even had the audacity to fan himself with a feathered hat, as if the heat were a mild inconvenience rather than a slow descent into Helheim.

Joren shot him a withering look before turning back to the tent with a grunt. If this damned thing didn't stand up soon, he was going to start considering violence. Just then, a loud snap echoed through the market as one of the ropes gave way, sending the tent's corner flopping down like a wounded animal. Joren groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Alright," he announced to no one in particular, "who's the genius who thought bringing a winter tent to a summer market was a good idea?"

The Mystdalin traders exchanged sheepish glances. No one answered.

Joren sighed, rolling his shoulders. This was going to be a long day.