The Nōh district was a strange, organic limb attached to the skeletal stone of Lilliebore.
As the three of them approached it, the stilted wooden houses of the townspeople vanished, replaced by low-slung tall, wide huts made of sun-dried clay, thick timber, and tightly woven thatch.
There were racks with cloths dried on them, some barrels full of some coloured liquids and people wearing thick garments close to those barrels.
There were also countless stoves and campfires not too far away from the huts as well.
It was a mirror of the ones outside the walls, yet somehow more organized.
Ryckel walked a few paces behind, his eyes darting between the villagers who stood over large vats, soaking long, fibrous plants in water and meticulously peeling away the bark.
The air here was different, less like rice wine and rot, more like damp earth and sap.
Oshoke kept peering over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as if trying to see through Ryckel's skin. Pri just chuckled, his hands behind his head.
"Look," Oshoke said, his voice a low growl. "I don't want to hear about you making problems. No fighting, no stealing, and nothing that'll bring the Hussars back to my doorstep for the duration of your stay. Got it?"
"Got it," Ryckel answered simply.
"My son says you need a job. Fine. You can help pluck the fibres with the others tomorrow. You'll earn a fair wage in coin."
Ryckel felt a weight lift. He wouldn't have to touch his travel fund for food or board.
Carriage money.
If I save every shard, every Barca, I can get back home in weeks.
As he walked, his mind drifted to Syrion.
Is he even looking for me?
Ryckel doubted it. In a world where kids were a Barca a dozen, he wasn't that valuable. Syrion would probably just assume he'd bolted for freedom the moment the wagon was hit or was dead.
They stopped before a hut that dwarfed the others. Outside, shirtless children with skin caked in mud were shrieking with laughter, hurling clumps of wet earth at one another.
Inside, Ryckel's sandals hit a floor that felt slick, almost oily. It was made of packed red clay, and strangely, there was no furniture. No chairs, no tables, no beds.
Just wide, open space.
"Leania! We're home!" Pri shouted.
Ryckel looked up. The hut was tall, with a complex system of ladders, planks, and platforms, some suspended, others attached to the walls.
"Went out for a drink and came back with a bruised face, huh?" a girl's voice drifted down.
A girl around Ryckel's age peered over the edge of a high platform. She didn't use the ladder at first, she swung down with a practiced ease, landing lightly on the clay floor. She wore a tunic of woven bark and leather, her long dark hair tied back with a vine.
Then Ryckel saw it, her right arm ended in a smooth, blunt stump at the shoulder.
"Father is bruised and Grandpa is back from the riot," she sighed, her eyes darting between them. "Let me guess... Father started it?"
Pri gave a sheepish chuckle, looking at the ceiling. Oshoke glared.
Leania suddenly thrust her lone hand into the air. "I knew it! I should have gone with you! I've been wanting to stick it to those Hussars for a while!"
"No granddaughter of mine will be a street brawler!" Oshoke barked. He turned and slapped Pri on the back of the head. "Look what your influence is doing to her!"
"It runs in the family, old man," Pri muttered.
Leania's gaze finally landed on Ryckel. Her eyes sharpened. "Who's this? What's a Southerner doing here?"
Southerner?
"He's staying with us," Oshoke said, sounding pained. "Don't ask. Blame your father. The kid is a damn devil in disguise."
Pri ruffled Ryckel's hair. "He's just a kid, Leania. You never had a brother, so here's a temporary one. Treat him well."
Leania circled Ryckel like a predator, her one hand on her hip. Ryckel felt incredibly awkward, his hand inching toward his satchel, where his dagger was tucked.
"Hmm," she hummed. "Alright. But since he's a Southerner, can I have permission to beat him up if he breaks anything?"
Ryckel nearly choked on his own breath.
Beat me up?
"No!" Pri and Oshoke said in unison.
"Godsdamn!" Oshoke exclaimed, nodding his head.
"Ugh! You guys always treat me like I'm fragile!" she snapped.
"It's not that," Pri started, his voice softening, "but you know your---"
"Because of my non-existent arm?" she finished for him, her voice flat.
Silence fell over the room. Ryckel watched them, a strange warmth blooming in his chest. The bickering, the underlying worry, the frustration, it reminded him so much of his mother and Lyra.
He needed to get back to them. Fast.
---The End of Chapter 25---