The shift in language pricked at Reiya’s ears. The familiar cadence slipping into the air was not Isseric anymore but the flowing tongue of Xûen-Sarai—a kingdom in the south. It was a language she’d studied in schoolrooms but never mastered. The words danced between sharp and soft, urgent syllables cutting through moments of gentle lilt, each note as intricate as silk thread unravelling.
Her mind scrambled to make sense of the fragments she could hear, but most of it remained just out of reach. Here, in the mouths of strangers, it sounded more alive than anything she’d ever heard in the quiet halls of her education.
The girl tugged on her mother’s sleeve and whispered something too soft to catch. Reiya’s eyes widened as the child darted toward their campfire, rummaging through their belongings. She returned clutching a waterskin to her chest.
Her throat constricted painfully, her parched mouth aching for relief.
Before the child could reach her, the man intercepted. Gently but firmly, he pried the waterskin from her small hands and straightened, his dark eyes flicking toward Reiya with a cautious, unreadable expression.
Slowly, he stepped closer, the waterskin loose in his grip but held with a readiness that made it clear he expected trouble. He looked to be in his thirties, though his face revealed little—stern and clean-shaven, with light skin carrying a faint amber undertone. His black hair was cut short, as if he refused to be bothered with caring for anything longer.
His clothing was plain but practical—a cross-collar tunic of roughspun fabric, sun-faded and worn, layered over a simple white robe. A wide leather belt cinched his waist, the knot pulled tight with quiet precision. Dust-streaked trousers were tucked neatly into cloth gaiters,the hemp bindings firm despite the wear. His movements were steady and deliberate—the kind shaped by a life spent on the road, where shelter was scarce and rest hard-earned.
But it was his dark eyes that caught her—the shape narrow, slightly tilted at the corners, lending him an air of quiet sharpness. They carried the weight of someone who didn’t give his trust easily—who knew how quickly charity could become a mistake.
When he was within reach, he uncorked the waterskin and extended it toward her.
Reiya seized the skin with hands still bound together, the position awkward and clumsy, but thirst won over dignity. Water spilled down her chin as she drank with greed, cool relief sliding down her throat and soothing the raw ache. She forced herself to slow, each swallow buying her time to think. The man’s gaze remained fixed on her, watchful and waiting, as if curious what she might attempt next.
Her mind raced. She was exhausted, stranded, and miles from anything familiar. Even if she freed her wrists, striking out alone would be suicide—if not from the elements, then from the mercenaries prowling the roads.
Castiel might still be hunting her. The ocean’s depths certainly hadn’t washed away his betrayal.
She stole another glance at the little girl, now peeking out from behind her mother’s skirt, the older woman’s protective hand resting on her shoulder. That same hand had pulled the child close when the man asked about trouble, as if shielding her from what Reiya might represent.
The family’s wariness ran deep—yet beneath it, she caught glimpses of something else: kindness. A hesitant sort of compassion that hadn’t yet turned away from her.
Kindness, however small, was her best chance.
Trust was a rare commodity, especially between strangers. If she was going to survive, she’d have to tread carefully and earn these people’s trust, bit by bit.
She looked up at the man, the foreign word forming carefully on her tongue.
“Sha’ àn,” she told him as she returned the waterskin, catching the flicker of surprise in his eyes as she thanked him in his language.
Then, addressing the girl with a smile she hoped was reassuring, Reiya stumbled through moreXûengua, her accent clumsy but sincere, “Many thanks to you too. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
The girl was now grinning, dimples deep in her cheeks.
“I’m Xian Mei,” she chirped in perfect Isseric. “But you can call me Mei Mei. Everyone does.”
Her mother shushed her gently, but Reiya felt the corners of her cracked lips lift into a genuine smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mei Mei. I’m?—”
The roll of an ‘r’ began to form, but she stilled her tongue. Voicing her real name felt akin to giving away her identity and inviting all the troubles that might come with it.
“Yara,” she said firmly. “My name is Yara.”
The name slipped easily from her tongue, familiar and safe—a relic of childhood, a nickname given in jest by brothers who teased her mercilessly for her difficulty in properly pronouncing her name. It felt like a small shield between herself and the unknown.
The man’s wife stepped forward, resting a hand lightly on her husband’s arm. “You look like you could use a warm meal, Yara.” Her Isseric lilted with the cadence of her native tongue. “Join our fire. We don’t have much, but you’re welcome to share our food.”
The man’s tight expression couldn’t hide his disapproval, but he didn’t protest.
Reiya’s stomach ached from the thought of nourishment. “That’s kind of you. Thank you.”
She joined the family around their fire, balancing herself on a log of driftwood, her bound hands awkward on her lap.
The man flicked his eyes to the rope. “Need help with those?”