She nodded softly. “If you don’t mind.”
He made quick work of the knots as she held them up, rope falling away. She flexed her wrists, grateful to be free, though the raw skin burned.
The older woman placed a small clay bowl in front of her, steamrising from its contents—a thick stew of seaweed and fragrant herbs, studded with tender pieces of game.
Mei Mei’s mother handed her a wooden spoon, smiling gently. “Eat, Yara. You must be hungry.”
Hungry was an understatement. The moment the spoon touched her lips, Reiya’s body took over, each bite ravenous, the warmth spreading through her. The stew was savoury, slightly tangy, the spices foreign but oddly comforting. She devoured it without hesitation, barely tasting, only knowing it was sustenance, and she needed all of it.
Her etiquette tutor would’ve wept; her mother would’ve fainted on the spot. Reiya ignored the phantom echoes of disapproving voices as she shovelled spoonfuls into her mouth, not caring how the broth dribbled down her chin. She heard Mei Mei giggle, but she pressed on, slurping from the bowl’s edge without shame.
A flask was passed to her next, and she drank greedily, the rich, earthy taste of goat’s milk coating her throat. She lowered the flask and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, ignoring the scandal such a gesture would’ve caused back home.
If this new identity required her to be someone else—unpolished and unapologetic—so be it.
“Slow down,” the older woman chided with a dry chuckle, ladling another serving into Reiya’s bowl. “The food isn’t going anywhere, girl.”
Reiya rested the bowl in her lap and took a moment to look around the fire, trying to read the expressions of those watching her. The old woman’s eyes glinted with a sliver of quiet amusement, as though she found some private joke in Reiya’s presence. Despite the lines of age on her face, her hair was glossy black without a trace of silver. The man’s gaze stayed sharp, guarded, weighing every breath she took. His wife, however, regarded her with something softer—curiosity tinged with gentle caution.
Only Mei Mei beamed openly, her bright grin cutting through the tension like sunlight after a storm.
“May I know the names of my rescuers?” Reiya asked, careful to keep her tone polite, testing the waters of their hospitality.
The man took some time before he nodded, as though deciding whether to share something as simple as a name.
“I am Xian Jun.” He first gestured toward the older woman beside him. “This is my mother, Ru Rong.” His hand then shifted to the woman at his other side, brushing against her arm with a familiarity softening his expression. “My wife, Su Lian.”
Then, with a faint smile—more for the little girl than for Reiya—he pointed to the child sitting beside her.
“And that one,” he added, “is our Mei Mei.”
The little girl puffed out her chest, clearly delighted to be mentioned. Her grin was infectious, and despite the knot of uncertainty in Reiya’s chest, she found herself smiling.
“Where were you heading?” Xian Jun asked.
Reiya hesitated. How much should she reveal? Was it wise to leave any trail leading back to her birth kingdom? How far did Castiel’s influence—and his allies—reach?
“Asadia,” she blurted. It felt strange on her tongue, as though her thoughts had reached for it without her consent.
WhyAsadia? The question gnawed at her, but no clear answer surfaced—just fleeting images: Kaelendrin’s grin, bright and mischievous, and Alarik’s quiet gaze. They lingered at the edges of her mind, leading her thoughts east, drawing her to the place she’d never seen and the two faces she couldn’t forget.
Xian Jun’s eyes flicked to her golden hair, her pale skin, reddened from sunburns. “You don’t look Asadian.”
“I’m from Neovallan,” Reiya said, the lie rolling smoothly off her tongue—a necessary shield she must learn to carry. “I was travelling to visit relatives in Asadia. My . . . my mother’s distant cousins.”
He shot her a skeptical look, the kind that weighed her quietly from head to toe.
“Asadia’s a long way off,” he said. “If that’s where you’re headed, you’ll need a coach from the nearest trading post—or a strong horse. Maybe even a camel. You won’t get far on foot.”
Ru Rong glanced up from where she was cleaning the remnants of their meal. “She can come with us as far as Vey’tar Oasis. From there, the Asadian border isn’t so far.”
The man exhaled, the sound heavy with exasperation. He turned toward the older woman.
“Níang—” He began, launching into rapid Xûengua. His words flowed fast and sharp, but his mother was quicker, her replies chopping through the conversation like a knife through vegetables.
Su Lian chimed in next, her voice soft but steady, threading her words between the sharp exchanges of mother and son. The debate grew animated—voices rising, hands moving, the rhythm of their language a swift dance Reiya couldn’t follow.
She leaned closer to Mei Mei, whispering, “What are they saying?”