ALEXANDER
His parchments and brush lay where he’d left them on Scholar Wen’s veranda, neatly stacked beside the inkwell. The ink had dried in the midday warmth, so he ground a fresh one, slower this time—methodical, focused. He usually found the repetitive movements soothing, but this time, they couldn’t settle his thoughts.
Haorán’s words echoed in the back of his mind:two weeks. That was all the time he had left to prepare his appeal—to stand before the Emperor of Xûen-Sarai and JingYi, and somehow make them listen. Make herbelieve.
He was halfway through the character when a high-pitched voice broke the stillness.
“What are you doing?”
Alexander glanced up. A small face peered over the railing—round cheeks, dark eyes, and perfectly formed pink lips curling with judgment. Her black hair was parted down the middle and coiled on each side of her head, decorated with ribbons and tassels. She spoke Isseric, not a trace of Xûengua in her accent.
“I’m writing the character for ‘dog,’” he said evenly.
She squinted at the parchment, then made a face. “That’s ‘dog?’ Really?”
She came around the veranda, hands planted firmly on her hips and gave his brushwork a withering once-over.
“It’s not very good,” she said, seemingly determined not to spare his feelings.
Alexander studied his own work. The lines were wobbly, the structure uneven. The tail stroke sagged to one side like a defeated flag. He sighed and set the brush down. “I’m afraid you have a valid point.”
“Want me to teach you?”
He glanced at her—this little thing who couldn’t be older than ten. A girl with a big voice and even bigger confidence. He gave a half-smile. “A scholar has spent a month trying to teach me, but . . . I suppose you can try.”
Without hesitation, she hopped onto the bench beside him and pulled a clean parchment.
“You’re holding it all wrong,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Here. Like this. Lighter. Elbow high, wrist steady—don’t grip it like you’re about to stab someone. It’s a brush, not a knife.”
He raised a brow. “And you’re an expert, I suppose?”
She scoffed. “More than you are.”
The girl dipped the brush with surprising agility, and in a few quick strokes, produced the character for ‘dog’—clean, balanced, confident.
She beamed at him. “See? Not that hard. Your turn.”
Easier said than done. But when she guided his hand—her tiny fingers curled around his—his next attempt came out smoother.
“Careful there. No, not like that! Lighter pressure on the tail. Yes. Good. Good! Now, again.”
As they practiced, the girl chattered.
“My name is Xian Mei. But everyone calls me MeiMei.”
“I am Alexander.”
“Where are you from?”
“Blackwood-Veyrde. It’s in Tremore.”
Her eyes lit up. “Tremore! I’ve never been. My family travels mostly through eastern Issoirea. We’ve never gone that far north on that side.”
“Do you travel much?”
She nodded proudly. “We’re part of a caravan. That’s how I get to be so good at writing. Sometimes my mother teaches me. Sometimes my father or grandmother. The older kids help, too, but my favourite is the caravan elder. He sits under the olive trees and shows us how to write with sticks in the dirt.”
Alexander smiled faintly, watching her hand as it corrected his stroke. There was something grounding in it—this unexpected camaraderie between ink and laughter, between the pressure of learning and a child’s straightforward certainty.