“Do you want to run?” Alexander asked, reigning in a chuckle.
She snorted. “That’s no use. My mother is fast. Two days ago, a man stole her coin purse, and she chased him half-way across the district until he stumbled over a fish barrel and twisted his ankle.”
She squared her shoulders, let out a breath, and marched forward. “Wish me luck.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said, watching her small form drift into the gravity of home.
The woman descended the steps in swift, purposeful strides. Her voice, when it came, was rapid-fire Xûengua, as clipped and precise as a sparrow’s call. Even without knowing the words, Alexander recognized the cadence of a mother’s relief disguised as reprimand. A moment later, the woman took MeiMei’s hand and approached him.
She bowed politely and switched to Isseric. “Thank you for bringing my daughter home.”
Alexander returned the bow. “Your daughter was kind enough to spare a moment to help me. She taught me how to write ‘dog’ without once threatening to slap my knuckles.”
Good humour tugged behind her composure. “She’s fond of strays,” she said wryly, “especially ones who look like they could use a cup of tea.”
Before Alexander could respond, another voice called from the doorway, tart and amused, “Su Lian, don’t just stand there talking. Invite him in before he melts into a puddle.”
An older woman stepped forward, shorter than the mother, her posture straight as a reed. She wore a purple robe embroidered in grey, her waist sash wide and knotted with symbols Alexander couldn’t begin to decipher. Her hair, thick and black, sat in a coil pinned with copper leaves.
She lifted her chin and gave him a once-over that managed to feel both grandmotherly and mildly threatening, like a cat deciding whether to show its belly or pounce.
“It’s rude,” she said crisply, “to leave guests standing in the doorway for more than three minutes without offering them tea.”
Alexander started to answer, but she waved a hand at him.
“Saying you were just leaving doesn’t count. You look like someone with stories.” She winked. “I am very fond of stories.” Her eyes swept over Alexander again. “Besides, I haven’t seen that hair colour since last year. I miss that shade of gold. Makes everything else seem too grey.”
The younger woman beside her laughed, shaking her head. “You’d better come in. No one’s ever won a battle of will against my mother-in-law, especially not once she starts twisting arms.”
Alexander blinked, then gave a short bow. “Tea would be appreciated. My name is Alexander Wulfbane. I come from Blackwood-Veyrde, in northern Tremore.”
The younger woman returned the bow, while the elder inclined her head.
“Blackwood-Veyrde?” the woman asked, arching her brow. “Then,docome inside, as we have something you might be interested in.” With one hand on her chest and a dip of her head, she added, “I am Su Lian. And this is my husband’s mother, Ru Rong. You’ve met our MeiMei.”
“I taught him to write ‘dog,’” the girl proudly announced.
Ru Rong arched an eyebrow. “Then you’ve taught him one of the most useful words in any language.”
As they stepped inside, Alexander took another look at their clothes—the weaving of their belts, the beads along MeiMei’s hem, the layered stones glittering without being gaudy. Symbols—some floral, some geometric—ran down one sleeve of the elder woman’s outer robe. Similar designs decorated Su Lian’s belt. Not random embroidery, he realized, but the visual language of a people.
They wereTalharen.
TheTalharwere nomads of the Nine Kingdoms—generations living on the move, their homes in lacquered wagons or patterned tents, their history stitched into clothes andcarved into wood. Not a tribe bound by blood or region, but by a shared way of life: trade, storytelling, and the open sky.
Of course. That explained MeiMei. Her talk of caravans, her steady hand with a brush, the way she carried herself like someone used to strangers and change.
Inside, the shop smelled of aged wood, saffron, and citrus oil. Sunlight filtered through latticed shutters, catching on glass and polished bones. Dark shelves lined the walls—velvet trays of enamelled jewellery, painted vases, and on the far wall, desert beads threaded with horsehair or reed.
A merchant’s collection, curated through years of travel.
Alexander’s eyes went to the centre display: a glass case elevated on a stand. Inside rested a limyerite crystal, larger than two fists pressed together. The kind of specimen that required formal registration with the Issoirean Mining Guild.
He stepped closer. The crystal shimmered under the filtered sunlight, its clear core catching hints of iridescence, like the sheen on a raven’s wing.
But what caught his attention was the imperfection running just beneath the surface. A pale fracture, not a crack from damage, but a ghostlike filament—a natural inclusion that was part of its formation process. The sort of flaw that might make a crystal undesirable to most, but no less beautiful.
His fingers itched to examine it properly, but he kept his hands behind his back.