CONTENT WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS THEMES OF DRUG ABUSE WHICH MAY BE UPSETTING FOR SOME READERS.

✧

Two days passed, and Jiro had not found the soldier. He'd suspected the tavern maid, but her physique had made him doubt. The Dakawa girl was too small and looked fragile to be a soldier. When he followed her that day in the market, she was afraid. She was only trying to protect herself. The soldier couldn't be her. But he'd found no other clue in Kimracka that would lead him to the real one.

Jiro wondered if the other flyers had any luck on their search. He hadn't seen any Aradacko since the night Hako walked into the tavern. He wished to keep it that way, keep himself hidden, especially from Mariko.

Jiro had gone through half of the city in the last two days, careful not to attract too much attention to himself. He'd discretely asked around for Arana or Zahara. Sometimes, he also mentioned Kapitan Garvan, but no one in Kimracka knew them as if they had never existed.

Eskolar Kida assured them that the Kahani's Maestro had evidence that the soldier survived the battle on Bickra. But Jiro was hesitant to believe that anyone could have survived the Brilliance. And he started to think that this task was a dead end.

Jiro walked a path leading him to a part of the city where most merchants lived. The rich folks resided here in their tall buildings and houses, where the roads were wider, and the canals were cleaner.

People here also looked more decent in colorful clothes adorned with jewels, beads, and sewn patterns. The men wore barong—long sleeves with delicate thin fabric. And the women wore mestiza with decorative butterfly shoulders.

Jiro rounded a corner of a street where women gathered. They stood by the road laughing and chatting in front of a building with a 'Pink Flowers' sign. Jiro's ears grew hot at the words. It was a brothel. An expensive-looking one. Such facilities were scattered all over Kimracka, but he didn't expect to find one here. But why not? Business was business, and the men here had more money to afford women in such a way than anywhere else in town.

He stopped to observe the women—a habit he'd acquired from the last few days he'd been in the city. He never stayed to watch long, only wanted to check if the soldier could be among them. But this time, he did as his eyes caught two familiar faces—boys—mingling with the women.

Hako and Shoka spoke to three girls who wore revealing clothes.

As soon as he saw them, Jiro stepped back, ducking into the corner of a building to hide himself. He pulled the rim of his salakot lower, hooding his eyes, and he watched as Hako pulled out a small pouch from his pocket and bounced it on his palm, clinking its content.

Hako smiled at one of the girls in front of him. She wore a skirt with a slit that came up to her hip, showing no undergarment beneath. The low front of her ruffled blouse presented the roundness of her breasts.

Hako stepped closer to the girl and pressed his hand to her exposed thigh, caressing her bare skin—his fingers tracing her leg up to her naked hip. He took another step and pressed his body to the fullness of her chest. His hand slid under the slit of her skirt, and she gasped and then giggled.

The girl gave Hako a peck on the cheek, and she reached out to snatch the bag in his hand, but he pushed away, waving a finger at her face. The girl giggled again and pulled Hako to the door, disappearing into the brothel.

Shoka followed behind his brother, and two other girls pursued him inside.

The heat on Jiro's ears crawled to his face. He remembered Tatri that night on the table in his home, in his room, and on his bed. The feel of her body was still vivid in his mind. The morning after their night together, Hako and Shoka had done the same thing with her. He recoiled at the memory, wanting to erase it, but it was too painful to forget. A spark of rage rose inside him, and he turned away from the corner, striding off.

The recollection surged in his mind—the heat of Tatri's lips against his and the softness of her breasts and the edges of their peaks. His heart pounded against his ribs, and an ache grew over his chest. He strode faster, trying to shake it away and eliminate the thoughts and anger.

He didn't know why he felt this way. He didn't care about Tatri anymore, but these emotions came heavy and uncontrollable that even his mind hurt too much to bear.

Jiro's pace then turned into a run. He passed houses and buildings, sprinting over cobblestones and colliding with people. He heard them shout, "Hoy!" and "Hey!" but didn't stop. His run continued until his foot caught on something, and he stumbled and fell.

He dropped so fast that he couldn't create a Lift to break his fall. His knees smacked on the ground first, followed by his chest. Dust puffed around him. He scraped the skin between his palm and his wrist, trying to save his face from the crash, but his chin still caught the stone. Grime rolled into his mouth as he kissed the road.

Skidding on the street, his body stopped, and he stayed there lying for a moment, panting the pain and the anger away. When he finally sat up, he groaned and choked out the dirt on his tongue. His salakot had fallen off his head, but he didn't care. His heart hurt more than his injuries.

When he pushed himself up and looked, a plank of rotting wood rested near his feet—it had dragged a line on the dirt where he'd caught it.

"Are you alright, boy?" a man standing by the road asked. He stared at Jiro with misty green eyes.

Jiro was still panting, unable to speak. He was not alright, but he pushed himself up to sit, suffering the pain of his fall.

"You look like you need a little relaxation." The man tugged a long smoking pipe from his bluish lips.

Jiro managed to glance up at the building behind the man. Thick curtains hung on its windows, allowing no view of its inside. Through the partly opened door, he saw another man smoking a similar pipe. The scent of burnt grass, wood, and soil hung in the air.

"It's a garak den," the man in front of him said, answering Jiro's unasked question. "A hit can fix your jitters, you know. You got money?" He glanced at the knife on Jiro's hip. The intricate green design of the hilt had come exposed.

Jiro pulled his tunic over the kampit and looked up at the man, considering the pipe. He knew what garak was and what it did to a person. Its effects were more powerful than betel quids. Both products were said to have relaxing benefits, but he had not tried garak before.

Jiro fished out a dar and raised it between his fingers. "Will this do?"

The man grinned wide, stretching the wrinkled skin of his face. "That'll do." He snatched the coin from Jiro's hand and ushered him inside.

✧

The walk from the garak den to the inn was a blur. Jiro only remembered the man with the long pipe, the dark street when he came out, and the stairs he climbed up to his room at the tavern. He fell face-first into a pillow, and an immediate deep sleep overcame him.

When Jiro woke, he was on the floor, still fully clothed with his boots, and the rope of his salakot looped around his neck. He sat up, his vision swirling. Then he patted his side to check his kampit, ensuring it was tucked and knotted on his belt.

Jiro stood up, his vision spun, and he doubled over. With his head hanging on his shoulder, he stared at the floor where a small pouch was by his feet.

He blinked the blur out of his eyes and picked up the purse weighing it in his hand. The material was leather, and whatever was inside felt light and soft. When he opened it to check the content, the scent of grass and soil puffed up from the black dried powder inside.

He had no idea how he'd gotten the pouch. It certainly came from the garak den. Did he pay for it? Or did he steal it? He contemplated, staring at the brown texture, and thought he should get rid of it. But there was no point in wasting the garak, so he tucked it under his pillow.

Blinking at the dimness of the room, Jiro realized it was already nighttime. He removed his boots and his salakot as he steadied his stance. His legs had little balance, and he swayed as he made his way to the window. The cool, humid air outside blew over his skin, tempting him to bask in it.

A smile grew on Jiro's lips, realizing that such a small thing—the air he could not even see—could make him happy. He breathed the coolness into his lungs and wanted more. He climbed out of the window and stepped off the ledge, creating a Lift and floating up to the roof of the inn. When he landed on the shingles, he saw the rows of houses—burning yellow light glowed through their capiz panes. And below, the torches shimmered on the street.

Jiro sat down and watched the surroundings. The night was beautiful, and though the city smelled like rats, from high up, it looked marvelous. There was nothing like this in Aradack, where everything was nature—trees, hills, and even houses merged with mountains. Kimracka was all buildings and people.

The air grew colder as the night came deeper. It was humid, and he could almost taste the salt of the sea.

Jiro smiled and looked down at himself. He found the gash above his wrist. Surprised that it didn't hurt, his smile grew wider. He knew it would heal fast—gone by tomorrow. And when he glanced down at his toes, they wiggled at his happiness. He almost laughed.

People had always warned him about garak. But why? It was good. It made him happy, and he wished he could always feel like this. Caring for nothing. Worrying about nothing.

"What are you doing here?" an alarmed voice came from behind Jiro. When he turned, he saw a girl standing there on the roof with him—the Dakawa tavern maid on her bare feet, her hair covering one of her eyes. "Are you following me again?" she snarled.

Jiro shrugged. Lightheaded, lazy, and relaxed, he turned back to watch the town.

"Didn't you hear me?" the girl asked.

Jiro looked back at her. "I was here first," he said. "I'm not following you." A careless confidence played in his voice.

The girl raised her brow—surprise and confusion formed in her exposed eye. "Are you—" she squinted, "—high?" she asked.

He gave her a wide grin with droopy eyes, then turned away again, ignoring her presence. He thought she would leave if he stayed silent. He wanted to be alone to prolong this joyous feeling that the garak had brought him. But the girl stayed.

A moment passed before she spoke again. "Those dens aren't going to do you any good. You'll lose all your money there. Then you'd be stuck in this city too."

What do you know? Jiro wanted to say, but he pretended to hear nothing. He kept his partly closed eyes toward the night.

"I usually come up here. It's one of the few places in this city I can be alone," she told him. The caution in her voice had gone.

Despite the carefreeness Jiro felt, he became concerned. A private place. He knew what that was like. Back in Aradack, Jiro found solace on top of the trees where he could be alone to think of the things he couldn't think about around others.

He blinked and opened his eyes wide, trying to be attentive. "Sorry," he said. "I'll leave then."

"Don't get up," the girl said before he could move. "You can stay. The fresh air will be good for you." She sat on the roof with him, keeping a reasonable distance between them. "I should keep an eye on you while you're up here. Piriu would have me scrape off your body from the sidewalk if you fell off this roof."

Doesn't she know that I can fly? Or did she assume that I'm a Wingless? Jiro wondered.

"How did you get up here anyway?" she asked. "The maid's room is the attic. It's the only way to get up here." She pointed at the only triangular window on one side of the roof. A soft curtain hid the dark room inside.

Jiro didn't answer.

"Did you scale the wall? Are you a robber? Well, you can try, but there's not much to get from us." There was a hint of anguish in her jest.

He swallowed and turned to her. "I'm not a robber. I'm a guest here."

She gazed back at him, and her face became unreadable.

"I'm Jiro," he said his name and gave her one of his happy smiles.

The girl kept silent, hesitant, but then she gave her name too. "Alet."

Alet. It was a beautiful name, but it was Sulunese. Yet she didn't look Sulunese. The Dakawa descent was one of the oldest races in Daracka. Their history dated back to the ages before the reign of the old kings in their old kingdom.

"Alet," Jiro repeated, testing it on his tongue.

The wind blew, and her hair drew from her face. Her green eye stared out at him. The peak of a scar on her temple—an angry line—crawled from the end of her brow to her hairline above her ear. The breeze gave him only a short glimpse, and though he noted the scar, he also observed her young features; plump lips, round eyes with long lashes, and flushed cheeks over her brown skin.

"Are you staying at the inn for long?" she asked, and he realized he was gazing at her.

He looked away, turning his eyes somewhere else. "A few more days. I can't leave until I find the soldier. Do you remember the person I asked you about? Her name is Arana or Zahara."

Then there was a nagging question at the back of his mind. Are you the soldier I'm looking for?

Alet inclined her head and rubbed the back of her neck. "Why are you looking for her?" she asked.

"It's a royal secret." Jiro pressed a finger to his lips. "Ssshh." He laughed at himself. He must have looked silly, but the tiniest smile tugged at one side of Alet's lips.

"I don't think you'll find your soldier. Whoever that is, she's likely dead."

"How do you know?" Jiro asked. "Were you here during the war?"

Something changed in her expression, and before Jiro could try to read it, she stood up and walked to the attic window. Her bare feet silently padded over the shingles.

"Wait," Jiro said. "Did I say something wrong?" But she had already slipped inside and closed the curtain behind her.

.