Mariko tried to kill me. This thought haunted Jiro for nights since he fled Kata. He couldn't stop seeing the look in the woman's murderous eyes, as if she had transformed into a different person—teeth bared, nostrils flared, and blade in her hand. He became unsettled, thinking about why Mariko did what she did. He didn't know her that well, but he didn't expect that she would be a person who would eliminate competition.

Was she that ambitious?

Would the other flyers do the same? No doubt that Hako might, and maybe even his brother and his father. But Mariko?

The prize for delivering the soldier to the Ozaro Palace in Kazima was tempting—the money and the position of authority, a place beside the future Kaharaza, the power to be heard and to influence decisions for the kingdom.

It never crossed Jiro's mind that Mariko would be that kind of person, especially after she had shared about her family, her past—a husband and a daughter.

Jiro considered returning to Aradack to inform their Kavisera of the incident, but he feared the pain of memories more than Mariko. The emotional torture of his mother's passing was more horrifying than his own death. So he continued southward.

He flew ceaselessly, only stopping for short rests and small meals and forgetting to count the days. He relied on the betel quids he carried with him from Aradack, chewing them to keep his stamina—to stay awake and alert—and allowing himself a sense of euphoria to battle his fears.

But after many days and nights of flying, Jiro's body screamed for rest, and the betel quids could no longer help. His Lift wavered as his tiredness overcame the rush from his fear. An unbearable throbbing ache grew on his back and his legs. But it was then that he saw the sea on the horizon—the deep waters against the brighter shade of the sky on a brilliant morning. And there, meeting the soft flowing waves, was the shore of Kimracka.

Beyond the land, the blackened portion of the sky loomed in the distance like a heavy stain on a blue canvas. And right under the darkness was the black island of Bickra, like a massive lump of coal floating in the water. The oddness of the sight was frightening—unnatural—as if chaos and oblivion collided.

Jiro descended as he approached the town, landing within the treeline by the road near the gates of Kimracka. He limped in pain but could still walk, and he found himself thanking the old kings for he could still stand despite his long journey.

He pulled his salakot over his head and walked out to the road, merging himself with a line of people entering through the gates. Travelers came to and fro. They pulled carts of merchandise or bags of various items.

Kimracka was a city of fishing and trade. It was the southernmost part of Daracka—the boundary before the seas that met their neighboring kingdoms. Jiro had imagined before that the desert lands of Suluna would be visible from here, but it was not. The ocean stretched farther than he expected.

The settlement extended over the shore from east to west. Unlike the bright city of Kata, Kimracka was musty, gloomy, and a little overpopulated. Houses made of bricks and stones with shingled roofs pressed against each other like the pages of a closed book. The people in the crowded streets pushed at one another's shoulders without regard or care. Carriages could barely squeeze through the pathways—the stalls occupied the sidewalks, spilling into the roads. Though the scenery around Jiro painted an unappealing city, he noted that Kimracka had a more progressive economy than Aradack.

He found his way to the shore where the sand that met the sea glistened black like burnt wood spread over the indigenous faint white. The remnant of a ruined water port stood there, but piece by piece, the water came to claim it. What little was left—the crumbling boardwalk—clung to the beach pathetically.

As he stood on the shore, he looked out to the island of Bickra. This close, the view was even more terrifying. The black island, once known as the Island of Kings, floated in the black water under the abysmal darkness of its skies.

"Many Darackan travel far from all over the kingdom to get a view of this monstrosity. But I've never seen a flyer give interest until now." A hoarse voice spoke behind Jiro, and he turned to see a wrinkly man with graying hair. He spoke oddly, with words sounding too soft and long and a bit of a swing at the end of his sentence—the southern tone. His eyes and cheeks set deep on his face, and his body was all bones covered with loose dark skin. He stood beside a cart of fish—a peddler.

"I'm not a flyer," Jiro denied. "I'm a Wingless." He was unsure why he had denied what he was again, but he figured it would get the attention off himself.

The peddler smiled. His yellowed teeth were incomplete, and the look he gave Jiro came gruesome. "Don't lie to me. I know eyes like those when I see them. Wingless have much dimmer eyes, almost gray and not silver. Many of your kind were here two years ago. They fought against the Sulunese."

Jiro raised a brow at the man. "I'm looking for someone who fought during the war. Do you know anyone named Zahara or Arana?"

The old man gave a skeptical look and smiled again. "I've never heard of those names. I've lived here all my life, but this city is too big for everybody to know all their neighbors. Hundreds of women here have seen and fought in the war."

"I'm looking for a soldier, not a commoner," Jiro said.

"Tsk." The man gave him a sneer. "Such a Maharlika way of thinking. When war comes, everyone who fights is a soldier." Though his face wrinkled with distaste, the way he spoke sounded polite to Jiro, unlike the Aradacko from the north, who preferred to chew their words roughly.

Jiro regretted his statement, but he didn't apologize for it. What did he know about being a soldier or a commoner anyway? He didn't even know how to be a Maharlika.

When Jiro didn't say anything for a while, the peddler spoke again. "So, do you want to buy some fish?" The sneer left his face, and the toothless smile returned. "They're fresh." He offered his goods, gesturing at the cart.

Jiro glanced at the pile of slimy fish, then turned back to the man and shook his head.

The peddler bared what was left of his yellowed teeth. "Such a waste of time," he said and turned away, dragging his cart with him.

Jiro walked back into the town, limping. The pain in his legs had worsened, and he needed to look for a place to stay for the night. He wondered if he could rest on the side of the road, but he had heard of robbers. The city streets were not safe at night, especially for people who slept on them. He couldn't afford to lose his money, and he patted the pouch under his trousers right below his belt.

As he walked through the town, he glanced at every young female he came by, thinking of the task—the reason why he came to Kimracka. How, in the name of the old kings, would he find this soldier? She was not an animal that he could track by her excrement or footprints.

He groaned in frustration. Why am I even doing this?

The thought of Mariko and the task had plagued Jiro's mind, and it took him a long while to realize where he was. Of course, he knew that he was in Kimracka, but then he recalled that this city was where his father died fighting against the Sulunese.

Jiro wondered where his father's body was burnt. He stopped on the street and closed his eyes. He whispered a prayer to the old kings and the forgotten gods—to honor his father's death and the death of his kin.

In the late afternoon, he found an inn where he rented a room. It was a cozy two-level building with a tavern on the first floor and sleeping rooms on the next.

Jiro hadn't known what to do when he entered. There were no inns or taverns in Aradack—the locals treated guests with hospitality, offering free tents to rest and food to eat. He knew that he would not get the same treatment in Kimracka.

"I'd like to rent a room," he said to the innkeeper, who was also the barkeep, a large fat man who had given him a room for a few tees a day.

The room was adequate and better than the hammock he had on the ship. There was space on the floor where the single bed was pushed up to one wall.

Jiro removed his salakot and boots first, and when he peeled off his sweaty vest, he noticed that the feather on his armband was gone. He couldn't recall when he'd lost it. It had been days since he last thought of it. It might have fallen off during the fight with Mariko or somewhere along his journey to Kimracka. But he didn't have the strength to worry about it now. His whole body begged for rest, and when he laid on the banig, sleep granted him a visit.

✧

When Jiro woke, it was already dark outside the window. The room, too, was dark but not quiet. Muffled murmurs and laughter from the tavern below came through the cracks in the floorboards.

He pushed himself off the woven matt, slipped on his boots, and pulled on a tunic covering the zarok band on his arm. Then he came down to the tavern to get some food to eat. The ground level was bustling with people. He was glad to find an empty table at the far corner, away from the bar, where he settled in a chair.

A tavern maid walked up to him and asked him what he needed. "Would you like some ramka?" she offered, holding a mug and a pitcher. Her hair cascaded over one side of her face, covering her left eye. She was the first person in Kimracka who Jiro heard to speak normally—none of the soft sing-songy accent of the southerners.

"No," Jiro said, and they looked at each other. Her eye, the one exposed, was bright blue. "Soup and whatever you have for supper, please."

The girl nodded and walked away.

As Jiro waited, he looked around and observed the staff of the tavern. Apart from the girl who served him, two other maids tended to the rest of the customers. One girl was tall, as young as the one who offered him ramka. The other maid was a woman as plump as a kettle in her middle years. At the bar stood the innkeeper, who had entertained Jiro earlier when he walked in to rent a room. He now looked more burly than fat, with a face covered with a thick beard.

The girl with the half-hidden face came back with a bowl of soup. "We're a little overwhelmed in the kitchen tonight. I'll come back in a bit with your meal," she said as she placed the bowl on the table. When she bent down, her hair swayed from her face, and Jiro got a glimpse of her other eye—green. She was a Dakawa. They weren't rare in Daracka, but he had never met one before, and the different color of her eyes was alluring.

"Can I ask you a question?" Jiro said before the girl could leave. He looked at her, and this time, he saw more of her features—how dark her hair and young her face looked. There was something about her that made him want to stare.

The girl stood straight and bobbed her head in response.

"I'm looking for someone. Do you know anyone named Zahara or Arana? She was a soldier stationed in Bickra during the Sulunes War," Jiro said, keeping his gaze on her.

The girl gave him a considerate look. "I haven't heard of them. Did you try asking Piriu?" She jerked her head toward the innkeeper at the bar.

Jiro glanced at the man. "Not yet," he said. "But I'll ask him later. Thank you." Then the maid turned and left Jiro with his soup.

He'd wanted to talk to her more, to know more about the city, or at least to have some company while he ate his soup. But the girl had left too quickly, and he couldn't ask her to stay. He knew he would see more of her in the next few days while he stayed at the inn, and, oddly, he looked forward to it. He wondered why he did.

Jiro was distracted from his thoughts when the door to the tavern opened, and someone entered—Hako stood by the entryway.

The boy with a scar on the bridge of his nose scanned the room, and his silver eyes immediately landed on the younger tavern maids. He studied them, gazing at the Dakawa girl first and taking in her fragile figure before moving to the other. When he finished, he strode to the bar.

Jiro ducked his head low, shrinking behind a tall man at the other table as if he could dig into the man's shadow. And over the noise of the tavern, he heard Piriu greet Hako. "Beautiful night sky. Ramka?"

Hako didn't answer the question. "I'm looking for a soldier, a girl who fought on the island of Bickra during the Sulunese War."

Jiro's eyes widened, and he glanced around. The Dakawa girl was standing by the kitchen door, staring at Jiro. Evidently, she'd heard Hako asking for the same person, but she didn't move or say anything.

Jiro turned his head, so his ear angled to Piriu and Hako.

"Whoever you're looking for is most likely dead," Piriu said.

Hako grunted with irritation. "Do you know anyone who fought and survived the war?" he asked, his voice impatient.

"Everyone who was here two years ago fought in the sky-forsaken war. I'm one of those survivors," Piriu said, matching Hako's irritated tone.

"I'm looking for a girl!" Hako's voice rose.

"There are plenty of those in the brothel across the street. Now, if you do not order anything in this tavern or plan to stay in my inn, you are wasting my time. Make your exit now before I show you how annoyed I'm becoming." Piriu warned, and the customers at the tables near them quieted, turning their heads to the bar to listen.

Hako gave an irritated sigh before turning to leave.

Jiro ducked again, glancing at the kitchen's entryway, but the Dakawa girl was gone. He listened to the other Aradacko's footsteps as they faded to the door.

How had Hako made it to Kimracka on the same day Jiro had? He thought he had a headstart for leaving earlier and flying nonstop. But after his encounter with Mariko in Kata, he knew that it was not impossible to get here faster. Maybe Hako and his family had come directly to Kimracka by ship, which meant that they had been here for days now.

And what about Mariko? Was she in the city too?

Jiro waited for a while until the noise of the tavern grew back to normal, and when his anxiousness had calmed, he finally took a sip of his soup. But it had already gone cold.