History

Cayti

“Cayti, can I please speak with you for a bit? Somewhere private.”

Kalla’s voice catches me off guard. I blink, then nod quickly, sliding down from Tyur’ma’s back. I glance at Jesse, searching his face for guidance, but he only gives me a calm nod. Kalla smiles at that.

“Okay. Let’s head back to my house, and leave the boys to do their thing.”

I fall into step beside her as we wind through the village streets. Her tone is light, but there’s an undercurrent beneath it.

“So,” she says casually, “I’d like to know some more about you.”

I nearly stumble. The words land harder than they should. She doesn’t notice.

“What would you like to know?”

“Your history.”

The bottom drops out of my chest. My face feels numb, but Kalla’s eyes stay fixed ahead.

“I understand if you don’t want to tell me,” she goes on, voice careful, “and I won’t press you for everything. But your name rings a bell. I just want to validate something.”

She flicks a glance at me, eyebrow raised.

“Something about Princess Fuku.”

My heart slams against my ribs. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat nearly choking me.

“F-F-Fuku? You… you knew her?”

She nods. “I did. But we shouldn’t talk about it out here. You never know who might be listening.”

My eyes dart to every corner of the quiet street, half-expecting someone to be lurking in the shadows. But there are no alleys here, no onlookers within earshot. Still, I follow her without a word.

When we reach her house, she knocks. The door opens to reveal the boy. For the first time I really notice him: the white ears on his head, so much like Kalla’s, along with those piercing blue eyes. His tail sways idly, but his gaze is fixed on me, sharp with curiosity.

“Come in,” Kalla says, ushering me past him. She shuts the door firmly, then leads me into the main room.

“Take a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

I settle at the table. The boy lingers in the doorway, peeking at me like a wary animal. I smile and give a small wave, but he doesn’t return it. His eyes hold more questions than words ever could.

Kalla reappears, carrying a bowl. She sets it down and slides into the chair opposite me.

“Feel free. I made them earlier.”

The bowl is piled with small, golden-brown muffins. They tumble over one another, still faintly warm. I take one, bite into it - and nearly melt. Sweetness blooms across my tongue, layered with spices that must be rare, expensive.

“These are amazing!” I say with my mouth half full.

Her smile softens. “Thank you. The recipe’s been passed down for generations. It still tastes the same even now.”

For just a heartbeat, something flickers in her eyes - an old memory, bittersweet. Then it’s gone.

She leans forward slightly. “So. About Fuku.”

The muffin turns to ash in my mouth. My appetite vanishes, replaced by a knot of dread. Still, I nod.

“As you know,” she says, her tone shifting into something steadier, “Fuku was executed for smuggling the Kingdom’s secrets. She used her status as a captured princess, her place inside the palace, to feed information through her network of spies.”

I nod silently, throat dry.

“I have a few questions,” Kalla continues.

My hands curl into fists beneath the table. “What… what are they?”

Her expression hardens, losing its warmth. In an instant, this is no longer small talk - it’s testimony.

“Three things. Firstly… what was she like?”

The memories rush in before I can stop them. My voice wavers.

“She… she was everything to me. She raised me, just the two of us, inside the palace walls. She taught me everything I know. Without her… I wouldn’t even be alive.”

Kalla nods, urging me on without speaking.

“She was the kindest, most patient person. The best Mum I could ever have wished for.”

The tears come, hot and fast, but I manage to hold my voice steady.

“Thank you,” Kalla says softly. “I know this is hard. But if you can, let’s continue while we have the time.”

I nod again, swallowing grief like shards of glass.

“Second,” she says gently, “and I’m sorry, but this will hurt. How did she die? Was she in pain?”

The image hits me with brutal clarity - Fuku’s body locked in the guillotine’s stock, her face tilted toward me. That last smile. My chest constricts.

“N-no,” I whisper, shaking my head. “She wasn’t in pain. The last thing she did was smile at me. And she was happy. There wasn’t a single regret in her eyes.”

Kalla’s own eyes glisten. I feel a tear trail down my cheek but don’t bother wiping it away.

“Okay,” she breathes, steadying herself. “Final question. What do you know about her history?”

I dredge up the words from memory.

“She told me she was a captured princess. That she was… engaged in dangerous, illegal work. That at any moment she might be caught.”

Kalla studies me, then sighs.

“Nothing more?”

I blink, startled. “What more could there be?”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Clearly she wanted to keep you innocent for as long as she could. That sounds like her.” She exhales slowly. “Alright. In return for what you’ve shared… I’ll tell you the rest.”

A chill races through me. Something big is coming. I can feel it.

She sighs again, her ears flattening slightly as though weighed down by the memory.

“Fuku… Fuku is an old friend of mine. She was born in a nearby village, only two days’ walk from here.”

Her eyes soften, shimmering with something far away. The tone of her voice changes - not quite lighter, but warmer, as if the past has momentarily lifted the heaviness from her chest.

“Our villages regularly sent groups to and fro, for both trade and… well, just a change of scenery. A way to feel like the world was bigger than our borders. I met Fuku when her mother brought her here on one of those trips.”

She smiles, small but genuine, the kind that trembles on the edge of sadness.

“We became good friends straight away. How long ago was that… I must’ve been eight or nine. She was only a year older than me.”

Her voice takes on a faint lilt, almost like she’s talking to herself as much as to me.

“We’d always look forward to each other’s visits. If it wasn’t my turn to travel, I’d count the days until she arrived here. And when it was my turn, I’d beg my parents to let me carry the baskets or hold the rope of the cart - anything, so long as I could be the first one to see her when the road opened up. We’d spend every moment together, from dawn until our parents forced us to bed. We’d run through the woods, play at the river, and dream about what our lives would look like once we were grown. Our families bonded naturally, too. Before long, it became unspoken - if her family stayed here, they stayed with us. If mine went there, we stayed with them.”

The light in her expression flickers, dimming.

“This continued until we became adults. Then the war started. Suddenly, everything was different. We were separated for safety, confined to our own villages, barely allowed to step outside the gates except with an escort. But still… we wrote. Every caravan, every messenger that dared the road, we slipped letters into their hands. We kept each other alive with scraps of paper.”

Her voice tightens, and the shadow in her eyes deepens.

“But as the war dragged on, someone had an idea. They said we should elect a princess - a single face who could embody our hope, a beacon of strength for our troops. It sounded good, and the idea spread quickly. Every village put forward volunteers, and the elders chose one among them.”

She draws in a long breath, as though steadying herself before speaking the inevitable.

“That person, of course, was Fuku.”

The name lands heavy between us. My chest tightens, my heart pounding faster, like I already know where the story is going but I don’t want to hear it spelled out.

Kalla keeps her gaze fixed on the floor.

“The idea worked, for a time. Our soldiers fought harder, stood taller. We pushed back with a new-found strength, and the war’s pendulum swung. But the strategy had one fatal flaw - in order for one person to inspire an entire army, everyone has to know that person exists. And if everyone knows, then so do the humans.”

Her ears twitch, and her voice sharpens with anger.

“They weren’t happy about it. So they planned a strike. They sent a specialized force with one goal: capture the princess alive. Not kill - capture. Killing her might have martyred her. But taking her? That would poison morale, crush it deeper than death ever could.”

She swallows, her throat bobbing.

“They waited for a moonless night, and went into action. Silent. Precise. Too precise. The strike was a success. They caught Fuku, and dragged her away to the Kingdom’s capital.”

A shaky sigh escapes her lips.

“Luckily, thanks to their honor laws - which they rarely follow - her status as princess gave her a second chance at life. A servant’s life. And for once, they kept their word. She was forced into the palace.”

Slowly, painfully, her eyes lift to meet mine.

“And then, one year later, you were… made.”

The word cuts like a blade, but I don’t flinch. I force myself to meet her gaze, even as a numbness spreads through me.

“Fuku, as you know, was assigned to raise you. And she put her whole heart into it. But more than that - she began to send us secrets.”

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“But she only ever sent one kind of secret. Just one.”

Her expression softens, trembling with something fragile.

“She only ever wrote about you.”

The air seems to collapse around me. My breath catches in my throat. My lips part but no sound comes out.

“She wrote about how you were doing, about the little things you said and did, about how she loved you. Every letter was filled with you. She wrote that she considered you her own daughter.”

My mind spins, fragments of memory colliding with her words. Fuku’s hand on my shoulder. Her voice soothing me to sleep. Her quiet laughter when I mispronounced something. I feel the world tilt, my pulse hammering in my ears.

“She knew she was risking everything by sending those letters,” Kalla continues, her voice shaking now. “She knew that you were the Kingdom’s greatest secret, and if she was caught, she’d face execution without trial. But she sent them anyway. Every time, she ended them the same way - calling you her favourite child.”

Hot tears stream down my face before I even realise it. They fall onto my hands, dampening my lap.

“She always said that if she was ever released, then my child - who wasn’t even born yet - and hers, you, could be friends.”

The boy. The boy at the doorway. Her son. Fuku’s promise carried into another life.

The grief inside me buckles. I can’t contain it. My throat burns, my lungs feel starved of air.

Kalla suddenly rises and crouches beside me. Her hand comes up, warm and trembling, to cradle my cheek. My tears spill over her fingers.

“Hey,” she whispers, her voice breaking, “don’t cry. Fuku lived a full life. She’s probably looking down right now, smiling at how far you’ve come.”

I want to scream. I want to shout the truth. She’s not looking down. She never went anywhere. I absorbed her soul. She died twice. But the words knot in my throat, and I am thankful they don’t escape. She doesn’t need to know.

Instead, the grief rips through me, wracking my body with sobs. Kalla pulls me into her arms, holding me tightly, and I cling to her with shaking hands. Her tears spill against my shoulder, mingling with mine.

Two grieving souls, broken by the same absence. Yet in that brokenness, we find something else - an anchor in each other’s arms. Through shared sorrow, through tears we cannot stop, we are no longer alone.

When we part, I rub at my eyes with my sleeve, sniffing hard to keep my nose from running. Kalla smiles weakly, and I return it with one of my own.

For the first time since we entered, the boy moves. He darts forward, pressing himself against Kalla’s side and clutching at her dress. She lowers her gaze, her expression softening in a way that makes her look almost like a different person. Gently, she lays her hand on his head, smoothing down his hair as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey, Moisei. Do you remember how I told you about Aunty Fuku?”

The boy nods. The title hits me like a brick. Aunty? They were related? My stomach twists.

“This is her daughter, Cayti - the one I also told you about. Remember? Say hello.”

He stares up at me, wide-eyed, cautious. His face is still round with youth, seven or eight years old at most - not much older than Hitomi back in Ragin City. He edges forward with tiny steps until he’s just half a meter away.

“Hello,” he whispers.

I can’t help but smile. “Hello.”

Immediately, he scampers back, ducking behind Kalla’s dress. He buries his face in the fabric, tugging her tail across his own face like a curtain. His own little tail swishes timidly back and forth.

Kalla gives me a faintly apologetic smile. “Sorry. He’s a bit shy.”

I return it, shaking my head. “Don’t worry. I’ve met a few shy kids before. They warm up - slowly, but surely.”

She nods, then bends down, whispering something into Moisei’s ear. The boy perks up, nods once, and runs from the room with a sudden clatter of footsteps, darting up the stairs two at a time.

As the sound fades, she straightens and looks at me again, her voice gentler. “By the way… me and Fuku weren’t related by blood. We just used to joke about having our kids call us Aunties. We wanted them to grow up thinking we were family, even if it wasn’t written in the bloodline.”

Something inside me warms at that, a strange mix of affection and longing.

Kalla clears her throat. “Can I get you anything to drink? We’ve got wine, milk, spiced water…”

“Milk would be great, thank you.”

“Warm or cold?”

“Warm, please.”

She nods, padding toward the kitchen. The sound of crackling coal rises as she adjusts the oven.

“So, Cayti,” she says while clinking around with pots, “I’d really like to know what happened for you to end up here. I’m even more curious about Jesse. But I’m assuming… you don’t want to answer most of those questions.”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “No. I can answer some. But… only if I can ask you things too.”

She tilts her head, considering. Then she nods. “Fair enough. A question for a question.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “Deal.”

Kalla spins lightly on her heel in the kitchen, pointing her spoon toward me like a stage prop. “Then my first question: what is that beast you were riding in? It looks… vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“It’s called a tank,” I say.

Her ears perk up and she snaps her fingers. “Yes! That’s the word. A tank. I knew I’d heard it before.” Her expression turns pensive, brows knitting. “There are rumours about one right now. But the descriptions don’t match your Tyur’ma at all.”

My posture stiffens. “What rumours?”

She shrugs, stirring the milk. “Oh, you know. Tales spreading across the villages. They say a fabled mechanical monster - a tank - has immense magical power, and can strike down a dragon from kilometers away.” She gestures vaguely with her hand, her tone half skeptical, half intrigued. “They describe it as a box with an upside-down frypan placed on top. Tyur’ma doesn’t look like that, though. They also called it Elevi, not Tyur’ma.”

I narrow my eyes, and file it away immediately. Jesse will need to hear this.

The soft hiss of heating milk fills the room.

Kalla glances over her shoulder. “Alright then. My turn’s over. Who is Jesse, exactly?”

My heart jolts. For a moment, I freeze. Honesty… or disguise?

“He’s…” I swallow, then force it out. “He’s from another world.”

Her head snaps toward me, ears twitching. “…Then Tyur’ma is actually his?”

I nod.

She breathes out slowly, as if centering herself. “Okay. That’s… unexpected.”

Her eyes lock on mine, suddenly sharp. “You do understand you’re traveling with the equivalent of a God, don’t you? What’s your relationship with him? How did you meet?”

I press a finger to my lips and shake my head. Her sigh is long, but not angry.

“Right. Rules of the game. Question for a question. Your turn.”

I smile sweetly, pretending to relax. “How did you survive the monster surge?”

Kalla’s expression flickers. For a moment she looks almost distant. “…I don’t know how to explain it. But they didn’t reach us. They came close - too close - but something stopped them. We still don’t know what. The only evidence we have is…” She cuts herself off, smirking mischievously. “No. If you want to know, you’ll have to ask.”

I groan in frustration, and she laughs, carrying the steaming mugs back into the room.

She places one into my hands. The cup is warm against my palms, the milk’s scent comforting. It’s almost exactly like the one I had at the Flying Pig.

“Alright then,” she says, her eyes glinting. “What’s your relationship with Jesse?”

I take a breath, lift the cup, and blow gently across its surface. The warmth feels grounding.

“We’re dating,” I say at last.

The milk brushes my lips as Kalla’s jaw drops, her mouth falling open in complete disbelief.

“What? Dating? Cayti, you?”

I take a long sip from my cup, refusing to rise to her bait. The liquid burns faintly as it goes down, bitter but oddly comforting. I let the taste sit on my tongue, the weight of her teasing sliding off me like water off Tyur’ma’s hull. She sighs, dramatically disappointed.

“Alright, your go.”

I smile faintly, leaning forward.
“What evidence?”

Kalla’s ears twitch. “A large hollow cylinder, capped at one end and tapered to an opening at the other, about as long as my arm. There were quite a few of them, all the same gold colour. We had them checked, but turns out they weren’t real gold. Shame, really - we’d have been rich.”

Her description makes me freeze for a moment. Shell casings. Just like Tyur’ma’s. The ones that get ejected after every shot. Jesse will want to know this. I tuck that thought away carefully, like a secret coin in my pocket.

Her eyes sharpen. “My turn again. How did you meet Jesse?”

I exhale slowly. “Do you only care about the latest romance gossip?”

She smiles, all innocence, tail swishing lazily behind her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear. Now answer the question.”

“Fine. We met when I was about to be killed by the church. He saved my life - and healed my sprained ankle.”

She perks up immediately, ears flicking upright. “Oh! Is he a mage?”

I shake my head. “No. He used a special bandage and took me with him in Tyur’ma. A mage in Ragin did the rest.”

Kalla nods, considering. My turn again. But my mind comes up blank. I shrug.
“Sorry. I’m all out.”

Her grin widens. “Perfect. Now I can ask you as much as I want.”

I try to look pleased. Fail miserably. She laughs, the sound bubbling warm and mischievous.

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long. So, why were you being chased?”

I shake my head. Too close, too sharp. Her eyes narrow knowingly. She backs off.
“Alright, too much. New tack. Have you and Jesse… you know…”

Her fingers lace together in an indecent gesture. My face burns. The urge to slap her away nearly overwhelms me. Instead, I shove my chair back and stand.
“That’s it. I’m going out.”

“Oh, no! No, come back. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll even-”

The door closes behind me before I can hear the rest. Cool air brushes my face as I step onto the porch, lungs drinking in the freshness. My heart is hammering, half from irritation, half from embarrassment.

The - a hand slips into mine.

I spin, startled, and see Moisei standing there. Somehow he’d opened the door without a sound, ghostlike, his wide eyes shining in the dim lantern glow. He looks up at me, lips trembling before he whispers.

“Stay.”

Something in my chest softens instantly. My heart melts. I crouch so my eyes meet his. I smile gently.
“If I stay, can you tell your mum to calm down?”

He nods so fast his hair flops over his eyes.

The front door opens again. Kalla steps out, catching sight of her son holding my hand. Her teasing grin falters into something tender.
“Oh, isn’t that sweet. Come back now, darling. Cayti’s-”

Her words cut short when Moisei’s small voice threads through the night.
“You need to calm down so that big sister Cayti can stay.”

The air itself seems to pause. Kalla blinks, startled. Then she smiles, softer than I’ve ever seen her, and ruffles his hair.
“You’re right. For you, my son, I will calm down.”

His tail wags furiously as she scratches his ears. He beams, and the moment is so pure it almost hurts.

Kalla straightens and meets my gaze. Her voice lowers, warm and pleading. “I’m sorry, Cayti.”

I shrug, though my chest feels strangely heavy. “It’s alright. You’re just a little excited.”

Her lips curve into a playful grin. “Excited? Me? You jest. I’m not a child anymore.”

She sways her hips dramatically, making me snort.
“You are in my eyes.”

She gasps, clutching her forehead in theatrical despair. “Oh! My heart! You’ve hurt it!”

I chuckle and shake my head, letting her antics ease the awkwardness as we head back inside.

The warmth of the room greets us again, though this time Kalla’s expression is more composed. She sits, folding her hands together, eyes sharp but still kind.

“So, what’s your plan?”

I hesitate. Plan? Did Jesse even tell me? I shrug.
“You’ll have to ask Jesse that. I go where he goes.”

She tilts her head. “Do you not get a say?”

I shake my head quickly. “No, I do get a say. We decide together. Actually - it was my idea to come here.”

Her relief is visible, shoulders loosening. “Oh, thank goodness. I was worried you were being… dominated, for a moment.”

I narrow my eyes. My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand again.

“Cayti, wait - I didn’t mean it like that!”

But I’m already halfway to the door, her frantic apologies tumbling after me like sparks trying to catch flame.

I retrace my steps toward the place where Tyur’ma had been when Kalla first captured me. But as I move through the village, I notice odd things. Bright splashes of colour dart across the streets - cloth and paper and ribbons hurried along in busy hands with no clear destination. Someone jogs past trailing a handful of multi-coloured streamers behind them. A horse-drawn cart rattles by carrying a heavy iron frame, clearly meant for cooking something massive - likely one of the wyverns. Another follows, piled high with unlit lamps, their glass chiming softly against one another.

My head spins for a moment before the pieces click into place. A festival. They’re preparing for a festival.

But why?

The answer comes almost immediately, and I nearly smack myself for not realizing sooner. Of course - they’re celebrating the saving of the village.

A groan threatens to escape. Is this about to turn into another Kaunis, with villagers dragging Jesse from place to place, desperate to shower him with thanks and attention? The memory makes me smile wryly. Last time, my injured ankle spared me from the vast majority of it. Jesse wasn’t so lucky. He’s been wary of festivals ever since, and his unease has rubbed off on me.

The sun drifts lower as I weave through the streets, searching for him. Every corner holds more signs of preparation - bright fabric strung across doorways, baskets of food waiting to be shared, children carrying armfuls of flowers.

By the time I reach the square, I’ve begun sketching escape plans in my head. If this celebration swells into anything like Kaunis, we’ll need excuses - good ones - ready to hand.