"Have you had rice?" Nilo asked out of nowhere, squatting in his usual pose, chin on knees, staring at the girl as if the question were as serious as life itself.
The girl blinked at him, her two small daggers tucked neatly at her side. "Rice?" she repeated, puzzled. "I've heard of it, but never tasted it."
Nilo's mouth fell open. "Never - ?!" He looked at Kanan for backup. "Brother, she's saying she's never had rice. Not once! You believe this?"
Kanan sighed, arms crossed, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Neither have we, Nilo."
"Ah," Nilo admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "True. But that's different. We didn't have anything. Just beetles and mother's cooking pot filled with… well, whatever she pretended was food."
The girl smiled faintly. "My parents told me stories about rice," she said softly, almost wistfully. "They said it was once the food of kings and wanderers alike. A single grain could feed a starving child. A handful could sustain a family through a season. It wasn't just food. It was hope."
Nilo leaned forward, eyes wide. "One grain? That's a fat grain!"
The girl shook her head. "No. The story goes that the rice was sacred, gifted by the gods themselves. Each grain carried oorja pure, untouched. That's why it could fill an empty belly and heal the weary. But in the wars, when men turned against each other, the sacred fields were burned. All that remained were ashes and memory."
Kanan frowned. "So the grain doesn't exist anymore?"
"Some say," the girl continued, her voice dropping low, "that a few grains were hidden away. Guarded. Waiting for a time when they would return to the world of men."
For a moment, all three fell silent. The ruins around them stood like hollowed bones, the air heavy with the ghosts of the past.
Then Nilo broke it. "So if I ever find this sacred rice, I'm eating all of it." He puffed out his chest proudly.
Kanan smacked him lightly on the back of the head. "Idiot. If what she says is true, it's not just food it's power. You'd waste it on stuffing your face."
The girl's lips twitched into the faintest smirk. "Maybe it's better if you never find it, Nilo. The sacred grain would probably run away from you."
"Run away?!" Nilo threw his hands up. "Great. First bugs for dinner, now even rice doesn't want me."
The laughter that followed was small, but it broke through the shadows of the ruins.
The girl rose to her feet then, her expression sobering. "Come," she said, dusting her hands. "I'll show you something."
She led them through the broken streets, past toppled columns and charred beams. What once might have been a thriving city was now nothing more than blackened stone and silence. A market square lay open before them, stalls burned to ash, fountains choked with rubble. The ghosts of voices seemed to linger in the wind, whispering the sounds of merchants and children that were no longer there.
Kanan felt his throat tighten. "What… what happened here?"
The girl's gaze hardened. Her voice, when she spoke, was distant like she was pulling the words from some cold place within herself.
"Two years ago, this city was alive. Families, laughter, trade, music. Then the war came. The people rose against the monarchy, believing freedom would come with fire. But fire consumes all, it does not choose."
Her eyes swept over the ruins as if she were watching it burn all over again. "The rebels tore down banners, burned the fields, and starved their own neighbours. The crown's soldiers answered with steel and flame. By the end, there was no king, no rebel, no victory. Only ash. The city devoured itself."
Nilo swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably. "And you… you saw it?"
The girl's lips pressed thin. "From above," she said, her tone sharp, final, as though she were cutting off the memory itself.
Silence stretched between them. Even Nilo had no joke ready.
Finally, she guided them to a broken building, its doorway half-collapsed. Inside, the air was cooler, the dust thick. She moved with purpose, as though she knew this place well, and brought them to a long chamber. At its centre lay a great table, scarred but intact. Upon it was spread a map, faded but still legible, lines and symbols stretching across lands the brothers had never heard of.
"This," she said, resting her hands upon the edges, "is the world that remains."
The brothers leaned in, wide-eyed. Their wasteland had no maps. No borders, no names. For the first time, they were staring at something larger than their hunger, larger than survival.
And the girl, silent, secretive, but steady was the one showing it to them.