The morning sky over Thural was clear,
as if unaware that beyond the city walls, a village had turned to ash.
The streets bustled with small-time merchants peddling bruised fruit, stale bread, and scraps of worn metal.
But Jainal's eyes weren't on the goods.
He was watching the people.
With the child—now more often clutching his hand—Jainal walked slowly through the market. Their clothes were plain and unremarkable. The boy wore monastery garb slightly too large for him, his face half-covered by cloth to shield from dust.
"Look at that," whispered an old woman to her companion.
"That child… from the northern ruins, isn't he?"
"Not our business," the other replied, lowering her gaze.
"If we get involved, we might burn with them."
Jainal's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened.
He noted: the townsfolk know more than they admit.
---
They stopped at a small stall selling wood carvings.
The vendor was a middle-aged man with a gray beard and a smile too warm for a city built on ash.
"This one's carved from old Eastern Mountain wood," he said, holding up a tiny dragon figurine.
"Eastern Mountains?" Jainal asked casually. "Not many dare go there these days."
"Oh, I don't go myself," the seller replied. "The goods… they're sent by people who prefer not to be questioned."
His smile didn't falter, but his eyes lost their light.
As if he had seen something—and chosen to forget.
"A few months back, uniformed men came.
They didn't buy anything. Just gave a warning."
Jainal didn't ask. He waited in silence.
The man continued, voice lowered.
> "They said, 'If you hear machines at night… stay silent.'"
---
After buying a small bird carving for the child, Jainal walked away.
They sat by an old fountain, nearly dry.
The boy studied the wooden bird in his hands.
> "I… used to have one like this," he whispered.
Jainal turned.
It was the first time the child had spoken in two days.
> "His name was Kika.
Papa made him before he…"
The words hung in the air.
But to Jainal, that was enough.
> The child was beginning to open his wounds.
And from wounds, either strength—or ruin—is born.
---
That night at the monastery was quiet.
The other children slept soundly, but Jainal sat by the window, journal open on his lap.
He wrote:
> "Locals recognize sounds of night machinery—likely heavy magitek."
> "Eastern Mountains linked to unknown activity, shielded by military presence."
> "Wood carvings used as visual code—possible hidden messages."
He glanced at the bird carving.
On its underside was a tiny, nearly invisible etching:
7R–ET–13
Three letters. Seven Wheels. Eastern Track. Crate number?
Jainal closed his eyes, piecing together the map in his mind.
If this was accurate, it wasn't just a trinket.
It was a shipment marker—a hidden code for agents who wanted to remain unseen.
---
Before sleep, the child approached him.
> "Thank you… for Kika."
The whisper was followed by a small smile.
But the boy's eyes still held shadows.
Jainal nodded.
> "Keep him safe.
He'll show you the way."
> "Like Papa?"
"Like hope."
That night, the breeze carried the scent of monastery blossoms, just beginning to bloom.
But far to the east, faint and distant, came the sound—
the clink of metal… and the steady pulse of machines.