They continued through the bazaar and toward the myzranen living quarters. All working class lived in the same paved house, with one door and one open window. Milk had already been delivered to Ezerella’s house, along with dried meat strips and a freshly cured pelt. All of the items rested in a simple woven basket with a cloth laid over it, a basket laying on each and every doorstep down the alley.

“Earnings?” said Izac.

“I know the mainland has different rules about societal living,” said Ezerella. “I was able to learn about money from my father. But many of us have no concept of currency or earnings, as you say.”

“Your father?” When Ezerella said nothing, he continued. “Everyone gets the same delivery every day.” His tone was quiet as he waited for her to open the door. She pushed the wooden panel open, a simple unlocked fixture. “Right,” he said. “Why lock anything if everyone has the same exact possessions as you do?”

Ezerella looked at him curiously. “Possessions?” When he didn’t say anything, she brushed it off and allowed him to enter, closing the door behind them.

Inside, she used a wooden match to light the torches. The interior was quite bare, save for a wooden table and chair along with a small cooking pot over a hearth. Over in the corner lay a cot with a thick woolen blanket and down pillow.

“Do you have any personal belongings at all?” Izac said, stepping lightly through the simple room.

“I am not answering any more of your questions,” said Ezerella, turning on him sharply, “until you answer some of mine. You are a trespasser in Drakkir territory. I could very well be sent to the Siithek for this. So talk.”

“I am only curious,” said Izac. “As you said, the risk of bringing me here is incredibly high. So why do it?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you,” said Ezerella. She felt a smirk twinge at the corner of her dark lips. “But I will not say anything until you talk.”

Izac smiled and nodded, then leaned down to sit by the hearth, on the floor. He let his pack slide from his shoulders and massaged them gently, taking many deep breaths. After a moment, he began unraveling the rolled up pack, setting it before him on the cool wood. Inside lay the many tools of a crafter, but of a design Ezerella could not place. As he kept unrolling, the tools turned into strange looking plates, some with holes in them, some without, all of them decorated in vibrant colors. Some had the appearance of humanoid faces. Others were much more simple. They were remarkable.

“What are those?” Ezerella said.

Izac gently picked up one of the objects with delicate, pale fingers. He ran his fingertips across the surface, and Ezerella saw in the flickering light that it was made of wood.

“Masks,” he said.

“What are they for?”

“Fun.” Izac turned the mask around and placed it on his face, turning his face into that of a strange-looking beast. It had a wide smile and horns atop its head, similar to Izac’s. “Many different cultures of the mainland use masks to tell stories, or to play games. Sometimes they’re even used in grand balls and parties to hide one’s true face, adding a little intrigue to the evening.”

Ezerella watched his lips move in mild wonder, beneath the grinning visage of the mask. The concept felt so foreign, and yet so wonderfully spectacular. She felt like the stories in her head were coming alive with each word this elf spoke, with each mask she laid her eyes on. Her heart began pounding.

Izac replaced the mask on the roll. He smiled at her.

“I travel the land selling my masks, gathering and telling stories,” he said. His blue eyes glinted amber in the firelight. Ezerella was momentarily mesmerized, unable to look away. He continued, “Would you like one?”

Her heart nearly stopped. Such an object, in her house… It was unthinkable. She was myzra. Any interesting objects or findings she came across were to be immediately handed to the Ralzanen. Otherwise jealousies would taint the delicate Equilibrium. But these masks… Perhaps she could keep one in secret, hide it beneath her pillow and admire it at night when her shift was over. It didn’t seem so terrible, the more she thought about it.

“I have nothing to offer in return,” she said.

“You do,” said Izac, smiling. He reached into his pack and pulled out a curved, curated piece of wood. It had the basic shape of a mask already carved, but was mostly bare. He picked up a tool, most likely used for carving. “As I said, I travel the world in search of stories. I trade my masks for them.”

“Stories?” said Ezerella. “But they are trivial, for younglings.”

Izac laughed, a sound like honey. “Not to you.”

Ezerella said nothing. She didn’t like how this stranger seemed to know her hidden imagination, seemed to understand that she was more inclined than others to waste a day away thinking about what incredible creatures once wore those leviathan bones, or what kinds of people once inhabited the lush Serathic peninsula, many cycles ago.

“I know there is a story that the Drakkir pass on to their children,” said Izac. “I heard a name several days ago. It was accompanied by a prophecy, and a promise that all Drakkir would know of it.”

Ezerella swallowed, heart racing again.

“The name was Auron, King of Dust,” said Izac. “I couldn’t imagine it to be true, since I’d also heard that the Drakkir are all women.”

“Auron was a king, a ralzan.” Ezerella looked at the burning hearth, eyes glossing over as she remembered the tale told to her by her surrogate mother long ago. “The story says that he was the last Ralzan the Drakkir have ever known, and that it was because of his remarkable deeds that a jealous sorcerer cast a curse on our people. The story is not considered history, however, merely the fable of entertainers. Would you still like to hear it?”

Izac nodded. He began shaping the wood in his hands with his knife.