Along with the clinic’s laundry, Nanny Pond had also brought food from her own kitchen. Lunch consisted of fried dumplings and spiced bean curry. After only two bowls of porridge, Mahala welcomed something so oily and rich.

“Eat up, doctor! You’ve been slavin’ away since dawn ta get Jewel at the table with us!” Nanny Pond said. 

She pushed a generous portion of curry to Hacksaw. He accepted it, resigned to his fate.

A second bowl was passed to Mahala. She stared at it, the mask oddly heavy around her head.

“What’s wrong, duck?” Nanny Pond prompted.

“She injured her face, Pond. She’ll eat in the other room,” Hacksaw said with a mouthful of food.

Nanny Pond tried to slap him again. “Hacksaw! Ya can’t say that!”

“No, it’s fine, I would like to eat alone, if that’s not too much trouble,” Mahala said. She offered Nanny Pond a bow. “Thank you for the food.”

She scurried away with the bowl to the next room. Harsh whispers between Nanny Pond and Hacksaw followed her but she ignored them.

With a deep breath, Mahala tried to make the most of her hot meal. She positioned herself by a narrow window, with a heavy curtain hiding most of her away. She stared out into the picturesque autumn highlands as she ate. 

Her eyes dropped to a small shrine opposite the clinic, Notho’s moon carved above the door.

“How can these people deserve such a beautiful view, Nothos?” she whispered.

The wyrm tossed in its sleep, sending flickers of flame through her veins.

“How can I…?”

To her surprise, she spotted a familiar face. The dirty-faced boy emerged from the shrine with a broom. He swept away the fallen leaves into a tidy pile.

She saw the children with satchels filtering into the street, laughing and playing, their faces sticky with the crepes they ate. One of the children deliberately kicked up the neat pile of leaves. Everyone else laughed and joined in, creating a storm of red and orange confetti. The boy stood still with the broom loose in his hand.

After the leaves were too scattered to play with, the children circled the boy. Mahala couldn’t hear what they were saying. One of the satchel children shoved the boy. He didn’t react. He was shoved harder and this time fell over.

The other children laughed again.

For a second, Mahala thought the boy spotted her.

The Lady of Pomolin loved children. She would wear soft clothes when visiting them, so they could feel comforting textures in her embrace. She let them crawl over her piano as she played their favourite songs. She volunteered to go to orphanages with a banquet of sweets and to read them stories.

Mahala didn’t feel like the Lady of Pomolin at the present time with her faded men’s clothes, her body a patchwork of healing wounds, an ugly wyrm ringed by nails over her heart. 

But the boy knew.

I am the Lady of Pomolin.

She slotted on (the cheap copy of) her father’s mask and leaped out the window. Her feet slammed heavily on the ground. It didn’t hurt as much as it should. 

“Oi, the hell are you going?” She heard a sharp yell behind her— Her Yarth guard?

Mahala ignored him and marched forward towards the children. One of the satchel children had taken the broom from the boy and raised it over their head.

Mahala caught his arm.

“Get off!” The satchel child jerked his arm away.

The broom clattered to the ground.

Up close to him and the dirty faced boy, Mahala realised something shocking. Behind the grime, the shorn-off hair and ratty clothes, the dirty-faced boy and the satchel child looked identical. The dirty-faced boy at first appeared younger, but his malnourished frame explained the reason. Otherwise, they had the same curly black hair, same eyes, same long upturned nose. Twins.

“Volunteering to clean up the mess you made?” Mahala said. She tried to sound stern like her father.

“Leave off! This got nothin’ t’do with ya!”  the satchel child shouted back.

Someone jerked back Mahala’s shoulder. A Yarth man in work overalls got between her and the children.

His face flushed red and furious. “Get back to the—”

Wood snapped, and a scream followed.

All eyes were on the dirty-faced boy. With heavy breaths, the broom brandished in his hands, broken at one end. The satchel child who shoved him was crouched on the ground, holding his bloody ear.

The satchel child cried at the top of his lungs. The other children backed away, whispering and pointing. The Yarth man dragged Mahala back into the clinic. Hacksaw stumbled past her to find the source of the cry.

Mahala’s eyes stayed on the dirty-faced boy who met her gaze. There was no panic, no remorse, just calm.

The shrine priest emerged to grab him. He disappeared back into the house of Nothos, the God of Justice and Mercy.

The satchel child’s mother arrived in the clinic within the hour. In one arm, she hauled a five-year-old girl in a pretty pinafore. She used the other arm to barge past Hacksaw and Nanny Pond, embracing her sniffling son with his newly stitched up ear.

“I want that little bastard dead,” the mother spat.

“Your son should’ve known better than to mess with a jinsaéwo,” Hacksaw said, rolling his eyes.

The mother jabbed a finger at him. “Stay out of it, Shiran snake!”

Nanny Pond petted the mother’s arm. “Be reasonable, Kick. The boy belongs t’the shrine now. Besides, all mountain men get their first scars at this age.”

“I should’ve smothered him when I had the chance,” the mother muttered. Her eyes swept around the clinic and stopped at Mahala. “And who the hell are you?”

Mahala tried to make herself small in her corner of the room. 

“Haven’t ya heard? Jewel’s a new guest of your family,” Nanny Pond said. 

The mother’s narrowed eyes roamed over Mahala. “No one told me.”

“Enough frownin’! You’ll get wrinkles,” Nanny Pond said, prodding the young mother’s forehead. “And forget about the boy. I’m sure Father Slipshod’ll see to it he gets his punishment for bleedin’ your son in front of a shrine.”

“I’ll see to it. He won’t get away with this,” the mother said. She pulled the little girl into the cot next to her son. “Stay with your brother, I’ll be right back.”

“Érk pyiaek oh. This isn’t a nursery,” Hacksaw protested.

The mother ignored him and stormed out of the clinic.

Nanny Pond clasped her hands. “Well, duckies. How ‘bout some tea an’ cake?” 

Hacksaw threw up his arms in frustration. Nanny Pond hummed to herself as she hobbled into the next room for the kitchen.

“What’s ‘jinsaywoe?’” the girl asked.

“Jinsaéwo,” Hacksaw corrected. “Shiran word for ‘Duskuhbon.’”

The girl didn’t appear to understand his accent.

“Duskborne,” Mahala said. “It means he is a child of Dusk.”

The girl’s expression remained blank. “That’s bad?”

“Mama doesn’t like talkin’ about it,” the satchel child mumbled.

Hacksaw shook his head. “Of course, she doesn’t. That doesn’t change the fact you should know.” He paused. “Though probably not from me… Pomolish children do not understand me so well.”

Mahala stared at the shrine.

“I can tell the story,” she said. She’s told it many times to children despite it being her least favourite. “It’s the story of Dawn, Dusk and the ikka.”

The girl cocked her head. “Ikka?”

“Man. It’s an ancient word for what we are. We are children of the second god Ikkurum. But Dawn and Dusk… they are the sons of the fourth god.”