Arriving in Rotia was like arriving in any other city. People swarmed the streets in droves. Some people pulled along ox carts. Others dragged tethered livestock through the foot traffic, shouting how good of a price it was to buy a goat for two kroka. Fabrian made a mental note that Agan used the same money system as Natalez, and she thanked whatever god—Lien, she guessed, or maybe her sister—that she didn’t have to worry about currency exchange rates. Tented stalls lined the narrow alleys, selling anything from steaming hot food to shimmering displays of jewelry. 

Netali seemed particularly pleased at how much attention the caravan garnered with people watching wide-eyed in wonder as the twenty-something wagons wheeled through.

“Where are we headed?” Fabrian pulled back to the rear with Armon and Cleri. “Or, are we just like…walking advertisements for Netali’s Traveling Merchants?”

Cleri laughed. “Yes to both. And we’re headed to Sabra Square. Think of it like an open plaza for traveling merchants to park their carriages and sell wares. It’s a massive place with hostels to sleep in and wash areas to clean and freshen up. And everyone's allowed to stay for a fairly cheap total of two kroner.”

Like an RV park or a truck stop of sorts. Fabrian held back a giggle at the thought. She tried to picture Netali as a trucker and found the image of the merchant wearing a baseball cap too ridiculous to entertain. 

Sabra Square was decorated with a mosaic floor of vermillion and cerulean tiles, arranged in the image of an ocean beneath a red sun. Woven garlands of brightly dyed purple and cerulean fabric hung overhead, with swaying glass beads and crystal prisms catching the light in a dizzying array of iridescent patterns. Fabrian pulled Dune to a halt as the wagons parted around her to find different places to unpack for the three-days stay. She found that she couldn’t look away from the incandescent colors fluttering across the floor every time the breeze sifted through the garlands.

Eventually, Fabrian dismounted from Dune and led him to where the others had tethered their horses, making sure he was secured in a spot close to a water trough. 

Once she was certain he would be able to rest and hydrate well, Fabrian went to find Netali. The merchant was haggling with a man sporting a short, emerald cap placed towards the back of his head. He wore a navy gambeson with a silver velvet jerkin over it and grey trousers with leather woven sandals. After very intense gesturing from both of them, the man strode away looking quite pleased and Netali herself had the expression a sunbathing cat would have. Fabrian approached with an amused glance.

“So what was that about?”

Netali crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, quite satisfied with herself. “I was able to get our stay fee down from two kroner to a kroner and five kroka. In exchange, the owners of Sabra plaza get ten percent off any of the wares they purchase while we’re here.”

“Sounds like you’re maintaining a good relationship with these guys,” Fabrian said.

“Yes, I’ve been bringing the caravan here since I first started. The owners are good people who make sure any traders are well housed and well fed during their stay.” Netali’s face grew a bit more grim. “I’ll have meetings into the night, but you’re more than welcome to find a hostel room that suits you or bunk with the other guards. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the Housing Guild. While it’s not impossible to find a place to live on your own, the guild guarantees the place you purchased was well cared for and that the prices are fair. I have a few acquaintances who work there. One of them has agreed to meet us and help you find somewhere to settle.”

“Thank you, Netali.” Fabrian gestured to the wagon. “Do you need any help setting up for the night?”

Netali waved her off. “You go on ahead. Settle in, explore the sights. This place is far more intricate than any city in Natalez. Just be careful, it’s like a maze.”

Fabrian pursed her lips. “That man you were talking to, he’s the owner of this plaza, right?”

Netali nodded. “Why?”

“I have a question to ask him about a bookstore.”

Fabrian found the owner of the square directing other merchants to park their wagons. When Fabrian called out to him however, he turned and greeted her with a bright smile and a happy shout. 

“Welcome! You came in with Netali’s group, yes?”

Fabrian nodded. “I was actually hoping you can help me find a local place.”

“Of course!” The man promised, hands on hips. “I’ve lived in Rotia since I was a ten year old child. These streets have been built one on top of the other, but I know them well.”

“Great—I’m looking for a bookstore called Inkstone,” she explained. “Does that name ring a bell?”

“A bookstore, hm?” The man thought about it for a bit. “While I haven’t heard of that particular one, I can tell you where to look. Is this your first time to Rotia?”

“First time in Agan.”

“Ah, well, my proudest of welcomes.” The man gave a slight bow. “Rotia is divided into three districts—the West Side, the East Side, and the Center. We are currently located in the West Side, to the south. There is a main road that goes through all districts, it’s called Bough Street; that’s probably where you came into the city. The West side is the trade hub for artisans, merchants, and so on. You need to go to the Center—the academies, scribe halls and archival domiciles, and the palace are all located there. All bookstores, for easy access, are located along Bough Street.”

“What about the East Side?”

“The East Side is the craftsman side of the city. Smithies, agriculture centers, engineers—they all live on that side.”

“Everything’s so organized,” Fabrian marveled.

“That’s the handiwork of our Royal Family.” The man said proudly. “The current king and his  two predecessors worked hard to ensure that our city could survive the passage of time and ensure our infrastructure does not fail.”

“Your rulers sound wise.” Fabrian tried not to grimace as she couldn’t say the same for the previous actions of her current body. “I’ll go find Bough Street and head to the Center. Thank you for the information, Mister…?”

“Adel,” the man supplied. “Adel Osorim.”

“Thank you, Mister Adel. I’ll be on my way.”

Leaving the plaza, Fabrian picked her way through the maze of the West Side. Since the others would be busy until nightfall, she intended to enjoy herself to the fullest—wanting to understand the similarities and differences between this world and the real world. To her amusement, she decided people were people no matter where you went. As she passed by the stalls and other traveling merchants, people shouted to her with prices and sales. Someone offered her a new leather tunic with a ten percent discount for first time buyers. Another seller announced they’d gladly sell her two sets of genuine emerald earrings since they matched her eyes. The market reminded Fabrian of when she and her parents would sell their produce at local flea markets and farmers markets. And she couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact that even in a TV script world, everyone still tried to haggle a good deal. 

Eventually she found a wooden sign that had “Bough” embossed on it. It was planted at the edge of a cobblestone thoroughfare where carts, carriages, wagons, and pedestrians traveled to and fro on the road that delved deeper into the city. Steeling herself to fight the traffic, Fabrian traveled on and headed to the Center. 

Rotia, like any city, was a mix of ingenuity and slums. She had a taste of it when the caravan had pulled off into the alleys that led to Adel’s merchant rest stop, but from the main road, she was greeted with a prime view. In the distance, the aqueducts bordered the city, branching off from the hub like spider veins. But in the shadow of the cerulean painted buildings, she could see hints of tattered tents and people shuffling in rags—some with limps, and others only skin and bones. 

Fabrian grimaced at the sight. She hadn’t stayed in the capital of Natalez long enough to see the slums but she figured it was there. Having been on the road for almost the entire time since she arrived in this world, Fabrian hadn’t encountered poverty to this degree. She wondered if the King of Agan cared, not that she had a right to criticize anyone. She had only a few items to her name, all stolen from this body’s belongings. 

She pushed the thought from her mind, stiffly walking past and wondering what she could do. Surely…she could help? The thought echoed at the base of her skull and it caught her unawares for a moment before it disappeared as quickly as it came. She stood idly for just a moment, wondering what she’d been thinking about before shrugging the fleeting sensation of missing something away and trekking on. 

In the back of her mind, she noted that it took her about twenty minutes on foot to reach the Center. And sure enough to Adel’s words, Bough Street turned into a lane filled with buildings that sat cramped side by side—each boasting an inventory of paper, or books, or  musical instruments, or writing utensils, and other such useful items of study. Fabrian took her time looking for Inkstone, if nothing else but an excuse to browse the wares of the other stores. It seemed that most books were hand sewn, evident from the bindings held together by bright, colorful threads or leather strips. The covers were finely crafted as well, wrapped with velvet, leather, or vellum, and often lined with gold leaf and other vibrant colors. 

While perusing, Fabrian came across a building with a large bay window filled with tapestries of blues and purples and lilacs, and a single cherry-wood door. Inkstone was finely etched above the mantle. 

Fabrian opened the door and walked in.

Only to stop completely in her tracks. 

Her breath caught in her throat, and the cry rose through her chest before she even realized it. 

“Welcome in!” The shopkeeper cried out cheerily, turning around to greet her guest. Her long, sandy brown curls were pinned back in neat plaits, the wisps along her hairline nicely hidden beneath a happy yellow scarf. Her hazel eyes were bright, glimmering behind wide, round glasses. She folded down the pleats of her matching green waistcoat and skirt, and moved to greet Fabrian. “Is there anything you’re looking for?”

Fabrian realized she hadn’t breathed. She let out a short exhale before a terribly lonely sob soon followed. 

“Daphne.”