Explaining the looting of Jacob’s shop, and the slurs that had been written on the walls, in a way the kids could understand was a task that Ferda didn’t envy. The group behind the crime, a bunch of Shenaise assholes calling themselves ‘Defenders of Truth,’ were getting ballsier, and a hell of a lot more active. Also, that shop had only been a few blocks from Papa’s worksite.

Ferda would have to talk to Serai about this, uncomfortable as that conversation would get for them both. Raphi, Ferda’s other childhood friend, would probably know more about the movements of the anti-Woromiran group, but talking to him had become a minefield ever since he’d moved into the Sanctuary.

Ferda grabbed a burlap sack out from the long defunct icebox and grabbed a piece of flatbread. The ice enchantment on the box had long run dead, but most Mana Singers in the capital refused to re-empower devices for Woromirans. Bio-litanies tended to be pretty magic intensive and, depending on how many they had active, some Woromirans had been left without enough mana left to power the magical circuits that every machine in Shenait seemed to run on.

After cutting off the moldy bits of bread, Ferda grinned. There should still be enough for both meals. They popped Papa’s bowl into the icebox, locked the door so that no grasping hands would get ahold of it, then realized that the man would be pissed to get home to a meal that had been left to sit. “If you’re gonna make something, put some damn care into it,” he’d say. Ferda would have to keep the meal either hot or cold to pass muster. Though lighting the clay oven in the corner would be the easier option, they were wary of leaving an open flame unattended. The family could not afford another fire.

Wrinkling their nose, Ferda pressed their finger into the beginning symbol of the litany carved into the ice box. They sucked in a breath then tried to push past the crowding thoughts, the intrusive conversations, the snippets of songs, and the discomfort at holding still to reach for their core of essence. Clearing away the clutter enough to find the damn thing was always pretty tough. When they were young, Abba had told Ferda to imagine their core as an amber daffodil bulb, buried in the flesh of their stomach with a tiny tendril just beginning to sprout. That tendril was meant to be grabbed, and guided to grow into whatever form one wished to conjure. Lots of concentration and visualization involved in that method, which had never been Ferda’s strong suits.

‘Course, Abba would probably bust a vein if he ever found about the network of artificial, pearlescent roots that now sprouted from Ferda’s bulb and twined throughout their muscles. Modifications beyond the purely cosmetic had been outlawed in this house to ‘not bring trouble’. Rich as it was for him, of all people, to talk about causing trouble. Still, there was just enough of Ferda’s own gold essence left showing to for them to—

The wind tore through the cloth to spit a mouthful of grit into Ferda’s face. They turned to glare at the hole, then through the curtain at the living room. If Abba was around all the time, why hadn’t he fixed the damn wall yet? Papa definitely brought in enough money to buy some plywood and screws, since the man refused to do the smart thing and steal the goods from his shitty bosses.

Then again, Ferda shouldn’t be judging. They couldn’t even focus long enough to charge a fucking ice box. Serai would’ve been able to fix this in a split second, then go back for the walls without breaking a magical sweat.

Abba’s voice floated in, further distracting Ferda. “There are a lot of reasons the people in the next neighborhood over are angry. There isn’t very much food to go around, some of them are veterans who have fallen on hard times fighting our people…”

“Is that why the druskala in the kitchen isn’t sharing anymore?” A child used Abba’s hesitation to muscle in. Ferda scoffed. They were pretty sure they recognized that voice as the first hand they’d had to chase away from the pantry. Kid was an absolute menace. Not that Ferda could talk.

“My child denied you food?” Ferda could practically see Abba’s pale face going red as he worked himself into self-righteous indignance.

Rolling their eyes, Ferda grabbed the remaining bowl and brushed aside the bead curtain. “Yeah, and you should be thanking me for defending your lunch.” In the main room of the apartment, Abba had pulled up a chair and the kids had gathered around him to sit on a threadbare rug. Very few of the children looked the same, since their parents hailed from clusters all over the world, but their voices all carried the same drawl that the Woromiran language added to any accent. Woromirans could come from anywhere, but the diversity of faces within the community made it dangerously easy to be ostracized if the right people decided you’d gone too native. That you weren’t acting Woromiran enough to be trusted.

Abba’s lined face had flushed a bright crimson and he turned to glare at Ferda. If Ferda hadn’t been such a dead ringer for the man, they’d start to expect they’d been adopted, since the similarities only seemed to go skin deep. He opened his mouth to gear up for a tirade about generosity and community, but Ferda shoved the bowl into his face.

“The crumb snatchers will get their crackers after they pay attention to your spiel.” Ferda arched an eyebrow as they spoke. “That’s what the snacks are supposed to be for, right?”

Abba’s mouth twisted into a scowl, but he didn’t contradict Ferda. “We’ll speak about your disrespect later.” He took a vengeful bite, then pushed the bowl back to Ferda. “I’m teaching right now. Put this in the ice box and make sure it stays cold.”

Ferda gritted their teeth and grabbed the bowl away before stalking back to the kitchen. “Thanks for the food, Ferda,” they grumbled under their breath in an intentionally poor imitation of Abba’s clipped Central cluster accent. “I’m glad you took the time to cook for me, even though cooking is boring as hell.” They threw aside the bead curtain with a clatter and dropped the bowl on the counter. Even if it wasn’t the greatest meal ever served, Abba didn’t have to be mean. Sure, he was busy, but damn. And what disrespect? Ferda was pretty sure they were the one who’d been disrespected. Abba always did this when he was pissed. If he couldn’t find a reason to yell at Ferda, he’d make one.

You know what? Ferda scoffed. If he isn’t grateful for this meal, I’ll just take it. Someone should get to enjoy this meat while it was hot. Snatching up the bowl, Ferda tore off some flat bread, scooped up a chunk of mutton, and stuffed it in their mouth. Sure, the meat might’ve been a little crispy, but the blackened edges went well with the onion. A perfectly good meal that anyone else would’ve been happy for. In the living room, Abba’s lesson truly began.