21 years ago.

My mother always says:

 "Good things aren't for wasting-keep 'em close." Still, I don't get why l can't take the nice presents the neighbors give us.

Dad's the same. He tells me and my brothers, "It"ll be bad for the Zhikretsu 11 to take stuff from regular folks." Then why do the nice people keep handing us the prettiest things? We have money, sure, but some of those gifts are hand-made and special.

At first I said "no." Then an old lady gave me the prettiest Khaftenya I'd ever seen, and I just had to take it. Now I grab a little thing every now and then and hide them in a secret place in my play chambers so nobody finds them.

PRESENT.

KHITHANAH.

The decision to come back here had been looping in my head for a thousand nights, a mantra l'd whispered whenever I layed in bed. The scars Skakeria City left run deeper than any flesh wound I've ever known each one a reminder of the blood-soaked streets, the shattered promises, the faces that turned to ash the moment I turned my back. Even now, as I step onto the cracked pavement, I can still hear their screams echoing in my ears, the metallic thick of skin tearing, the hollow thud of boots on cobblestones. Anger and betrayal crawl up my spine like a living thing, but l refuse to let them chain me.

"Name" the immigration officer drones, her voice flat, as if she'd rather be anywhere else than stuck behind that glass booth.

"Khithanah Zemorah" I reply automatically, the name slipping out before I can stop it.

"Origin?" she asks, eyes flicking to the passport, then back to me.

"I was born here." Her pupils widen just a fraction, a spark of curiosity breaking through the monotony.

"So youre returning home then?" she probes, a thin smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah. I am" I watch as she stamps my documents, slides them back across the counter, and offers practiced, warm "Welcome back." The words feel like a thin veneer over a city that has never welcomed anyone.

I haul my battered satchel to the travelers' inn, a sleek, well architectured stone building that smells of class and prestige and screamed comfort. After dropping my things in a spacious room, I head for the main diner, the clatter of plates and low hum of conversation pulling me like a magnet. I order a simple stew, the broth hot enough to chase the chill from my bones, and let the subtle hunger gnawing at my gut settle.

The bartender-tall, lanky, with a scar that runs from his left eyebrow to his cheek-leans in, his smile easy.

"You look like you've walked through a storm"' he says, wiping a glass with a rag.

I chuckle, the sound rough. "Just passing through. What's the story behind this place? I don't recall seeing

it when I was.. here before."

He eyes me, as if weighing whether to share a secret, then launches into a tale about the inn's origins. "The

owner's Chief Odbwresah," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's a legend around these parts-young, unmarried, barely in his thirties. Women from every corner of the city chase after him, and the

men try to be like him. He built this inn from nothing, turned it into a haven for travelers, and now... well, he's the kind of man people talk about in hushed reverence."

I repeat the name slowly, feeling the syllables roll off my tongue. "Chief Odbwresah" It feels like a key, possible lever for the mission that brought me back. Just then, the atmosphere shifts. The clatter of dishes softens, the murmurs dim, and every worker in the room straightens, their eyes flicking toward the doorway. The bartender's smile freezes, his hand pausing mid-wipe. I turn my head, following the collective gaze, and see him-tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding without a word.

He moves with a quiet confidence that makes the air feel thicker. The patrons part like a tide, and the bartender finally finds his voice, a low, reverent, "Chief." I wait, heart thumping against my ribs, until the room settles into a respectful hush. Then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, I let my eyes drift to the man they call perfection.

His green eyes lock onto mine-unexpected, striking, and impossibly beautiful. My curiosity spikes,; the rumors might be true after all.