CONTENT WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS THEMES OF ANXIETY OR PANIC ATTACK WHICH MAY BE UPSETTING FOR SOME READERS.

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The memories of last night flooded Jiro's mind—the heat of Tatri's body, the feel of her soft curves, the sound of her pleasure, and the explosion they shared on the table. They had lain beside each other, panting. But after they had recovered, she guided him to his bedroom. And soon, they both found that the first release was not enough, and the second came unhurried. She taught him what to do until they moved with each other—in every sway and every thrust until they were both floating out of the world.

He opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight that streamed into his room. His sheets smelled of her, sweet and earthy. He had fallen asleep with exhaustion and woken up with a crushing pain in his head, but his body brimmed with delight. When he reached out, patting the banig beside him, Tatri was gone.

Guilt crept into his thoughts as he realized what he had done. After his mother's death, how could he? But he wanted to believe that he was not at fault. He was weak and vulnerable and needed something to ease his pain. Tatri had given him that.

He dragged himself out of bed, walking out of the room and into the house's emptiness. As soon as he opened the door, the urge came to his lips. He wanted to call for his mother, and he couldn't stop himself, "Mama?" His voice was dry, and he croaked.

No one answered.

When he looked to the hall that led into the kitchen, past the tapestry of red and black, a dreadful sensation overcame him, and he was rooted to where he stood.

This time of the day, their house should smell of food, of his mother's cooking. Scraping spoon over pots. Creaking wood under her steps. Beyond that corner, she should be holding a rag or a skewer.

But Jiro knew that if he walked into the kitchen, he would find it empty, with no movement in the room and no warmth of the fire in the hearth. And despite that, he dared to enter, stepping over the bamboo floors and mustering courage he didn't know he needed. As soon as he turned the corner, his unwanted expectations were met.

His chest tightened, and a whimper blew from his lips as his eyes moved over the cold kitchen, the untouched pans, and the empty water basin. The vegetables on the table had already wilted. And among the dying greens, a blade glinted. His father's kampit. Its intricate green hilt shimmered in the shadows.

"Papa," Jiro whispered, and his voice came roughly with a pang.

An immense wave of emotions crashed on him all at once, and he couldn't breathe. He stepped back, finding retreat, and he nearly stumbled. He needed to escape, to get away from the torment. He turned and ran from the kitchen, bursting through the front door, jumping off the veranda, and letting the wind take him.

Then he fell.

And he wished for the fall to crush him, to crush his agony. He wished he could fall faster so he didn't have time to think. But the moment passed, and right before his death, he doubted. A Lift came from his legs to slow his descent, and his feet touched the grass in a soft unharmed landing.

The sense of panic still clung to him, and he ran, moving to the tree line, passing the fields of grains, and racing into the forest. Tree roots huddled in his path, but he hopped over them fast as if something horrible was chasing him. Only the horrible thing wasn't behind him; it burrowed inside his heart and mind—the image of his mother lying and waiting for her death.

Jiro ran until he lost his breath—until his legs gave way. And when they did, he broke, falling to his knees at a clearing. His breath came in ragged pants, his lungs painfully tightened, and his vision hazed. He tried to focus elsewhere to remove the images from his thoughts.

The soil beneath him felt soft and moist, as if it was recently dug. When his eyes cleared, he saw the rows of lines carved on the ground. He was not at a clearing, but he knelt in the middle of a farm field instead.

A few feet away from him stood the rows of young arat trees. Beyond them were the fully grown ones with violet fruits withered in a daytime slumber. His eyes returned to where he fell, noticing the planted seeds uprooted by his passing.

"Jiro!" Someone called him. "What are you doing?"

He turned toward the voice. Mariko stood at the edge of the field, her hands on her hips.

A heavy sigh of guilt released from Jiro's lips as he got up, his heart still racing. He Lifted himself and floated to the woman. When he landed a few steps from her, he looked down, balled his fists, and waited for a slap to hit the back of his head.

The strike never came, and Mariko asked an unexpected question instead, "Did you get it out?"

"What?" Jiro looked up at her face—her silver eyes filled with concern.

She pointed at his chest, and he knew what she meant. "Did you get it out?" she asked again.

The agony in his chest had subsided. The beating of his heart gradually slowed, and he could breathe again. His body calmed, though the shadow of last night's intoxication left his mind with painful consequences. He was fine now, and he nodded that confirmation to Mariko.

"Walk with me," Mariko told him, and he did. As they started down the path beside the field, she pulled out a ripe arat fruit from the pocket of her trousers and handed it to him. "Eat," she said, and he took it.

The fruit was round and small enough to fit in his palm. It was rude to refuse the food an Aradacko offered, so he forced himself to take a bite. The sweetness tasted bitter as he swallowed the chunk that reminded him of his mother's jams.

Mariko was one of the few Rakitt Maharlika who were farmers. Most warriors were hunters, like Tata Ero and Hako, and like Jiro's father. The skills of the craft were more suited to killing animals than tending to vegetation. But she had settled here, farming arat trees and fruits. When the Sulunese War was over, she returned with a few survivors and eased into the work quickly.

She had been one of the last Rakitt Maharlika before the Kavisera decided to stop the trainings and the acceptances. This, in a way, was their way of mourning, and they had been in isolation for the last two years, caring for nothing outside their island.

As Mariko and Jiro walked, they came under a full-grown arat tree, taking refuge in its shade.

"Nana Ricka loved to make aratrov jam," Mariko noted, looking up at the high leaves above.

"I know," Jiro said.

"But she always bought fruits from farmer Anz." Mariko looked back down at him, glancing at the fruit in his hand.

I know, Jiro didn't say, and he asked instead, "Why did you choose to be a farmer?" The question came from nowhere. It was not odd, but it sounded strange to his ears.

Mariko smirked as they continued down the path. "Not everyone wants to hunt and kill animals, Jiro."

That was true, and he agreed. Although he had his fair share of butchering, he didn't favor taking the lives of beasts. He only loved tracking them down; something about locating them gave him a sense of achievement.

"But I didn't choose to be a farmer," Mariko continued. "My husband owned these lands. He was a farmer."

"You were married?" He couldn't help the surprise in his tone. He had never seen Mariko with anyone, and Aradack was not a large city or island. He knew everyone there, even the Eskolars and the Maestros who inhabited the northern mountains.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Mariko raised an eyebrow.

"No," Jiro said, wanting to apologize for his tone.

"I also had a daughter. She died when she was only two years of age. She was born a year after you." This was too personal, something he didn't need to know, but she told him anyway.

"I'm sorry. What happened to your husband?" Jiro asked.

"He left Aradack when our daughter died," she said. "He was a Wingless, you know."

Jiro had never met a Wingless before. They were rare, born into Aradacko flyer families, coming into the world with silver eyes but stripped of the ability to fly. Wingless always left the island when they could because they didn't belong in a city where houses were built on the face of a cliff. Homes that one could reach only through the skies.

Jiro couldn't imagine what his life would be like if he couldn't fly. It was now the only important thing he could hold on to—the only thing keeping him tethered to his sanity. If he lost his Lift, it would be like losing his soul. "Where is your husband now?" he asked.

"Dead," Mariko answered without a second thought. "The death of our daughter was not the reason he left Aradack. He was too ambitious, and that got him killed."

"I'm sorry. I share your sorrow," Jiro told her.

Mariko chuckled. "They died a long time ago, Jiro. Thank you for your kindness, but it should be I who should share your sorrow." For a moment, she paused, and something sharp, unreadable, flashed in her eyes. "Are you still leaving for the Kahani's task?" she asked.

Jiro hadn't thought about the task since his mother collapsed, but he was quick to answer now. "No." I don't have a reason to anymore. Mama could have convinced me, but now—

"Good," Mariko said. "In your current state, you shouldn't leave the island. You need time to heal."

Jiro nodded. "Why did you want to do the task?" he asked, remembering how she had barged in on their private meeting with the Eskolar and the Maestra.

Mariko stared at him. They had stopped walking at the edge of the field. "It's an opportunity to get more inks." She winked and smiled. "Though I'm a farmer, Jiro, I'm still a Rakitt Maharlika. And like the others, I know how to be greedy and ambitious."

Jiro wondered if it was the money or the position she wanted. Or it could be both—five hundred heds and a seat in the future Kaharaza's Keepers. What power could that bring one person? "You will leave your farm then?" he asked.

"Someone will tend to it while I'm gone. Now, go home," she ordered. "And fly over the farm or, skies help me, I will behead you if you uproot any more of my sprouts."

"I'm sorry for the trouble," Jiro said, and he kicked off the ground without another word, flying back to the cliffs.

Speaking with Mariko had helped him. Learning of her past, of her husband and her daughter, in a way, comforted him. Knowing that it was not only him who had gone through such grief calmed the storming misery in his chest.

Jiro didn't want to go back home, though. The memories in the house were too painful, and he feared it like torture. It was too much for him to bear that even his conversation with Mariko could not keep the fear of the hurt at bay.

He continued to fly, following the cliffside until he neared Tata Ero's hut. It was on the lower side of the tepui, near the forest. He floated nearby, contemplating why he was there.

His time with Mariko, a woman he barely knew, had benefited him. Perhaps speaking with men he'd spent days in the forests with might give him more support. He expected that Shoka would understand him at least.

Jiro looked at the windows to check if anyone was home. Then the front door of the hut opened, and Hako came out.

Hako didn't see Jiro floating nearby. He was distracted by something behind him. When he opened the door wider, Tatri's round face became visible, and beside her was Shoka.

Jiro only stared as Hako pulled Tatri by the waist. Hako pressed her to himself and kissed her, his hand sliding down to the mound of her buttocks.

"We'll see you tonight," Hako said before letting Tatri go.

Jiro's face flushed with heat. He was watching something private and intimate, and he felt ashamed, yet Shoka stood beside them as if it was a performance.

Tatri walked out to the veranda, and when she finally looked up, she saw Jiro. Her silver eyes went wide, and her lips parted, mortified. Her chest rose as she gasped before leaping off the floor and flying in the opposite direction.

Jiro chased after her. "Tatri!" he called, but she only flew faster. It wasn't an effort for him to catch up to her, though. And when he did, she turned and landed on a steep rock wedged on the side of the mountain.

"Why are you here, Jiro?" She asked as soon as he landed too. Her voice shook with shame.

"I—" Jiro couldn't explain himself, but then, "Me? Why are you here?" The question was foolish. He already saw it, and he knew the answer.

Tatri averted her eyes and stared at the tops of the trees. "They're leaving tomorrow. I won't see them for a long time. I wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye? With a kiss and a squeeze to your—" Jiro stopped and swallowed, remembering how that part of her felt under his own hands.

Tatri glared at him. "What is it to you?"

Her question shocked him. "What is it to me?" he asked back. "You slept with me last night." He wanted to scream at her. A bubble of anger rose in his throat.

"And?" The word came without remorse.

Jiro became furious. "And it looked like you had sex with Hako after having sex with me!"

"I did!" She didn't even deny it.

A shuddering breath escaped his lips, and it sounded like a laugh. "No." He shook his head. "It looked like you had sex with both of them."

"I did!" she said again, her eyes never leaving his own as if she was taunting him. Then she turned back to the trees. "I'm sorry. Please don't judge me." Her expression changed from angry back to shameful.

But Jiro's rage didn't fade. "It's true then." He became nauseous as he thought of the rumors about Tatri. He never believed them for her sake, but she didn't even deny it now that he had confronted her. "You sleep with different men. How many? Do you sleep with Tata Ero too?"

She didn't answer.

"You're disgusting," he spat.

Tatri blinked and turned to him with wild eyes that reflected his revulsion. Her nostrils flared as her hand flew from her side and landed on his cheek with a burning slap. "I was just trying to help you! Bastard! I don't ever want to see you again!" She turned and flew away, leaving Jiro stunned, confused, angry, and alone.

What happened?

The old kings and the forgotten gods seemed to be punishing Jiro. What more could they do to further his torment? He gripped the rage inside of him and didn't let go, allowing the anger to consume him. He screamed at the treetops and yanked at his curls as if his head would explode. Tatri's strike burned his cheek. The girl he thought to be perfect in all ways was no longer faultless.

He hated Tatri.

He hated his mother.

He hated Aradack.

Jiro's anger became so great that he even hated himself.

The ache surged inside his mind, too much to bear, and his breath became ragged. He couldn't take it anymore, his mind searching for a way out—an escape.

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