The morning sun filtered through the single workshop window, casting golden streaks across the cluttered workbench and shelves lined with jars of dried herbs. The faint aroma of medicinal powders and cedarwood filled the air, grounding Jin as he swept the floor in steady, measured strokes. The rhythmic sound of the broom against the wooden planks mingled with the occasional murmur of voices from outside the workshop — a soft backdrop to Rokan’s quiet world of care and precision.
Jin glanced up from his task, his eyes drawn to Rokan as the healer bent over a patient seated on the low stool by the window. The man, pale and sweating, clutched his chest with trembling hands. Rokan’s movements were calm, deliberate. With a light touch, he pressed his palm to the man’s forehead, his expression betraying no surprise or alarm. His sharp eyes flicked to the patient’s hands, then to the slight discoloration around his lips.
Jin stood transfixed, the broom forgotten in his hands. He watched as Rokan leaned closer, listening intently to the man’s labored breaths. Every action felt like a deliberate step in a dance, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next. Rokan’s fingers traced the man’s wrist, feeling for his pulse, before he nodded and began mixing a remedy from the jars on the bench.
Rokan turned back to the workbench, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he measured and ground the herbs. The faint scrape of the mortar and pestle filled the room, mingling with the subtle rustle of dried leaves. Jin watched from the corner, broom in hand, his eyes tracing the rhythm of Rokan’s work.
“Boil these in water and drink twice a day,” Rokan instructed, handing the patient a bundle of carefully wrapped herbs. His voice carried the weight of both command and care. “And eat properly — no scraps, no rot. Otherwise, you’ll be back here sooner than you like.”
The man nodded gratefully, clutching the bundle as he shuffled out the door. His departure left the workshop quieter, the fading sounds of the street filling the void.
Rokan’s gaze shifted to the table and the remnants of his work. “Come on, boy,” he grunted. “The table won’t clean itself.”
Jin stepped forward, wiping down the table with deliberate strokes. His hands moved slowly, tracing the grain of the wood as if the act of cleaning held answers. In his old life, he wouldn’t have spared the trembling man a second glance. But now, the details felt louder — his pale skin, the sweat beading on his brow, the way his hands shook as he held the remedy. Jin couldn’t stop thinking about what it all meant.
“You’ve been watching,” Rokan said, his voice breaking through Jin’s thoughts. “Tell me what you saw.”
Jin stiffened, his instincts honed by years on the streets where observing everything meant survival. A street rat who failed to notice danger didn’t last long, and vigilance had become as natural to him as breathing. He thought briefly of apologizing, his gaze faltering under Rokan’s sharp scrutiny, but the words caught in his throat, tangled with the ingrained habit of silence in the face of authority.
Jin hesitated, his fingers tightening around the cloth. “He looked… unsteady. His hands were trembling, but not from weakness alone. His lips were pale — like he wasn’t getting enough to eat.”
Rokan raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“Dockhands usually eat better,” Jin continued, his voice steadier. “So maybe he’s spending his money on something else. Drinks, dream dust, or… maybe he’s sick. Worms, maybe.”
Rokan grunted in approval, though his expression remained sharp. “Not bad for someone who’s barely a week off the streets. He’s got worms, all right — probably half the critters in the Harbor are partying in his gut. But it’s not just that. Drink and dream dust don’t leave much for food.” He shook his head, his voice turning grim. “The man’s a mess.”
The faintest smile tugged at Rokan’s lips. “Been working the docks too hard, I’d wager, without eating properly. A common enough problem around here, but easy to overlook if you’re not paying attention. The thin arms, trembling hands, and hollow cheeks…” Rokan’s gaze flicked to Jin. “Sound familiar? You’re not so far from looking like that yourself, boy. But at least you’ve got enough sense to notice it in others.”
Jin’s chest tightened, a mixture of pride and shame swirling within him. Hunger had been a constant companion for as long as he could remember, its gnawing presence familiar and dull. But something about Rokan’s words struck deeper — a recognition of his own frailty, reflected in the trembling hands and hollow cheeks of the dockworker.
Hunger was a constant companion for street rats, its gnawing presence as familiar to Jin as the air he breathed. Yet, dockhands usually had enough coin to keep hunger at bay, their labor earning more than mere scraps. There had to be something else at play. As his thoughts churned, his grip on the broom tightened, the rough wood biting into his palms. The memory of sleepless nights spent scavenging and enduring the hollow ache of starvation stirred uncomfortably within him. His gaze lifted, meeting Rokan’s sharp eyes, steady and unyielding.
The old man grumbled something under his breath, his hands deftly measuring and mixing. Jin remained silent, the reality of the man’s condition settling heavily on him. Rokan’s casual tone contrasted sharply with the grim details. As he finished cleaning his tools, he gestured for Jin to help wipe down the table.
The simple act of cleaning gave Jin a moment to process the man’s grim reality — the harrowing mix of poor choices and deeper vulnerabilities that lurked in the shadows of the Harbor. He rubbed the cloth over the worn wood, his movements slow as he contemplated just how much suffering was overlooked in the chaos of daily life.
When the table was cleared and the tools set neatly back in place, Rokan turned fully to face Jin, his expression unusually solemn. “You’ve got the eyes for this kind of work,” he began, his tone steady. “Not everyone notices the details. That’s what convinced me you might be worth teaching.” He paused, allowing the words to settle between them.
“Taking someone as an apprentice isn’t just about passing on knowledge, boy,” he continued, his voice softening just slightly. “It’s about trust. Responsibility. A bond, as important as blood.” His gaze bore into Jin, sharp and unrelenting. “What you saw in the grove, how you gathered those herbs without wasting a single leaf — it showed me that you have potential. But potential isn’t enough. If you choose this path, you’ll carry more than just tasks and lessons. You’ll carry the weight of my teachings, and one day, the weight of others’ lives.”
Jin’s breath caught, the gravity of Rokan’s words pressing against his chest. Gratitude swelled within him, mingling with uncertainty. He gripped the broom tightly, his mind racing. He wanted to say something, to express what it meant to hear those words, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him.
“Normally, there’s a whole ceremony when someone pledges to a master,” Rokan grumbled, his tone edged with irritation. “But we’re not doing any of that nonsense. I’m not one for pomp, and frankly, I’m not sure I’m ready to take on all the baggage that comes with adopting someone as my disciple.”
He crossed his arms, his sharp gaze pinning Jin in place. “It’s a responsibility, boy. Taking you on means I’m staking my name and my art on you. It’s not a decision I make lightly, and it’s certainly not something you can take lightly either.”
Rokan exhaled sharply, as though annoyed at his own sentimentality. “But I’ll teach you. Not for tradition’s sake, and not for some lofty ideals. You’ll learn the art of healing, and maybe you’ll find some use for it. And if we’re lucky, you’ll build your health while you’re at it.”
Jin’s breath caught, gratitude rising unbidden. He gripped the broom tightly, his mind racing. He wanted to say something, to express what it meant to hear those words, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him.
Rokan, as always, moved briskly past the moment. “Come on,” he said, beckoning Jin to follow him to the shelves. “If you’re going to be of use here, you’d best learn the basics. No excuses.”
Jin nodded quickly, setting the broom aside and stepping closer as Rokan began pointing out jars and pouches. “This one,” Rokan said, tapping a jar filled with tiny dried flowers, “is feverfew. Good for headaches and reducing fevers. And this — ” he held up a pouch of dark, glossy roots — “is licorice root. Helps with coughs and stomach issues.”
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Jin listened intently, committing each word to memory. He touched the jars lightly as Rokan spoke, marveling at the variety of textures and colors. Every herb seemed to carry its own weight, its own story, and Jin couldn’t help but feel the faint stirrings of awe.
“You’ll also need to learn where to find these herbs,” Rokan continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “Not everything grows nearby, but the cedar groves and the fields beyond have plenty if you know where to look. Of course, gathering them is only the start. Knowing how to use them is what matters.”
Rokan glanced at Jin, his expression unreadable. “And that means listening. Watching. Paying attention to everything — the way a patient breathes, the way their skin looks under different light. Small details save lives, boy. Never forget that.”
Jin nodded, the weight of the lesson settling over him. His chest tightened again, though this time it was determination that gripped him. For the first time in what felt like forever, he saw a path forward, narrow and steep though it might be.
As the day wore on, Rokan guided Jin through more of the workshop, showing him how to grind herbs into powder and measure tinctures with precision. Jin’s hands shook at first, his movements clumsy, but Rokan’s gruff corrections kept him steady. The almost unspoken approval that followed each small success warmed Jin in ways he couldn’t explain.
As the day wore on, Rokan guided Jin through more of the workshop, showing him how to grind herbs into powder and measure tinctures with precision. Jin’s hands shook at first, his movements clumsy, but Rokan’s gruff corrections kept him steady. The faint praise that followed each small success warmed Jin in ways he couldn’t explain.
That evening, as they closed the workshop, Jin stood by the window, staring out at the distant glow of the Harbor. The chaos and desperation that had once defined his world felt far away, though the memories lingered like a dull ache.
Rokan watched him for a moment, leaning against the doorway. His sharp eyes softened, but only slightly. “You’re learning,” he said abruptly, his voice breaking the quiet. “But there’s something missing.”
Jin turned, his brow furrowed. “Missing?”
Rokan tapped the side of his head. “Up here. You can’t read or write, can you?”
Jin’s face flushed with embarrassment, and he looked away. “No,” he admitted, the word barely audible.
“Thought so,” Rokan said gruffly, stepping further into the room. “How do you expect to remember remedies or log treatments without those skills? It’s as important as grinding herbs or setting bones. A healer who can’t read and write isn’t much of one.”
Jin’s shoulders tensed, his mind racing with doubt. “But… I… I’ve never…”
“Save it,” Rokan interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s just another thing we’ll fix. Consider it another ailment, like malnourishment. If I can teach you to wield a pestle without spilling half the powder, I can teach you letters. Don’t think too hard about it.”
Jin looked at him, the weight of the offer pressing down harder than any task he’d faced that day. But beneath the gruffness, he saw resolve in Rokan’s eyes — a determination that brooked no argument. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, Master Rokan.”
Rokan snorted. “Don’t call me that. Makes me sound ancient.” He picked up the lantern and headed for the door. “We’ll start tomorrow. Don’t stay up all night brooding.”
Jin turned back to the window, his reflection dim in the glass. “I won’t,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll learn. I’ll be better.”
Rokan paused briefly in the doorway, his shadow stretching long across the floor, blending with the fading light. “See that you do,” he said simply before continuing on, leaving Jin alone with his resolve.
The next morning, the creak of footsteps on the staircase broke the quiet as Rokan descended, a stack of scrolls and books balanced in his arms. Jin was already sweeping the workshop floor, his movements purposeful despite the weight of uncertainty lingering in his chest. Rokan dropped the pile onto the workbench with a heavy thud, startling Jin out of his rhythm.
“This here,” Rokan said, tapping the topmost scroll with a calloused finger “is the easiest book to read. But before you get to that, you’ll need to learn the characters.”
Jin hesitated, setting the broom aside as he stepped closer. The worn edges of the books spoke of years of use, their faded covers promising knowledge he couldn’t yet grasp. Rokan gestured impatiently. “Come on. There’s much to do, and too little time to waste.”
Jin was a fast learner, though Rokan wouldn’t admit it outright. The gruff healer began by showing him a few characters, tracing them with a blunt finger on a scroll spread across the table. “This one here means ‘fire,’ and this one… ‘water.’ Pay attention to the strokes. They’re not just decorations.”
Jin nodded, leaning forward with an intensity that caught Rokan off guard. The boy repeated the sounds as Rokan said them, his voice quiet but certain. By the time they moved on to simple words — terms used in daily conversations like ‘eat’ and ‘walk’ — Jin was piecing together meanings faster than Rokan expected.
“Not bad,” Rokan muttered, though his tone carried a reluctant edge. He handed Jin the topmost scroll, his finger tapping the first few lines. “Read this. Slowly. If you’re unsure about a word, ask. Don’t guess and make a fool of yourself.”
Jin hesitated only for a moment before beginning, his finger following the characters as he sounded them out. His voice wavered at first, but as he gained confidence, the words flowed more smoothly. Rokan crossed his arms, watching with a critical eye, his occasional grunts of approval punctuating the boy’s efforts.
When Jin stumbled over a word, Rokan barked a correction, but there was no mistaking the faint glimmer of satisfaction in his expression. “You’ve got a quick mind, boy. At this rate, you’ll be copying my recipes before long. Just don’t let it go to your head.”
Jin glanced up, a rare flicker of pride in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly, and Rokan waved him off, already pulling another scroll from the stack. “Don’t thank me. Just keep reading.”
By mid-afternoon, the workshop bustled with quiet activity. Jin sorted jars of herbs as Rokan wrote something on a scrap of paper, his handwriting sharp and deliberate. The faint scratch of the brush drew Jin’s attention, and his gaze drifted to the rows of words on a nearby scroll.
“You’re staring at it like it’s going to speak to you,” Rokan said without looking up.
Jin straightened, flustered. “I don’t recognize half the characters.”
Rokan snorted. “You’ll learn. Start with the labels on those jars. If you misread one, you’ll poison someone, and that’ll be on you.”
Jin blinked, unsure if Rokan was joking. But he turned to the jars, squinting at the faded writing. Slowly, he traced his fingers over the characters, mumbling their shapes under his breath.
Later, as Rokan returned with two bowls of glass noodles in aromatic broth, Jin couldn’t help but notice the absence of rice. The smell of garlic and coriander filled the workshop, but the sight of the noodles brought a faint pang of memory. Rice wasn’t just rare; it was untouchable.
The bowls of glass noodles sat between them on the workbench, steam rising to mingle with the faint herbal scents that lingered in the workshop. Jin ate slowly, savoring each bite, though his gaze drifted now and then to the absent rice. A part of him couldn’t help but calculate the worth of every grain, a habit ingrained from years of scarcity. Even now, surrounded by the faint promise of stability, the memory of hunger still gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
Rokan, finishing his meal with efficient silence, caught Jin’s wandering gaze. “Rice doesn’t grow on trees, boy,” he muttered, setting his empty bowl aside. “You’ll learn soon enough why we don’t waste it.”
Jin looked up, his curiosity piqued but his mouth too full to reply. He swallowed, nodding faintly, though his thoughts remained on the disparity between what he’d seen on the streets and the quiet abundance of this place.
Rokan rose, stretching with a faint groan. “We’ll see how you fare tomorrow. Reading’s no good if you don’t have the stamina to stay awake. And cooking — ” he gestured to the bowls — “doesn’t happen by magic.”
Jin glanced at the scrolls still laid out on the bench. The characters seemed distant yet tantalizing, as though they held the promise of understanding a world far larger than the Harbor’s narrow streets. He nodded again, his resolve solidifying.
“I’ll learn,” he said softly, more to himself than Rokan. “Everything you’re willing to teach me, I’ll take them all.”
Jin’s voice, though soft, carried a weight that surprised even himself. The words seemed to settle into the room, merging with the scents of broth and the faint herbal tang that lingered. His resolve was no longer a flicker; it burned steady now, fueled by something more than mere gratitude.
Rokan turned back briefly, his sharp gaze flickering over Jin. For a moment, the gruff exterior softened. “Good,” he said simply, before turning away again. “You’ll need it. This world doesn’t tolerate half-measures.”
As Jin cleared the bowls and tidied the table, his mind turned over the task ahead. The characters on the scrolls no longer felt like barriers but steps on a path he had never thought to tread. Each stroke, each mark, seemed to whisper promises of understanding, of a future where survival was more than just scrounging for scraps. He didn’t know where this path would lead, but for the first time, it felt like one worth following.