The Harbor District roared with life, a symphony of labor and survival. Crates thudded onto salt-streaked docks, voices tangled in bartering, and the rhythmic creak of cartwheels underscored it all. Laborers, their sun-baked skin glistening, hauled their burdens with practiced endurance. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries a counterpoint to the human cacophony below.
Jin moved among them, a shadow in the frenzy, clutching his basket close to his chest as though it were a lifeline. He darted between sailors hefting crates and vendors gesturing wildly over their wares, his slight frame barely brushing past. Every movement had purpose: to deliver goods from one end of the Harbor to the other before the day’s demands swallowed him whole.
Sailors barked orders, vendors shouted prices, and carts rattled by, their wheels spraying muddy water onto his worn sandals, but Jin didn’t pause. He couldn’t. The coin he’d earn for his trouble wouldn’t wait for hesitation, and neither would the scorn of the vendor expecting him at the docks. His breath came quick and shallow, his mind focused only on keeping the basket steady and his steps swift, lest the world’s chaos overtake him.
Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, dripping into his eyes and blurring his vision. Still, his stormy gaze darted ceaselessly, noting every sharp gesture and raised voice — a map of the Harbor’s moods etched into his mind. His task was clear: deliver the basket of bread and dried fish to the vendor near the docks before the hour ran out. The coin promised for this errand was already spent in his mind, his hunger clawing at his ribs as he imagined the simplest meal it could buy.
“Willow Boy!” a child’s voice rang out, mocking. Jin stiffened but didn’t turn. “Careful, the wind’ll snap you in half!” The jeering laughter that followed twisted in his gut, but he pressed forward, his basket clutched tightly against his chest. He could not afford to stumble or delay. Words were weightless unless he chose to carry them, and Jin had no strength to spare for anything but the task at hand.
Jin delivered the basket to the vendor, his steps hurried but careful as he approached the weathered counter. His thin arms trembled from the weight, but he placed the basket down with a deliberate precision, unwilling to betray his exhaustion. The vendor, a burly man whose beard was streaked with salt, barely acknowledged him. With a grunt, the man flipped a tarnished coin toward Jin, the glint of metal drawing Jin’s focus like a lodestar.
“There’s a vendor down the way,” the man said brusquely, jerking his chin toward the bustling docks. “Needs help with sacks of grain. Not sure you’re cut out for it, though.” His eyes swept Jin’s frame, a mixture of doubt and pity lingering in the gaze before he turned away.
Jin caught the coin mid-air, clutching it tightly. Its cool weight in his palm was both reassurance and reminder — survival came one coin at a time. He paused for a brief moment, his fingers brushing against the frayed strap of his basket. The ache creeping into his legs whispered of rest, but the sharp voices of the Harbor — vendors calling, carts rattling, sailors shouting — offered no reprieve. With a steadying breath, he adjusted the strap, his gaze locking onto the bustle ahead. The promise of another task, another coin, loomed larger than the fatigue that weighed on him like an iron yoke. Coins did not wait for the idle, and neither could he. Pushing forward, he let the rhythm of the Harbor propel him into the chaos once more.
Near the docks, a vendor shoved a sack of grain into Jin’s arms, the coarse burlap scratching against his thin skin like nettles. “Make it quick, boy,” the man barked, barely glancing at him before turning back to the heaving tide. Jin staggered slightly under the unexpected weight, his fingers digging into the rough fabric to steady the load. Each grain inside felt like a stone, dragging on his narrow shoulders as though the sack held the harbor’s burden itself.
Jin hesitated for the briefest moment, letting out a measured breath as he adjusted the sack’s weight. He imagined the vendor’s scorn if he faltered, imagined the piercing laughter of the other laborers. With a quiet determination, he forced his legs into motion, each step slow but deliberate. In his mind, the clink of another coin echoed faintly — the sound of endurance paying off. Even as his shoulders screamed in protest, he pressed forward, clinging to that small, imagined victory to carry him toward the waiting cart.
His knees buckled slightly with the first step, the uneven cobbles underfoot threatening to twist his balance. A sharp cry from a sailor jolted him, and he jerked to the side just in time to avoid a cart rattling past, its wheels spraying mud onto his sandals. The sack swayed dangerously, but Jin gritted his teeth and pushed forward. The cart might have been a second from splattering him, but the weight of the grain on his back felt even closer to breaking him.
The waiting cart seemed a world away, its wooden slats blurred by the sweat stinging Jin’s eyes. His breaths came in short, labored gasps, each one feeling shallower than the last. Every muscle in his body screamed for relief, but the harsh bark of the vendor’s voice echoed in his mind. There was no room for weakness; his meager pay depended on finishing the task. The tarnished coin promised at the end of this slog was Jin’s only anchor in a sea of chaos, his only assurance he’d eat that day.
A sharp pebble dug into his foot, sending a spike of pain through his leg. He stumbled but caught himself, the grain sack lurching dangerously. A laborer nearby chuckled under his breath, muttering something Jin refused to hear. Pride mingled with pain as he swallowed down the humiliation and pressed on, each step heavier than the last. When he finally reached the cart, he dropped the sack onto the wooden planks with a muffled thud, his legs nearly giving out beneath him. He straightened slowly, his arms trembling as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his breathing still shallow and ragged.
Jin’s movements slowed as the sun climbed higher, the heat pressing down on him like a leaden weight. His threadbare shirt clung to his back, damp and uncomfortable, while each uneven cobblestone seemed designed to twist his balance. The grain sack’s coarse burlap rubbed his thin arms raw, and the smell of salt and sweat clung to his skin. His stomach churned, empty but persistent, reminding him of the coin he had yet to earn.
Occasionally, the world around him tilted — not enough to make him stumble, but enough to steal his focus. The edges of his vision blurred, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. Hunger clawed at his mind, dulling his thoughts. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright. Coins didn’t wait for weakness, and neither would the Harbor.
The work dragged, punctuated by the sharp cries of fishmongers and the hiss of steam from cooking stalls. When the last sack was loaded, the vendor flipped the coin toward him. Jin caught it, his hands trembling. “Don’t drop dead before tomorrow,” the man muttered, already turning away.
A passerby leaned against a stack of crates, chewing idly on a piece of dried fish. “Still working yourself to death, eh?” he called, his voice edged with pity.
“Better than starving,” Jin replied, his voice flat.
Another voice chimed in, sharp and dismissive. “A boy like you should head to the Upper City. They’ve got charity for the likes of you.” A woman balancing a basket of clams didn’t even slow her stride as she spoke.
Jin’s grip on the coin tightened, his knuckles white. “I earn what I take,” he said quietly, the words a shield against pity and scorn alike. Without waiting for more, he turned toward the alleys, where the scent of skewers and freshly baked bread teased his hunger.
At a small street cart, Jin handed over the coin, his hollow stomach twisting with anticipation. The vendor, her arms muscular from kneading dough, skewered a scrap of meat and bread and passed it to him. “Eat slow,” she said gruffly. “Some don’t get even this.”
Jin crouched in the shadow of a leaning shack, savoring each bite of the charred bread and salty meat. The Harbor bustled around him, fishermen discussing their nets, children darting through the crowd, and vendors shouting over one another. For a moment, Jin allowed himself to pause, the world’s chaos muted by the simple act of eating.
But rest was brief. The vendor’s suggestion about another task echoed in his mind, and though Jin’s legs ached for reprieve, the thought of a harder-earned coin pushed him onward. His task was not yet done.
He rose, his legs protesting, and adjusted the basket over his shoulder. The cedar groves outside the city waited — a haven for those seeking medicinal plants. Rokan, the healer, had tasked him with gathering specific herbs, their value both practical and personal. To Jin, it was more than a chore. Each leaf plucked and stem clipped was another step toward proving his worth.
The journey to the groves was grueling. The air shimmered with heat as Jin trudged through the fields, the ground beneath him radiating the sun’s relentless glare. Every breath felt heavier than the last, the air thick and unyielding. His vision swam as the horizon wavered, the distant trees seeming both impossibly far and tantalizingly close.
Sweat soaked Jin’s threadbare shirt, clinging to his skin as he trudged onward. Each step stirred up dust, mingling with the faint, clean scent of cedar that hinted at his destination. But the fields stretched endlessly, and the ache in his legs deepened with every uneven step. His vision blurred as exhaustion threatened to overtake him.
The basket strap bit into his shoulder, its weight a cruel reminder of his limits. Each step sent a jolt of pain through his legs, and his head pounded in time with his heartbeat. As he reached the grove, the cool shade under the towering trees offered little relief. Jin’s fingers fumbled with the herbs, his hands trembling as he tried to steady them.
The world tilted slightly as he focused on the task, the sun’s heat pounding against his back. Then the ground lurched beneath him. The basket tipped from his grasp, its contents scattering across the dry earth.
Jin collapsed, the world narrowing to a single heartbeat pounding in his ears before darkness enveloped him. In the void, visions stirred — roots stretching infinitely into the heavens, stars threading through their tendrils, and a figure cloaked in ethereal light, distant yet strangely familiar.
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When Jin collapsed in the cedar grove, the sun had already begun its slow descent, casting the trees in long shadows. The air, once heavy with heat, cooled slightly, but Jin lay unmoving, his shallow breaths blending into the rustling of leaves. The scattered contents of his basket glinted faintly under the waning light.
Rokan found him not long after, his steps purposeful as he scanned the grove for the herbs he sought. His sharp eyes narrowed when they fell upon the crumpled figure sprawled near the base of a cedar tree. For a moment, he hesitated, his expression unreadable. The boy’s gaunt frame and tattered clothing told a familiar story, one Rokan had seen too many times.
“Half-dead already,” he muttered to himself, crouching beside Jin. His hand hovered over the boy’s shoulder, as though debating whether to leave him. But when he saw the faint rise and fall of Jin’s chest, he sighed heavily and began gathering the herbs Jin had managed to collect. “At least you didn’t ruin all of them.”
Lifting Jin with surprising ease, Rokan slung the boy over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you’re worth the trouble,” he muttered, his tone more resigned than hopeful, as he carried Jin back toward the city.
When Jin woke, the cool shadows of Rokan’s workshop enveloped him, a stark contrast to the burning fields he had last seen. Wooden beams framed the ceiling above, their grain rough and weathered, grounding him in unfamiliar safety. The pungent scent of bitter herbs filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of Seta’s distant marketplace.
Jin’s limbs ached, but the steady touch of hands over his wrists and forehead told him he was not alone. Rokan worked in silence, his movements precise, each action marked by an efficiency that spoke of decades of practice.
“You’re tougher than you look,” Rokan muttered, though his tone held no warmth. “But toughness without sense is a fast road to an early grave.”
Jin tried to respond, but his throat felt like sand. After a rasping breath, he managed, “Why… why did you help me?”
Rokan’s brow furrowed as he straightened. “Don’t flatter yourself, boy. You collapsed in my grove and ruined the herbs I was after. If you want to call it help, think of it as making sure you’re alive long enough to pay me back.”
The bluntness left no room for gratitude, but something in the healer’s tone — a trace of curiosity — kept Jin from sinking into silence. He nodded weakly, his body too fragile to offer more.
The days that followed were grueling in their simplicity. Rokan’s tonics, bitter as they were, worked quickly, and Jin’s strength returned in halting increments. By the second day, Rokan tossed a broom at him.
“Don’t just sit there soaking up space,” he said brusquely. “Clean the floors. And don’t break anything, or you’ll regret it.”
Jin staggered to his feet, the broom rough in his hands. The first few strokes sent dust billowing into the dim air, and the effort left his arms trembling. Still, he worked without pause, sweeping the corners and clearing cobwebs, his movements driven by something close to defiance.
By the third day, Rokan handed him a bucket. “Water. From the well. And if you spill a drop before you’re back, you’ll do it again.”
The bucket’s weight tested Jin’s tenuous strength, but he trudged outside, the cool air bracing against his damp skin. The well’s crank groaned as he drew the water, his muscles straining with each turn. He returned, shoulders hunched but determined, and set the bucket down without so much as a ripple spilling over the edge.
Rokan watched him, leaning against the workbench, arms crossed. “Not bad,” he grunted, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re still half a shadow, but there’s something there. Keep at it, and maybe you’ll be worth more to me than a broken jar.”
Jin hesitated at the words, unsure what Rokan would want from someone like him who, by all measures, lacked in many aspects. For a moment, he glared at Rokan, his stormy eyes a mix of defiance and uncertainty, too wary to accept what sounded dangerously close to pity.
Rokan dismissed the gesture with a sharp snort, his expression stern. “None of that, boy,” he said, his tone edged with authority. “This isn’t the streets. A glare might get you through an alley, but here, men use their words. Street rats glare and spit harsh words because that’s all they have. Don’t make me think you’re still one of them.”
Jin’s gaze faltered, the weight of Rokan’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. For all his weariness, he managed a hoarse reply, “What do you want from me?”
Rokan’s eyes softened, just barely. “Kindness and respect, boy. It’s rare out there, I know, but while you’re under my roof, you’ll learn to recognize it. And in return, you’ll earn your keep.” He gestured around the workshop, his voice steady and measured. “Keep the place running, do the work I set before you, and maybe — just maybe — you’ll find yourself better off than scurrying about outside.”
Jin nodded slowly, his mind turning over Rokan’s words. It wasn’t too bad — certainly better than the dilapidated shack he had once called home, where the shadows crawled with rats, both the four-legged and the two-legged kind. There, survival had been a battle fought every night, the air thick with desperation and the stink of rotting wood. Here, under Rokan’s roof, the promise of structure and purpose hung in the air, fragile yet tantalizing. It was unfamiliar, but perhaps unfamiliarity was what he needed most.
“I’ve heard that lonely old men often have weird desires. I want none of that,” Jin said, his voice carrying an edge of steel, though the awkwardness of the statement betrayed his youth and lack of strength to enforce such words.
Rokan threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound echoing off the workshop walls. He quelled his amusement quickly, however, and fixed Jin with a stern gaze. “Not sure what you street rats whisper about in the night, but let me make one thing clear: there are far worse things waiting for you out there than anything you’ll find in this humble home of mine.”
He leaned forward slightly, his tone softening though it retained its edge. “You will learn here, boy. Learn to read and write, to keep this house tidy and livable. More than that, you will learn to be better than the shadows you’ve come from. Mark my words, this place will teach you what the streets never could.”
Jin hesitated, his mind wrestling with Rokan’s words. He knew too well the unkind lessons of the streets, where survival demanded constant vigilance and sacrifices that yielded little in return. His voice rasped from exhaustion as he croaked, “Why me?”
Rokan shrugged, his sharp gaze not softening as he replied, “I’ve seen you running yourself ragged, boy, wasting your time on errands that wouldn’t feed a rat. You’re throwing away your health and strength for scraps.” His voice hardened. “It’s about time someone showed you that you’re worth more — if you learn to put your mind to it.”
Jin scowled faintly, unsure whether to feel flattered or insulted. “And what do you get out of it? Feeding some street rat who’s not even useful?”
Rokan’s lips twitched into a brief smirk before settling into seriousness. “I get a helper who won’t break under the first sign of real work. I get someone who can keep this place running clean and steady. You’ve already shown you can do that when it matters.” He gestured vaguely, his tone firm but without cruelty. “You’ve got the eyes and the hands for precision. I saw how you gathered those herbs — not a leaf wasted. I need hands like that here, not wasting away out there.”
Jin’s stormy gaze narrowed, but he remained silent for a moment, the weight of the offer settling on his shoulders. The memory of cold nights, of scavenged meals, scraped at him. “So,” he said finally, “what is this? A trade? Work for food and a roof?”
Rokan folded his arms, the faintest trace of patience in his voice. “A trade, yes. A better deal than what the streets offer you. Stay here. Work. I’ll make sure you don’t starve or sleep in filth, and I’ll teach you something worth knowing while we’re at it. Or you can go back to your scraps and your coins. Your choice, boy.”
Jin stood still, his fists tightening at his sides, but the defiance in his eyes softened into reluctant understanding. “Not sure what you’ll get out of this,” he muttered, “but fine. I’ll prove you won’t regret it.”
Rokan gave a curt nod, his face unreadable. “Good,” he said simply. “Then let’s get to work.”
The workshop became Jin’s new world, its every corner a study in quiet diligence. Shelves lined with jars of dried herbs and strange powders loomed overhead, their faint scents mingling in a heady mixture of earth and medicine. The workbench, worn smooth by years of use, was cluttered with tools Jin couldn’t yet name but would soon learn to handle.
In the mornings, sunlight streamed through the lone window, catching motes of dust that danced lazily in the air. By evening, the dim light of an oil lamp cast long shadows, turning the space into a cocoon of muted sounds and subdued warmth. Rokan’s steady movements filled the silence, his hands deft as he mixed, ground, and measured with unerring precision.
For Jin, every task — from sweeping to organizing jars — felt both humbling and grounding. The rhythm of the workshop was a far cry from the chaos of the Harbor, and though the work was exhausting, it carried a strange sense of purpose.
Later that evening, as Jin approached the workshop, Kori and his gang emerged from the shadows like specters. Kori’s wiry frame seemed even sharper in the dim light, his grin full of jagged malice.
“You’ve gotten soft, Willow Boy,” Kori sneered, twirling a knife lazily between his fingers. “Living with that old healer. What’s it like, being a pet?”
Jin stiffened, his grip tightening on the water bucket. His voice came low, forced through gritted teeth. “At least I’m not scrounging for scraps.”
The gang laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound. Kori stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t think for a second you’re better than us. You think that old man’s gonna keep you forever? What happens when he tosses you out?”
Jin’s breath hitched, and for a moment, doubt flickered in his eyes. But he straightened, meeting Kori’s glare with one of his own. “At least I’m trying to leave this behind. You’re the one who’s stuck.”
Kori’s grin vanished, replaced by something colder. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he said softly before retreating into the alley, his gang following like a pack of wolves.
Jin stood frozen, the tension in his chest refusing to release. When he finally stepped inside, Rokan was at his workbench, grinding herbs with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Let me guess,” Rokan said without looking up. “Old friends?”
Jin set the bucket down harder than he intended, the water sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “They’re not my friends.”
Rokan’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Good. Then they won’t miss you.”
As Jin swept the workshop later that night, his eyes drifted to the wooden chest in the corner. The brass latch gleamed faintly, and its worn edges spoke of years of use. Something about it felt out of place in the otherwise utilitarian space.
“Don’t even think about it,” Rokan said without looking up, his voice sharp.
Jin froze, his grip tightening on the broom. “What’s in it?” he asked cautiously.
Rokan’s hand stilled over the pestle, his fingers gripping it tighter than necessary. For a moment, his shoulders tensed, and a flicker of something — pain? Regret? — crossed his face. Then he exhaled, his tone soft but firm. “Memories best left where they are.”
Jin hesitated, sensing the shift in Rokan’s demeanor. He returned to his sweeping, but his curiosity lingered, gnawing quietly at the edges of his thoughts.