Ironically, living in a port didn’t mean you were naturally appreciative of water. For the longest time—until she stopped being so close to it—Rene actually feared it. The sea’s depth and the distance it reached meant that anything—ship or person—that crossed it had the chance to never return. It helped that she had bore witness to one or two fights on the dock that resulted in a person getting pushed into the sea who never came back up again.

It didn’t rain a lot in Eyset, but when it did it was never just a light drizzle—it came down hard enough that anyone that got caught in it was drenched almost immediately. No matter what, you could hear the rain pound against the stone paths and the wooden docks. It helped hide the sound of people running, or helped you ignore people that were trying to chase after you, but the sheer amount of it meant that whatever you took to warrant a chase was soaked by the time you were safe.

Still, it did give her a reason to keep her head down and weave through whatever people were out. You could tell who everyone was by what they wore—nobles wore actual jackets and had umbrellas, Sólstaðuric visitors wore their lightest coats that still managed to be too heavy, Eyset’s actual townsfolk just had jackets, and the orphans had a blanket if they were lucky and nothing if they weren’t. Rene fell into the last category.

She stepped onto the dock to head home—‘home’ being an old tavern that most orphans slept in—and just happened to hear a conversation over the rain. She stopped and looked around by instinct, seeing a girl her age with an older woman. She recognized the latter as a Sólstaðuric sailor who spoke very loudly, known among the orphans as one of the few who slipped into Sólstaðuric curses when she got mad.

“Please!” the girl said, almost begging. “Sólstaðuric law—”

“This ain’t Sólstaður, it’s Dakari.”

“But they said—”

“Get lost.”

Rene saw a small dagger, and ran up to get the girl without quite thinking; when she reached her, she gently took hold of the girl’s arm. The sailor scoffed, put the dagger away, then walked back towards her ship.

“Why did you do that?” the girl asked harshly. She pulled away from Rene fairly easily—she wasn’t trying to keep her there—but paused when she actually saw her.

Very cautiously, the girl asked, “You’re…one of the Eyset orphans, aren’t you?”

Rene managed a kind of smile. “Didn’t realize we had a fancy name, but yeah.” She let it fall, going into something closer to concern, “That sailor isn’t…particularly friendly. You should avoid anyone with a knife if you can—they’re usually the ones who start fights, and when they win the results…are not nice to look at.”

The girl continued to stare at her for a moment, then looked away.

“I…guess I don’t have much else to do.” She glanced back at Rene again. “What’s your name?”

“Rene Horize.” She remembered mostly because most of the orphans worked on a last-name basis, or else said both. They didn’t have a large sense of community, but they’d help each other out if one was close to starving.

“Hannah,” the girl replied. Frowning a bit, she said, “Just…Hannah.”

…

The tavern most of Eyset’s orphans lived in was bought by some Sólstaðuric guy hoping to make more money off of his nation’s liquor, partially by making it stronger than what both Sólstaður and Dakari’s laws allowed. He showed up one day and announced he bought the place, then hired pretty much every orphan that lived there—supposedly he paid them normal wage, but took out the amount they would pay for rooms since ‘it would go back to him anyway.’ He said it would be an easier life than they had before.

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A few orphans left after they figured it wasn’t legal and didn’t want to be associated with it; a good majority, however, stayed. Some, like Rene and Hannah, were only there at night and while working—Rene and Hannah in particular did what they could to find other jobs as well, making some promise about a year after they met that they would go to Sólstaður together.

Ultimately, the tavern lasted for a few years before being shut down by whatever noble controlled Eyset; if the owner had given them full pay and let them do whatever they wanted with it, then he honestly might not have been bothered. The owner burnt the place down as one last protest, leaving almost every person he had employed homeless.

Hannah took that as their sign to leave—whether or not they were able to do so legally, with or without Rene. She didn’t want to leave everything behind just to get nothing in return, though; ultimately, Hannah chose to go illegally and without her. Their truly last conversation was an attempt to resolve an earlier fight—a way for them to say that they broke up amicably, rather than in an argument neither of them could really win. Hannah promised to come back if she ever found stable work, on the chance they wanted to go back to the days where they were shamelessly flirting teenagers.

Rene held on to that promise for a while. She underestimated how much of her time was spent with Hannah, how much time she’d spend staring out the sea or looking around the port just to try to find her. At the same time, she didn’t think she would be happy if they went to Sólstaður—she would constantly be on edge, waiting for nothing to change. At least she knew which merchants in Eyset would let her take something resembling a meal without pursuing her.

About two months passed. Rene had no recollection of how she spent them.

It rained—like it did when she first met Hannah. She hated that she made the connection, because it turned an otherwise fine day into a perpetually cycling thought process—remembering every promise, every kiss, every sweet comment Hannah gave her, then all the different ways the promises were broken, how often a kiss led to an argument, each bitter word of their ultimate breakup.

In hindsight, she knew that it had been genuine—at the start, at least. They had no idea what they were doing, but it had real feelings behind it. At the time, though, Rene was convinced Hannah must’ve been lying—either about leaving or about them.

Maybe Hannah just needed some space, and she’d be back any day now to apologize. Or maybe Hannah would fall in love with some guy in Sólstaður—despite saying she preferred women because they understood better, and detesting how tall most Sólstaðuric people were—and forget Rene even existed.

Rene sat outside one store she worked at, shivering in the rain but too stuck in her own thoughts to move, her legs drawn to her chest and her face hidden.

Someone walked up to her.

“What’s your name?” A man—from Dakari given the lack of any Sólstaðuric accent.

“What does it matter? Go away.”

Instead, he lightly poked her with something. She looked up to see a small storybook and a pen, kept dry by the man holding his umbrella over it.

“Can you read?” he asked instead.

“…What do you want?” Rene said in response, skeptical. “People aren’t nice to orphans around here.”

“I just want you to hear a story,” the man reasoned. “Can you read it yourself, or should I read it for you?”

“I can read,” Rene replied hesitantly. She had to for one or two jobs—addresses, restaurant orders and menus, enough to know the basics.

She took the book, read through it. The man introduced himself as Lord Dazuz—a noble near San Asari. Or, in other words, rich.

He said what was in the storybook—the grand tale of how humans can acquire their own nation, ruled by fellow man instead of a god who would later condemn them—was fact. Rene, having nothing else to really do, believed him. She gave him her name, told him she would like to live in a place like that, and by the end of the day she had a small bag of her things and was sitting across from him on a train to the Dazuz mansion.

And Rene really did believe in it, even if she had her doubts. She couldn’t help but feel like it was just a decision based on circumstance in hindsight—if Hannah was still there, or if she had met Adelinde sooner, she wouldn’t have agreed to be their omyn. Despite that, though, she still almost appreciated it.

It led her to Adelinde, at least—Adelinde and Matteo and Tara. It convinced her the gods must not hate everyone.