Ruri stirred when she felt something tugging at her pockets. Groggily opening her eyelids, which were sealed shut with rheum, she suspected it had something to do with the dream from the previous night. Turning to glance at her bicep, upon which she had rested her head, she confirmed her suspicion—it was damp.

She shoved her hands into the linen trousers she wore and fished out a pebble. It had thin, red writing all over it, with concentric circles, glowing, and a crudely drawn polygon. She set it on the floor, and the rock rose a finger width above the ground — seemingly floating on air. It shook, the red lines on it pulsed, and suddenly, they dimmed, and it fell. It kept doing this at regular intervals, until she picked it up and rubbed off the markings, tossing it aside.

Settling her head on the hay, with strands poking through her trousers and shirt sleeves, her leather vest kept the worst of it from embedding itself in her back. She glanced up at the thatched roof of the inn stable overhead, warm Stern-light peeking through the gaps.

"It’s the 3rd short day! About time I got out of this hole," she declared, her tone deadpan. Three weeks had passed since her arrival, leaving her only a week away from the new year, which she had declared to be her birthday. It was the last day of the last cycle of the year, or ‘month’ as the church called them.

She liked endings. This one would mark the end of her old life, her old self. Back when she was stuck in Hirewoods, squeezing herself into a crack in a tree hollow, she told herself, ‘It’ll end. It’ll come to pass. It must.’

She wasn’t naïve enough to hope; hope is a dangerous thing.

Hopping onto her legs, she picked up her duffel, undid the small string she had tied to it and to her finger to keep thieves from taking it, dusted herself, and walked out. She stood in the sunlight and went through her bag.

“Alright, I’ve got the spare set of work clothes, the fine set is here, compass, water sack, rations, check. Salt, both the dried fish, the hemp sack, all there.” She sighed.

“The map!” she remembered, quickly flicking through her stuff, retrieving a leather pouch. She opened it, undid the white silk sleeve that hugged a thick, red rectangular book. The map under the back cover. “Of course, How could I forget.” She sighed, relived.

The map was the most precious things she had on her, save the book, of course. She wouldn’t hesitate to chop a limb, hers or otherwise, to keep the book. It was dangerous, but it was hope; she wanted to learn magic.

While she had it open, she turned through the pages, landing on one with a folded corner.

“The inscription last night was very week, maybe the ink loses potency if not activated immediately? Or maybe the Moon affects it?” She pondered.

“The book says the moon only reflects the Stern; why can’t I power the inscriptions under moonlight then?”

Entering the inn whose stable space she had ‘borrowed’, she ordered some boiled fish from what little variety the Hamlet had to offer. She wanted to save money, but she figured she had enough things, even factoring in a bad day, to reach her cache.

Stolen story; please report.

Sitting on the squeaky wooden stool, she looked out of the slitted windows, feeling the gentle, salty morning breeze on her face. She would miss these white cliffs and the way they glowed as if gilded in the morning Stern. "That’s a stupid thought," she smiled wryly and shook her head.

Paying her dues, and ‘borrowing’ away a silver-coated breadknife and a stein from the inn, she set out to the square. As she walked, she fiddled with a length of straw she picked from her hair.

She knotted it, one end over the other, once under and twice over. “Seventeenth again” she nodded. She spliced the ends together, lest they come undone.

She made knots whenever she was bored, as time passed, she found herself challenged to invent new ones that weren't merely variations of the old. It yet her head busy, and she did not like to be inside her head alone.

The arrival of the caravan signalled by the ringing of a brass bell drew in the townsfolk, as six ox-pulled and two horse-pulled carts rolled into the hamlet. The process was efficient; they knew what to buy, and the hamlet knew what to sell—fish and salt.

The caravan served as the sole supplier of other goods, and while rice and wheat didn’t come cheap, salt was highly valued. Walking among the parked carts, Ruri glanced over people's shoulders.

“It isn’t wildflowers, it really is rose!” a stout man exclaimed as he peddled his goods.

“What sort of rose smells like Alyssum?” the sceptical woman replied, clearly not buying into the scam.

“Four coppers and not a shilling over,” she said flatly.

‘Perfume?’ Ruri shrugged inwardly. "What's the point of buying something just to toss it in the wind?" She muttered, a hint of amusement in her voice.

She walked on, and finally spotted Stew.

“Hey, old man” she said in a voice much deeper than her own.

“You’re here, lad?” he grunted “what happened to those dried rations you were bragging about?”

She winced; the pain was still too fresh. “They- They flew away.” she quickly corrected her pitch. She had enough for herself, but some extra coin wouldn’t hurt, she really was cutting it close.

She raised an eyebrow and said “You still remember you’re promise right? Or does poor old Tilda need to kno-”

“Yes! - yes. Not here, and I talked to Paul. he’s going to let you on till Hulpshire” He quickly interrupted and hushed her.

She had observed Stew buying a mushroom from the caravan she came in with. She discreetly inquired with the merchant and then tailed him. Discovering his peculiar challenge in keeping certain things upright, she approached him a few weeks back and subtly negotiated her ride out of the hamlet.

Someone blew a horn from the other side of the square, and the peddlers began to pack their goods back in, finishing up their chats and saying goodbyes to their acquaintances. Stew led her to a covered cart stocked with a few bags of salt, and she settled in a cosy spot. The carts soon set off, and rhythmic shaking was relaxing under the hot afternoon Stern of the short day.

Elsewhere, in a spacious two-storey bungalow nestled beside an oak forest, a young man stood in his backyard, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. He had been tilling a section of his vast yard—almost an acre of land—but had barely completed a quarter of the task.

Every eight feet, he paused to measure the acidity of the soil using a solution of boiled red cabbage, which he soaked into strips of coconut fibre pulp.

Scratching his observations onto a black slate with white chalk, he continued tilling, periodically adding quicklime powder and water whenever the fibres turned reddish. His intention was to satiate the soil's sharpness by adding water to the quicklime when he irrigated it.

Setting his hoe down, he squatted on his knees, feeling a sense of hopelessness wash over him. "How am I ever going to grow Acamia this way? I cannot stay awake through the whole week, surely not," he muttered despondently.

"I'll cross that bridge when I get there," he sighed, pushing himself to his feet.