Raizen pushed the door open and his soul almostt left his body.
Sothing ca at him from the left - fast, loud, accompanied by the frantic squeak of a wheel that needed oiling and a voice that was already shouting before the collision happened. Raizen’s body reacted before his brain caught up, throwing him sideways against the doorfra as a blur of dark skin and wooden spokes shot past his face close enough that he felt the displaced air on his cheek.
A unicycle. A boy on a unicycle - young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, pedaling with the desperate intensity of soone who was late for sothing important. And on his head, held with one hand and the kind of skill that suggested years of practice, a wooden box the size of a small table.
The boy swerved. The unicycle’s wheel caught a wet groove in the platform and jerked sideways, and the careful balance that had been holding everything together ca apart all at once. The box tipped. The boy’s arms pinwheeled. His trajectory changed from "narrowly missing Raizen" to "directly into Saffi" and for a fraction of a second the whole thing was going to end very badly.
Kenzo and Atman stepped in at the sa ti.
It was the kind of synchronized reaction that ca from years of combat instinct applied to a situation that didn’t remotely require it - Kenzo’s hand closing around the boy’s left wrist, Atman’s around the right, both grips catching him mid-fall and holding him suspended between them like a puppet whose strings had tangled. The boy’s feet left the unicycle. The unicycle continued forward on its own for about two ters before toppling against a railing. The box hit the platform with a heavy, padded thud and scattered its contents across the wet ground.
The boy hung between them, feet dangling, eyes wide, mouth already moving.
"I - sorry sorry sorry - I am thanking you - I didn’t see - the wheel, it does this thing when the wood is wet -"
The words ca out at a speed that outpaced his ability to organize them, each one tumbling into the next, syllables tripping over each other in a rush of both genuine panic and gratitude. His accent was distinct - warm, rhythmic, with a cadence that placed emphasis on syllables Raizen wouldn’t have expected, rolling certain sounds and clipping others in a pattern that sounded musical even in the middle of an apology.
Kenzo set him down gently. Atman let go of his wrist with a look that said he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d just caught but was glad it hadn’t hit the ground.
Raizen stared at the boy.
His skin was dark. Really dark – a deeper and richer color than Obi’s, a shade that Raizen had never seen on a living person before. It caught the grey light filtering through the canopy and reflected it differently than lighter skin did, the rain sitting on its surface in small beads that made it look polished, almost luminous. The boy’s features were sharp and distinct, his eyes bright against the darkness of his face, and Raizen found himself thinking of the photograph he’d seen in the Ruler’s house - the portrait of the woman with the beautiful dark skin and the calm, steady gaze. This boy looked like he could have been her nephew, or her great-grandson, carrying the sa deep colour that made every other shade in the world look thin by comparison.
He was amazed. Genuinely, openly amazed, the way soone is amazed when they see sothing for the first ti and realize they’d been living in a smaller world than they thought. In Neoshima, skin ca in a narrow range - pale, tanned, occasionally weathered. Nobody looked like this. Nobody carried colour this deep, this rich, this alive. And the boy wore it with the total unawareness of soone who’d never thought of it as remarkable, because to him it wasn’t. It was just his skin.
Raizen wanted to say sothing about it and had absolutely no idea what the appropriate thing to say would be. So he said nothing, which was probably the right choice.
The boy was still talking - thanking Kenzo, thanking Atman, brushing off his clothes with quick swipes, looking around for his unicycle with the frantic energy of soone whose day had been scheduled down to the minute and was now several minutes behind. Raizen pulled his attention away from the boy’s face and looked at the platform.
The box’s contents had scattered across the wet wood in a rough semicircle. Paper bags - round, flat, almost as wide as a cart wheel, each one sealed with a strip of woven cord. There were dozens of them, fanned out across the platform like oversized playing cards dealt by soone in a hurry.
Raizen crouched and reached for the nearest one. It was light - surprisingly light for its size, barely any weight at all. The paper was thin, almost translucent, with a faint reddish tint that might have been dye or might have been the natural colour of whatever plant it had been made from.
Then he saw the torn one.
One of the bags had ripped when the box hit the platform, and through the tear, Raizen could see what was inside. A disc - paper, round, with dozens of thin ridges folded into its surface in concentric rings, like a flower that had been pressed flat. In the centre sat a small piece of compressed wood held in place by thin wire, the wire twisted into a simple fra that kept the wood suspended at the disc’s exact midpoint.
He picked it up carefully, turning it in his hands, studying the construction. The ridges in the paper were thin and precise, folded with the kind of care that suggested each one mattered. The compressed wood in the centre was dense and dark, about the size of his thumb, and it slled faintly of sothing waxy.
He squinted at it.
A toy? So kind of decoration? But then why would the boy be carrying dozens of them, balanced on his head, pedaling through the rain on a unicycle like his life depended on getting them sowhere fast?
Raizen held it up to the light.
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