Neema led me to a seating area and, with a quick spell from one of her aides, the grime and blood clinging to my clothes vanished in a shimmer of heatless light. The spell was one I wasn't familiar with, and I couldn't make out the words in it.
I eased down onto what felt like smooth, shaped stone. It was cool and just comfortable enough to sit on without complaint.
"Bring us drinks and food," she called out. Two men moved quickly to follow the order.
"I am Neema wa Mji wa Pwani. I ask to be welcomed with honor." She placed her right hand over her heart, extended her left palm upward, and dipped her head slightly. A quiet moment passed.
Then she laughed.
"In this situation, it's okay to reciprocate as I have."
There was a teasing lilt in her voice, and I could almost picture the smile behind it.
"I am Thalian," I replied, repeating the gesture she had shown me. "I ask to be welcomed with honor."
As I brought my hand near hers, she gently cupped it.
"And so there is honor in this meeting."
She shifted back into a relaxed position just as the men returned, handing us food.
"Please, eat," she said warmly. "I wouldn't dare get between you and that look on your face."
I was starving, so I took her up on the offer without hesitation. A bowl and spoon were pressed into my hands, the aroma wafting up rich and unfamiliar.
The first bite was confusing. Garlic hit hard, but there was something else underneath—sweet, sharp, almost floral.
Cinnamon?
If I hadn't been so hungry, I might've spit it out. The last thing I tasted this strongly was blood and bile.
"Do you enjoy it?" she asked. "It is a traditional dish called Mchuzi wa Nyama, though we added a spice of this land for you."
She sounded sincere enough, so either this was a special act of kindness or another instance of violently incompatible taste buds. Still, the hunger won. Between the meat, the magic, and whatever had kept me alive this long, I devoured the bowl with the desperation of someone who hadn't eaten in days.
I probably looked like the unrefined commoner I was pretending to be.
When I set the empty bowl down, someone placed a cup in my hand. A soft citrus scent rose from the surface.
"That tea is called Mchaichai, made with the grass of the same name. It helps the body rest well."
I took a sip. Subtle, balanced, refreshing. Finally, something that didn't overwhelm the senses.
"Both the meal and the tea were wonderful. Thank you for sharing them with me."
"Of course." The brightness in her tone made it sound like stating the obvious. "We are all travelers here. Hospitality should be second nature."
I hesitated, then broached the next topic.
"Do you know which direction the Gloamreach Adventurer's Guild base lies? I need to... report what happened. And return home."
And find out if Rev and Lysander made it out.
She didn't pause. "East of here. We're headed to the forward base ourselves. So you're an adventurer, then?"
"Yes." At least under this identity.
"Mungu must have fated our meeting, then. You'll travel with us. The ancestors would curse me if I left you to walk alone after surviving Jini wa Meno Mirefu."
I was pretty sure that meant tiger. The phrasing made it obvious enough—but the auto-translate not picking it up was odd. Especially when it had no problem with spell names.
"I wouldn't want to impose..." I said, keeping my voice polite while my mind kept tugging at that detail.
"It's no trouble at all. Our carriages have space," she said with an easy shrug. "Besides, the road is safer in company."
It didn't feel like a suggestion. Not exactly. I wasn't sure why she was so insistent, but she didn't seem to have bad intentions.
I nodded slowly, still trying to piece things together. "So... why are you headed to the forward camp? Delivering supplies?"
Teleportation couldn't handle carriages—or goods in bulk. It had something to do with the relationship between mass and ambient mana. The more you tried to move, the more unstable the spell became. That's why teleportation circles were mostly reserved for people and light cargo.
"Exactly," Neema said. "We're bringing supply shipments for the base. Once they're delivered, I'll return to the capital by teleportation to finalize the trade."
It all sounded reasonable. They'd fed me food that didn't kill me, and I doubted a group like this needed to poison strangers just to make a point. Still, the idea of traveling together wasn't ideal. I had no idea if one of the clerks would wonder what happened to my eyes.
Maybe I could claim the mask was a magical artifact meant to make me fit in.
Neema broke the silence. "Tell me of your encounter in the forest. Surviving such a thing is quite remarkable."
"There's not much to tell that I haven't already shared," I said. "The tiger—with Mawich in tow—sprung upon us, and we scattered. After traveling south for two days, I ended up here."
She hummed, unconvinced. "And why enter the forest at all?"
"Apologies, but I can't share that. What brings you to trade with the Adventurer's Guild? Your accent doesn't sound native to Velmyra." I couldn't actually hear an accent, but given the untranslated phrases, I figured it was a safe bluff.
"A question deflected," she said, amused. "Very well. It's true—we're not from this land. We come from the other side of the world."
There was a hint of pride in her voice. She wanted me to ask more.
"The other side of the world? You mean past the Kelmar Steppe?"
She laughed. "No, no. Much farther than that. Beyond the steppe lies a great ocean, and beyond that ocean is my homeland."
"I didn't know there was anything beyond the sea."
"Because your people lack adventure," she said, mock-scolding. "Your portals don't reach us, so you forget we exist."
I leaned slightly forward. "Then allow me to apologize for my great ignorance, Bibi Neema."
I couldn't see her face, but I felt her body twitch—then noticed the swirls around her chest and head begin to churn.
"Bibi. Ugh. I hate that title." She clicked her tongue. "We don't have your Velmyran titles in Pwaniwa, but every lord and lady insisted on calling me something. Eventually my people chose the closest word from our language to match the culture."
"What does Bibi mean, then?"
Before she could answer, a guard nearby chuckled. "Bibi is the perfect word for our lady! She's an old soul!"
I could imagine the look she gave him without seeing it.
"Grandma Neema, please! It fits you perfectly!"
And just like that, the auto-translate kicked in.
Huh.
The system flagged it as "Grandma," which matched the teasing tone, but Jabari hadn't been joking when he used it earlier. If the meaning was context-dependent... why did it only translate now?
"What does... Jini wa Meno Mirefu mean?" I asked.
Neema turned toward me again. "Ah. We don't have tigers in Pwaniwa, but we have an old legend—demons with long fangs that stole away bad children. We borrowed their name: Jini wa Meno Mirefu... Demon of the Long Teeth."
"Demon of the Long Teeth," I echoed, trying to match her cadence.
She let out a short, pleased laugh. "Better. Much better. Your pronunciation was sharper this time."
Bingo.
Let's break this down:
1. I can learn any language just by hearing it once and being told what it means.
2. That extends to languages with nonverbal components—like spells.
3. I can choose which language I speak by focusing on it.
4. Auto-translate doesn't work right when a word takes on a new meaning or cultural context.
The framework made no sense to me, and by then, I was too drained to care. My thoughts were unraveling, and for proof, I started to slump forward in my seat.
"It seems I've been rude, and our guest is exhausted," Neema said lightly.
I heard the shift of her robes as she stood, then she reached her hand out. "Come. I'll guide you to where you'll sleep tonight."
I took her hand, too tired to even pretend to hesitate. The reaction was instant—those same subtle shifts from the people around us, the sudden stillness, a faint hush in the ambient noise. Swirls of mana flared around them like startled birds. I was starting to think she offered her hand on purpose each time, just to watch everyone flinch. Maybe this was her revenge for being called grandma.
She led me carefully, weaving through the camp with quiet authority until we stopped in front of what I assumed was a guarded tent. Two sentries stood at attention, and I could feel the tension radiating off them like heat.
"Our guest will rest here tonight."
For a moment, no one moved. The swirl-patterns across the guards' bodies flared and spun wildly, responding to something they weren't saying. I held my breath, wondering if this was where the hospitality ended.
Then, wordlessly, they stepped aside.
Neema left my side briefly, and I heard the rustle of fabric and the soft chime of metal—likely her pulling something from a spatial pouch. A few more subtle movements, some quiet adjusting, and then she returned to my side and guided me down.
It was a bed. An actual bed. Firm but warm, layered with soft cloth and a faintly perfumed sheet. It didn't smell like antiseptic or jungle mold. It smelled like clean.
"You'll sleep here," she said, smoothing the edge of the blanket. "We'll wake you in the morning."
I thought briefly about sneaking off in the night. About slipping away while they slept, following the swirl-signatures of animals until I found something familiar. But the idea never made it past theory.
The moment my head touched the bedding, I was gone. No thoughts. Just sleep.