📖 Journal of DeLuna — Special Entry: Indulgence — nāraṅga

After dragging me away from Spathian’s workshop before irreversible psychological damage could occur, Ryn decided we would spend the rest of the day wandering through Port Roderick.

According to her, Caravan Master was busy handling “important merchant things.”

The rest of the caravan crew had apparently already vanished into the city to enjoy themselves hours earlier.

So for the first time in a long while—

There was nothing expected from us.

No road to prepare for.

No swamp.

No negotiation.

No danger.

Only the city.

And hunger.

Our first stop was a small restaurant near the shoreline overlooking part of the harbor.

The sea breeze drifted through open windows while sunlight reflected across blue glass bottles hanging from the ceiling.

Ryn ordered something called Seabreeze Snapper along with a drink named Azure Mist.

The fish arrived resting over grilled vegetables beneath lemon butter sauce still shimmering from heat.

The skin was crisp.

The meat soft enough to separate almost instantly beneath the fork.

The flavor tasted bright.

Salt.

Citrus.

Sweetness from honey hidden beneath the spices.

It tasted like the ocean had decided to become gentle for once.

The Azure Mist looked almost unreal beside it.

Pale blue.

Cold condensation sliding down thin glass while bubbles drifted upward beneath floating lemon slices.

The taste startled me slightly.

Sharp at first.

Then floral.

Then cold sea-mineral fizz lingering afterward.

Ryn looked deeply entertained watching my expression change after every sip.

“You react honestly to everything,” she said.

“I think that’s dangerous in merchant cities.”

After lunch, we wandered through the Roderick Promenade beneath rows of palms and sea lanterns swaying gently above the street.

People filled the promenade despite the heat.

Elegant merchants.

Travelers carrying shopping bags.

Street musicians.

Children chasing seabirds between stone benches overlooking the harbor.

At some point, Ryn bought me a Silkfruit Tart from a small street stall.

The fruit inside tasted unlike anything I had eaten before.

Sweet.

Slightly sour.

With a texture so soft it almost dissolved against my tongue.

Powdered sugar stuck briefly against my fingers afterward.

Ryn laughed after noticing me trying unsuccessfully to clean it neatly.

“You’re impossible to make look sophisticated.”

“I survived a swamp.”

“That somehow supports my point.”

As evening approached, the city slowly transformed.

Golden harbor light spread across the water while ships returning to port lowered sails beneath the sunset.

Ryn eventually brought me to a more expensive restaurant overlooking the inner harbor.

I realized it was expensive mostly because the staff visibly recognized her before we even sat down.

The food there felt less like eating and more like participating in some elaborate coastal ritual.

We shared Golden Harbor Paella served directly from a massive iron pan still crackling from heat.

The saffron aroma reached me before the plate fully touched the table.

Shellfish.

Shrimp.

Sea sausage.

Rice soaked with seafood broth and smoke.

Every bite tasted rich enough to make me understand why merchants willingly crossed oceans for spice routes.

Ryn also ordered Roderick Spiced Crab Cakes.

Crisp outside.

Warm and fragrant inside.

The spices lingered slowly afterward in a way that almost felt luxurious.

I began noticing something strange throughout the evening.

Ryn never behaved as though any of this was particularly extravagant.

Not because she lacked appreciation.

But because abundance had always existed naturally around her.

She ordered expensive dishes with the same casual energy I used when buying dried fruit from roadside stalls.

There was no performance attached to it.

No need to prove wealth.

And somehow, that made her feel even more absurdly rich.

Later that night, she introduced me to something called Lantern Tasting at a harbor café.

Several small dishes arrived arranged across a tray shaped like a hanging lantern.

Tiny portions.

Different flavors.

Fried shellfish.

Sweet glazed meat.

Spiced bread.

Pickled sea vegetables.

The owner apparently described it as:

“The fastest way to understand the city.”

I am still undecided whether that statement was philosophical or marketing.

Eventually, we ended the night with Roderick Coffee near the outer harbor.

The café overlooked rows of lantern reflections trembling softly across dark ocean water.

The coffee itself terrified me slightly.

Strong enough to wake ancestral spirits.

But somehow balanced by warm spices and thick milk foam that softened the bitterness without hiding it.

It was both the strangest and best coffee I had ever tasted.

While sitting there, I suddenly noticed something resting on a nearby serving tray.

My entire body froze.

Slowly, I pointed toward it with trembling fingers.

“Is that… an orange?”

Ryn blinked.

“Yes?”

I stared at the fruit for several long seconds.

Bright orange skin.

Perfectly round.

Real.

“I thought those only existed in eastern trade stories.”

Ryn looked genuinely confused.

Apparently oranges were common enough here that she had never considered the possibility of someone not seeing one before.

Meanwhile, I knew the fruit almost entirely from old family storybooks and rare trade records.

Without hesitation, Ryn stood up, walked inside the café, and returned carrying two oranges.

She handed one to me casually.

I accepted it with what was probably unreasonable emotional intensity.

The peel released sharp citrus fragrance immediately after opening.

Sweet.

Bright.

Almost painfully fresh.

We ate quietly for a little while before Ryn suddenly spoke.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully,

“I’ve always wondered something.”

I looked toward her.

“Was the fruit named after the color?”

I answered automatically before thinking much about it.

“No. Actually the opposite happened.”

Ryn stared at me.

So I continued.

I explained that the word had ancient roots from old Dravidian language families before later becoming nāraṅga in Sanskrit.

Then eventually nāranj through Arabic trade routes before finally becoming orange after arriving westward through maritime commerce.

Only centuries later did people begin using the word for the color itself.

Before that, the color had a completely different name.

ġeolurēad.

After finishing the explanation, I finally noticed Ryn’s expression.

She was staring at me as though I had suddenly transformed into someone else entirely.

“What?”

“How do you know all of that?”

I frowned slightly.

“Because I’m not a trader,” I answered.

“I’m a storyteller. Did you forget?”

Ryn continued staring.

Then asked another question.

“And you’ve seriously never eaten one before?”

At that point, I think my pride became mildly injured.

I looked at the orange in my hands.

Then back at her.

“I’m not a Roderick,” I muttered.