It didn't sit right with her.
Even if one school was destroyed, knowledge didn't die that easily. There would still be scraps—papers, stone carvings, fragments buried in soil or memory. At least someone should have remembered. Even her husband—if he had ever lived with someone literate, he would've picked up something. Words, letters, habits. Over the years, it would stick. She had seen it happen in her world, more than once.
Wives who had never held a pen in their lives… eventually writing letters to their children just by living beside a literate husband for years. Five or six years of shared life was enough to sow the seeds of reading and writing.
So then… why was there nothing left here?
That, more than anything, was what made Kaya's chest tighten with unease. Something wasn't adding up.
