The silhouette of the Gray Cradle orphanage materialized in the distance—a skeletal, two-story ruin of rotting timber and weeping stone, huddling against the ashen horizon of Kenet like a mangled beast. To any passerby, it was a derelict eyesore waiting for the wind to finally claim it. But for Alaric, every fissure in its walls was a silent witness to his struggle for survival. It was the only span of earth in this god-forsaken world that did not feel like a grave.
His pace faltered as he passed a small bakery on a mud-slicked corner. The scent of yeast and warm flour struck him—a cruel contrast to the copper tang of blood still clinging to his nostrils. Alaric felt his pocket, his fingers brushing against the heavy pouch containing over a hundred copper coins—the day's takings from the 'Broken Hilt.' Technically, Barnaby was dead, his head rolling in the dust, and the tavern had become a slaughterhouse. In the slums of Kenet, the dead had no use for coin.
At least I didn't return empty-handed, he thought, a jagged, cynical edge sharpening in his mind. Barnaby's death is a catastrophe for my employment, but a blessing for my siblings' bellies.
He approached the bakery and traded a portion of his "blood-stained" loot for a dozen dry rolls, still marginally soft. One for every child, he thought with a rare, fleeting spark of joy. It was seldom that his foster siblings could eat a whole roll without dividing it two or three ways. Today, he wanted to grant them this small luxury, as if the horrors at the tavern were merely a fever dream that could be washed away by the taste of wheat.
Yet, as he walked the final few meters toward home, the dregs of trauma surged back. His steps felt leaden, as though every inch toward the orphanage door was a journey of a thousand miles. The echo of Lica's screams and the bored gaze of the mercenary flickered behind his eyelids. A gnawing dread sat in the pit of his stomach—the fear that the debt collectors might track him down. But as his eyes fixed on the rotting wood of the Gray Cradle, that fear crystallized into a cold, hard fire of resolve.
This building wouldn't survive another five years. The roof was sagging, the timber riddled with rot and the pervasive dampness of Eldoria. If he didn't secure new work immediately, these children would be vagrants before they reached adulthood. I have to find a way, Alaric vowed silently. I won't let them end up on the streets like feral curs.
He was about to reach for the rough iron handle when the sound of a commotion from within halted him.
Usually, the Gray Cradle was silent at this hour, save for the Matron's frail cough or the hushed whispers of children trying to ignore their hunger. Now, the air was thick with the baritone of strange men and the piercing, clipped tones of a woman he did not recognize.
Alaric held his breath, pressing his ear against the splintered wood of the door. The scent of wet rot invaded his senses, but he ignored it. Through a narrow gap, he could see blurred shadows moving in the dim parlor.
"The decree was signed a year ago, you old hag," the woman's voice rang out, cold and as sharp as a scalpel. "The city governor grants no leniency for unproductive charities. You are in arrears for a full year's land tax. Did you think this soil belonged to your ancestors? It belongs to His Majesty."
"Please, my Lady... I beg for mercy," the Matron's voice was agonizingly fragile, trembling with the weight of a lifetime's exhaustion. "We have nothing. The coins we receive barely provide a watery gruel once a day. These children... where will they go if this roof is taken? They are but innocent orphans."
"Mercy does not fill the Governor's coffers, nor does it build fortresses on the border," a man's voice interjected, rough and impatient. Alaric heard the dull chink of light mail as the man moved.
Then came a heavy, hollow *thud*—the sound of a body hitting the floor—followed by a sharp cry of pain from the Matron. Alaric's jaw clamped shut until his teeth creaked; his fingers crushed the bread bag, mangling one of the rolls in his grip. He wanted to shatter the door and tear into whoever dared touch her, but he knew it would be suicide.
"Two months," the man continued with the finality of a grave slab. "Pay the arrears and the late penalties in full, or the City Guard will clear this lot by force. This land is far too valuable to serve as a dumping ground for trash like this."
Hearing heavy footsteps approaching the door, Alaric scrambled back. He ran toward the outer gate, then turned and began walking slowly toward the entrance, feigning as though he had just returned from the market. He forced himself to pant, masking his face with an expression of genuine exhaustion and feigned surprise.
The door swung open with a violent jolt. Alaric froze, staring at the woman in deep blue silk and the two well-dressed guards as they exited his home. "Wh-who are you?" he asked, his voice intentionally wavering with "shock."
The woman looked Alaric up and down, her sharp eyes dissecting his low social standing. "We are emissaries from the regional tax office," she replied curtly, her voice still ice. Before she could elaborate on the legal consequences, one of the men nudged her arm, signaling that their carriage was waiting. The woman offered only a thin, condescending smile before sweeping past Alaric in silence, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume that smelled alien in the slums.
Once they vanished around the corner, Alaric burst into the house. The door slammed shut behind him. "Matron!" he cried, his worry now terrifyingly real.
He found her still sprawled on the cold floorboards, trying to push herself up with trembling hands. Alaric knelt and helped her rise, feeling how light and brittle her aged body had become—as if she were made of nothing but bone and parchment. She looked at him with eyes red and wet with tears, her face etched with a guilt that pierced Alaric's soul.
"Forgive me, Alaric... forgive me for piling this burden upon your shoulders," she sobbed, her tears falling onto the back of his hand. "The others... those who grew up and left... they all turned their backs. They said this place was a ghost of the past. Only you stayed, and now I give you a weight heavier than a mountain."
Alaric felt as if his heart were being crushed by an iron gauntlet. He knew this debt was an impossible summit. A year's tax in Oakhaven was a slow death sentence. Yet, he looked into those aged eyes, then glanced toward the stairs where several small children were peeking down with terrified faces.
"Don't speak like that," Alaric said, his voice deep and laced with a forced conviction. He gripped her withered hands tightly. "I will work harder. I'll find a new job—anything, anywhere. I won't let Oakhaven take our home. I swear, this house will not be razed. We will pay every single copper."
The Matron could only weep in his arms, mourning their misfortune. In the hollow of his chest, Alaric knew his promise was madness. There was no honest work in Kenet that could pay a territory's tax in two months. But amidst the suffocating despair, a dark thought began to take root. A desperate, reckless plan that might shatter his pride, but save his family.
In a world that tried to kill him every day, honesty was a luxury he could not afford. Deception and extreme sacrifice were the only blankets left to keep those children's hopes warm against the coming winter of Eldoria.