Chương 2: Orphaned Ink

Dejected and heartbroken, Lira walked through the streets of Halthar with slow, uneven steps. The world around her felt distant, muted, as though she were moving through a dream she could not wake from. Her chest felt hollow, scraped clean, leaving behind only a dull ache that refused to fade. She did not cry. She had expected tears… screaming… something… anything. Instead, there was only silence. Her father's voice lingered in her mind, but his face… his face was already fading.

Each time she tried to picture his kind, smiling face, it slipped away, replaced by the final image burned into her memory… The blade, the crowd, and Lord Kelroth's cold satisfaction. She walked anyway. Back home… There was nowhere else to go. She found her uncle in what remained of her home. Seron Valora was sifting through the wreckage, stepping over broken shelves and scattered pages, his boots grinding ink-stained parchment into the floor. He didn't even have the decency to attend his own brother's execution.

"You'll stay with me," her uncle said without looking at her.

"Your father's debts are now mine to settle. And you'll work them off, girl." Lira stared at him. The words took a moment to settle before anger took hold. Then she shook her head.

"No." Seron finally looked at her, anger clouding his expression.

"Don't be foolish," he said.

"You don't have a choice."

"I said no." That was the end of it. Within the hour, he dragged her to the door, threw it open, and shoved her out into the street. The door slammed behind her with finality. She was only able to gather a few of her things, including writing supplies, a jar of ink, and her winter coat. She was alone. That first night, she slept in the skeleton of a market stall. The wooden frame creaked with every gust of wind, the gaps between the slats letting the cold cut like knives.

She curled into herself, arms wrapped tight, trying to hold in what little warmth she had. Her stomach twisted with hunger. When she closed her eyes, she saw Kelroth, his lips moving as he read the sentence, his voice calm and measured. She tried to remember her father's face. She couldn't. The next couple of days blurred together. Hunger became constant, gnawing at her, a quiet, patient thing that never ended. People ignored her when she begged. Others shoved her aside. A few struck her for getting too close.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. She tried to steal once. A loaf of bread, half within reach. The baker caught her wrist before she could run. He didn't call the guards. He hit her instead. Hard enough that she tasted blood. She didn't try again. Her gaze lingered one evening on a half-dressed woman leaning against a wall, calling out to passing men with a practiced smile that never reached her eyes. Lira looked away. No.

Finally, a group of boys cornered her in an alley. They laughed as they searched her, rough hands tearing at her clothes. They found her bag and emptied it on the ground, finding only paper and ink… no food and no money. She was left with a split lip and bruised ribs. As she lay on the ground, her eyes fell on her writing supplies, and her father's ledger. So she started thinking. Her father had raised no thief, nor beggar. He made her a scribe.

She forced herself to stop drifting, to stop waiting, and to start searching for a way forward. She stood up and gathered her things back into her bag. The church was useless. They only offered prayers, not food. And their priests and nuns were already trained in the art of reading and writing, so they didn't need an extra scribe. The merchant guild was worse. Lord Kelroth's influence reached deep there. Getting noticed by him was the last thing she could afford. That left… Something else.

A memory of her father's voice surfaced, counting out coins into the hands of rough-looking men. When she had asked, he told her:"The Ink and Blood Family," he sighed.

"I guess you are old enough to learn about those things," he explained.

"You see, there are criminal syndicates that control half of Halthar's market."

"Since we don't have a scribe guild like the merchants do, we are left at the mercy of criminals," he added.

"Why don't you go to the guard?" she asked His father sighed once more.

"Because it's easier this way. I pay them, and they offer protection; mostly, they don't make trouble for me." It was a gamble. But it beat the other alternatives. She found the tavern after asking just enough questions to get pointed in the right direction. She was still clean enough that people answered her, though not too kindly. The Black Quill sat buried in the Old Quarter, its sign faded, and its windows blackened with grime. Lira stopped at the door. For a moment, her courage faltered.

Then she thought of her father. Of the blade. Of the cold certainty in Kelroth's eyes. She pushed the door open. The tavern was thick with smoke. Sweat, ale, and something sharper hung in the air… ink, perhaps, or maybe blood. Lira stepped inside, moving slowly, deliberately. She kept her chin level, her eyes steady, refusing to look lost. She threaded between two slumped drunkards and sharp-eyed players hunched over dice, past a bard too drunk to tune his lute. At the back stood a door, and in front of it, a man.

He was massive, arms crossed, his face set like carved stone. His gaze locked onto her before she even reached him.

"What do you want, girl?" he growled. Lira took a breath. Her hands trembled, but her voice did not.

"Take me to your leader." One brow lifted.

"I am here to collect what I am owed." That got his attention.

"What do you think you're owed?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Protection," she said.

"My father paid for it, you failed him, and now you can honor that debt with me." The man studied her for a long moment.

"How old are you?"

"I am Lira Velora," she said, ignoring the question.

"Daughter of Gareth Velora. Master scribe." Recognition flickered across his face.

"Ah… that one." The suspicion faded, replaced by something else… maybe pity… she couldn't tell.

"You'll have to speak with Mr. Pallan Matrius." He turned and knocked twice against the door with his boot. A moment later, it opened.

"Go." The room beyond was quieter, colder. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with maps, charters, and ledgers; records of power, hidden and preserved. At the center was a desk. Behind it, a man. He looked ordinary at first glance, with ink-stained fingers and a scholar's posture. But his eyes… they were sharp, measuring, and hungry in a different way. Pallan Matrius.

"So," he said without looking up, "I hear you're asking for protection." Lira didn't answer. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. She stepped forward, placed it on the desk, and unfolded it carefully.

"I am not here to be a burden," she said. Pallan's gaze dropped to the page. It bore Lord Kenth Kelroth's handwriting, perfectly copied: the flow of ink, the pressure of each stroke, and even the subtle bleed into the parchment. To whom it may concern, I, Lord Kenth Kelroth, do renounce my noble name and solemnly declare that I joined the monastery to be a modest celibate priest. All my inheritance and wealth are thus forfeit to the crown.

The confession was outrageous, something that the real lord would never write. Lira placed another document beside it. The original arrest order for her father. Side by side, the handwriting was indistinguishable. Silence stretched. Pallan picked them up, comparing and studying. Then his eyes lifted to her. For the first time, there was interest. A faint smile touched his lips.

"You'll do," he said.