The orphanage stood apart from the main street, a large, somber building of grey stone that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Its yard was sparse, a few scrawny bushes the only attempt at greenery. As Sir Kaelen helped Malrik alight from the carriage, a hush fell over the few children who had been playing listlessly in the yard. They scrambled back, pressing themselves against the wall of the building, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and apprehension.
Entering the main hall of the orphanage was like stepping into a different world from the relative quiet of the carriage. The air was thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and stale bread, overlaid with the faint, persistent scent of unwashed bodies. Children of various ages were gathered in small groups, their faces turning towards the unexpected visitors. The silence that greeted them was heavy, punctuated only by the nervous cough of a younger child.
Malrik felt their collective gaze, felt the ripple of fear that spread through the room. He saw the apprehension in their eyes, the way some of the smaller ones clutched at older siblings or retreated further into the shadows. He could almost hear the silent questions swirling in their young minds.
Why is the Duke's son here?
They say he never leaves the Lodge.
Is he going to cause trouble?
Are they taking someone away?
Will he… will he take me as a slave?
The last thought, a raw, terrifying whisper in the energy of the room, was not spoken aloud, but Malrik sensed its presence, a deep-seated fear rooted in the harsh realities of their existence. He remained outwardly calm, his expression carefully neutral, projecting only the quiet, fragile presence he always maintained.
A woman, her face etched with worry and weariness, stepped forward. She was the Matron, the one responsible for this flock of unwanted souls. Her hands, chapped and red, were clasped tightly in front of her faded dress.
"Welcome, Sir Kaelen. And… Young Master," she said, her voice a low, uncertain murmur. "We are… surprised by your visit." Her eyes flicked between the knight and the silent boy beside him, searching for a reason, a purpose behind this unprecedented arrival.
Sir Kaelen stepped slightly forward, his posture authoritative but not overtly threatening. "Matron Elara," he acknowledged with a brief nod. He then gestured towards Malrik. "My Young Master Malrik wished to visit. He… he has a donation for the orphanage."
The Matron, and indeed everyone within earshot, froze. A donation? From him? The whispers intensified, no longer just fearful, but laced with genuine astonishment and outright disbelief.
A donation?
He's giving us money?
Why would he do that?
Something's not right…
It must be a trick.
Matron Elara's eyes widened, then narrowed slightly. Money. They desperately needed money. For food, for clothes, for heating in the winter. The Duke's infrequent allowances were rarely enough. But a personal donation from the Young Master? It was unheard of. It felt… wrong. Suspicious.
(Internal Monologue - Matron Elara: Money? From him? The Duke's son? He never comes here. Never shows any interest. This is… strange. Why now? What does he want? There must be something behind this. Nothing is free, especially from the powerful. But… we need the money so badly. Can I afford to refuse? No. I cannot. My children depend on it. I will take the money, but I will be watching. Very, very closely.)
Malrik observed the Matron's reaction, the rapid calculation in her eyes, the flicker of gratitude warring with deep-seated suspicion. He saw the children's bewildered faces, the way their fear was momentarily overridden by confusion. This was the desired effect. Disruption. Creating ripples in the placid surface of their routine existence. The donation was merely the entry fee, the justification for his presence.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Confusion. Suspicion. Good. Let them question the motive behind the generosity. Let them search for the hidden catch. It makes the true objective less visible. The money is insignificant, a trifle to the Duke, a fortune to them. It buys me access, time to observe. Now, to assess the potential pawns.)
While Kaelen spoke briefly with Matron Elara, explaining that the donation was simply an act of kindness from the Young Master who felt for the less fortunate, Malrik's eyes were already scanning the room. He looked at the children, not with pity, but with clinical assessment. He studied their postures, their interactions, the intelligence in their eyes (or lack thereof), their apparent health, their demeanor. He was looking for specific traits: quick reflexes, sharp minds, a spark of defiance, a capacity for quiet observation, a lack of deep ties, a desperation that could be channeled into loyalty.
He watched them for perhaps fifteen minutes, as Matron Elara gratefully accepted the pouch of coins Kaelen presented. He saw various types: the withdrawn and timid, the boisterous and simple, the sullen and resentful. None stood out. None possessed the subtle blend of cunning, desperation, and resilience he needed. They were survivors, yes, in their own way, but they lacked that indefinable spark that marked them as potentially useful pieces on his board.
A sense of disappointment settled over him. He had come here hoping to find a hidden gem, an uncut stone he could shape. It seemed his initial assessment had been wrong. This place, like the rest of Descate, was perhaps too unremarkable, too... ordinary. The trip felt like a waste of precious energy and time, resources he could ill afford to squander.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Nothing. Not a single one. They are fodder for the world, not agents within it. No quick eyes, no hidden depth, no spark of ambition or cunning. Merely children trying to survive another day. This was unproductive. A failed venture. I overestimated this provincial backwater. The true talent, the truly desperate and capable, must be found elsewhere.)
He turned to leave, a slight stiffness in his movements that was only partially feigned. He felt the familiar ache in his leg, the dull throb in his arm. The exertion, however slight, had taken its toll. He just wanted to return to the Lodge, to the relative safety of his room and the slow process of internal healing.
As he and Kaelen stepped back out into the muted afternoon light, leaving the relieved, bewildered occupants of the orphanage behind, Kaelen suddenly stopped. His head tilted slightly, his eyes fixed on a cluster of trees bordering the orphanage property, slightly away from the main entrance.
His voice, a low, firm rumble, cut through the quiet air. "You there. Hiding behind the sycamore. Come out. Now."
Malrik paused, following Kaelen's gaze. He hadn't sensed anyone. His focus had been internal, on his disappointment and his injuries. But Kaelen, the seasoned knight, trained to notice every anomaly, had detected a presence.
There was a moment of silence, then a rustling of leaves. Slowly, reluctantly, a figure emerged from behind the thick trunk of the tree. It was a girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, small for her age, dressed in rough, patched clothes that spoke of poverty. Her face was smudged with dirt, and her dark hair was tangled.
Malrik's initial assessment was instantaneous and dismissive. Another child. Small, dirty, unremarkable. Useless. His disappointment from inside the orphanage resurfaced.
But then, she moved.
She didn't shuffle out with downcast eyes and slumped shoulders. She walked with a strange, almost defiant stillness, her head held level, her small body radiating a tension that was far from fear. And her eyes… When she finally looked up, meeting Kaelen's stern gaze, then flicking towards Malrik, her eyes held a glare. It wasn't the wide, timid stare of the children inside. It was sharp, assessing, challenging. There was intelligence there, a raw, untamed wildness.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Another one. Wasted time. She looks like nothing… Wait. He watched her approach, felt the subtle energy she projected. The walk… not meek. Resolute. And the eyes… that isn't the look of a frightened child. That's the glare of a predator, assessing a threat. Or an opportunity. There's something here. Something hidden beneath the surface. His earlier disappointment vanished, replaced by a prickle of sudden interest. Perhaps the field was not entirely barren after all.)
The girl stopped a few paces away, facing Kaelen, but her eyes kept flicking back to Malrik.
"Speak your name, child," Kaelen commanded, his voice stern. "And state why you were concealing yourself."
She didn't flinch. Her chin lifted slightly. "Anya," she said, her voice rough but clear, carrying a surprising strength. "Anya Meadowlight. The woodcutter's first daughter." She paused, her gaze locking onto Malrik's for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "I was… watching."
Anya Meadowlight. The woodcutter's first daughter. Malrik registered the name, the profession of her father. It spoke of a life lived on the fringes, reliant on hard work and knowledge of the wild. And she had been watching. Not hiding in fear, but observing, assessing the unexpected visitors.
The failed hunt inside the orphanage was forgotten. A new possibility had just presented itself, stepping out of the shadows of a sycamore tree. Anya Meadowlight. The girl with the wild walk and the challenging glare. Perhaps, just perhaps, she was the pawn he had been searching for. The game was back on.