The Orphan Queen

The slums of Illyad were unbearably hot today. The sun hung high above the crooked rooftops, pouring heat onto the ground and everything unfortunate enough to exist beneath it. Even the air felt thick, heavy with dust and sweat. I kept to the narrow alleys, moving from shadow to shadow whenever I could. Sunny days like this irritate my eyes and skin. The light was too bright—too revealing. As I passed a storefront window, a few silver strands slipped from beneath my hood. They gleamed under the sunlight like polished metal. My hand moved quickly, tucking them back beneath the cloak. Silver hair was not something you wanted people noticing. I turned a corner sharply, my head lowered. Unfortunately, someone was turning the same corner. I walked straight into them. The impact made me stumble back a step before I caught my balance. “Sorry about that,” I said, raising my head. The first thing I noticed was his clothes. Even with just a glance, it was obvious the man didn’t belong here. His coat alone looked like it cost more than every building in this street combined. The fabric was smooth, dark, untouched by the grime of the slums. Even the territory’s lord didn’t dress like that. I didn’t give him time to respond. Better not to linger around people like him. I lowered my head again and quickly walked past. Hopefully he wasn’t the type to take offense at small things. If he was, I’d probably be dead before afternoon. The slums were not kind to those who angered the wrong people. After passing several crooked storefronts, I stopped in front of a familiar sign. Laum’s Bakery. The smell of bread drifted through the open door. I stepped inside. Behind the counter, the baker looked up from the newspaper he was reading. His thick eyebrows immediately furrowed at the sight of me. “What d’ya want, lass?” he grunted. His tone alone made it clear that my presence was unwelcome. Not that it was anything new. “I’m here for the bread Mrs. Martins reserved yesterday,” I said, placing a small pouch of coins on the counter. The baker—Geoffrey Laum—clicked his tongue in irritation. He stood up and scooped the pouch into his pocket. “I don’t know why that b***h keeps sending you,” he muttered as he disappeared into the back room. Among the locals, the story of Geoffrey Laum and Joanna Martins was common knowledge. They used to be married. Apparently they were happy once. That was back when Mr. Laum was still a knight. But something happened—something bad enough to get him suspended. After that, everything fell apart. They lost their home, their status, their life. Mrs. Martins left him and later remarried a merchant with enough coin to keep her comfortable. That was probably why Mr. Laum spoke about her like that. I never really understood people like them. How could someone love another person one moment, then abandon them the moment things went wrong? But perhaps that was simply how the world worked. Love seemed fragile. Money lasted longer. A few moments later, Mr. Laum returned carrying a large sack. He dropped it onto the counter with a heavy thud. Inside was the orphanage’s bread for the month. If being a knight hadn’t worked out for him, at least he had talent as a baker. His bread lasted far longer than most. “Thanks, mister,” I said, lifting the sack. He grunted in response. I left the bakery. The walk back to the orphanage was quicker. The weight of the bread slowed me down a little, but the route was familiar. Merry Orphanage stood on a decent-sized plot near the edge of the slums. The building was old. Very old. Whenever it rained, water leaked through the roof like a sieve. The floorboards creaked, the walls were cracked, and several windows had been replaced with wooden planks. It truly didn’t live up to its name. There was nothing merry about this place. I took a breath before pushing open the door. Immediately, noise rushed out to greet me. Rory and Daniel were fighting in the hallway. Again. They were rolling across the floor, throwing punches while the other children crowded around them in a circle. No one was trying to stop them. Instead, the others were loudly placing bets. “I swear on the gods, if Rory doesn’t win I’m gonna lose dessert privilege for a week!!” “Why in Nicolette’s name would you bet on Rory? He lost the last time he and Daniel fought.” Children were cruel creatures. I slipped through the crowd quietly and made my way toward the kitchen. Mrs. Martins was exactly where I expected her to be. “Mrs. Martins, I’ve brought the bread,” I called as I stepped inside. “Place it on the table, dear,” she replied without looking up from the pot she was stirring. I set the sack down. “Did Geoffrey say anything?” she asked. I paused. “Well… he called you a b***h. If that counts.” Mrs. Martins’ brows drew together before she sighed deeply. “That pompous bastard,” she muttered under her breath. The kitchen was warm, filled with rich smells of meat, herbs, and fresh vegetables. Too rich. Too good. I glanced around the room. “Is there an occasion?” Mrs. Martins’ irritation seemed to vanish instantly. “The sponsor is visiting tonight,” she said. Ah. That explained everything. Mrs. Martins didn’t have the money to run the orphanage on her own. The truth was that she never planned to run one at all. To understand why Merry Orphanage existed, you had to go back to her late husband. Mr. Martins looked like a respectable man on the outside. Handsome. Wealthy. Polite. That was why she married him. What she didn’t know was that his business was only a front. Mr. Martins was a human trafficker. He sold children to auction houses, neighboring kingdoms, and anyone wealthy enough to purchase them quietly. Mrs. Martins didn’t learn the truth until the day he died. He tried to cheat a nobleman during a transaction. The nobleman responded by putting a bullet through his head. Naturally, the authorities investigated. At first, they tried to accuse Mrs. Martins as an accomplice. But there was too much evidence proving she had nothing to do with her husband’s business. Eventually the matter caught the attention of a powerful man. I didn’t know exactly how powerful he was. But Mrs. Martins once said he was second only to the king. To settle the situation, the man gave her a simple order. She would open an orphanage in the slums. The children her husband had kidnapped would live there. He would provide the funding and Mrs. Martins agreed. She didn’t have children of her own. Probably for good reason. She wasn’t particularly fond of them. Among the children of the orphanage, the man had a simple title. The Sponsor. None of us had ever seen him. He always visited at night, long after we were supposed to be asleep. But judging by the extravagant dinner Mrs. Martins was preparing today, tonight’s visit would be different. “Eloise,” Mrs. Martins said suddenly. “Be a dear and stop the lot fighting in the hallway. I don’t want anything broken before our guest arrives.” I nodded. “Of course.” Out of all the children here, Mrs. Martins favored me. That might seem strange. After all, most people considered me a cursed child. Silver hair and purple eyes were rare in Illyad. People believed such traits were marks of the devil. Mrs. Martins likely believed the same thing. But she tolerated me. I was quieter than the other children. More obedient. More… useful. When she didn’t feel like disciplining them herself, I did it for her. The other children were afraid of me. They avoided me in the halls. They went silent when I entered the room. I didn’t mind. No— I enjoyed it. Watching them step aside felt… satisfying. Like I held a small piece of power in this miserable place. Of course, I had to act obedient in front of Mrs. Martins to maintain that position. It was irritating. Once, I dreamed of pushing her down the staircase near the entrance. The steps were old, and several nails stuck out from the broken boards below. In the dream, she fell all the way down. The sound her body made when it landed was… unpleasant. I avoided her eyes for an entire week after that dream. Not because I felt guilty. But because I wondered if she could somehow see the thought written on my face. Shaking the memory away, I left the kitchen and returned to the hallway. The fight was still going on. Rory and Daniel were both bruised and panting now, their fists still swinging wildly. When one child noticed me standing there, the others quickly followed. The crowd parted. They always did. I walked toward the center of the hallway. Rory and Daniel didn’t notice. I sighed. “Stop it, both of you,” I said. They ignored me completely. My patience ran out. “I said STOP.”