The next morning, a loud banging on the door was heard. The banging woke up Eamond in a panic. He thought that the Crimson Fang had found out that they had stolen their ledger and was trying to take revenge.
As Eamond goes downstairs to see what's going on, he becomes more clear-headed as his mind becomes more awake. If the Crimson Fang wants revenge, those brutes won't knock on the door but break in and trash the whole place.
Downstairs, Lysandra crouched behind the door, flames licking her knuckles. Jake clutched a rusted fire poker.
" Open the door right now! And pay off your debt! You Bitch!" a gruff voice was heard outside the door. Eamond was relieved, it seemed it was truly a different person.
Eamond signals Lysandra and Jake to be at ease.
He then slowly opened the door and saw a buff-looking man with rough features. Eamond even smelled the stench of raw meat and realized this man was the butcher.
" What can I do to help you on this fine morning, my good sir?"
The butcher filled the doorway like a slaughterhouse mountain, his apron crusted with old blood. The stench of raw meat clung to him like a second skin.
"Where's the wheezing hag?" he growled, cleaver glinting. "She owes me 2 gold for six months' offal!"
Eamond's nose wrinkled. Of course. The orphans' "stew" last winter had tasted like despair and entrails.
"Ah, Dear Butcher!" Eamond spread his hands, the picture of contrite nobility. "A thousand apologies. We've had… cash flow issues."
The butcher shoved past him, boots tracking mud onto the freshly scrubbed floors. Lysandra's flames flared, but Eamond shot her a warning glare.
Matron Celine appeared at the stairwell, clutching her shawl. "Please—I'll pay, I swear—"
The butcher loomed over her. "With what? Your lungs?"
Eamond's Money Magic pulsed.
[Butcher Harlon – Age 41]
Net Worth: 15 Gold | Secret: Skims 20% from Fang protection payments.
Ah.
"2 gold, was it?" Eamond drawled, flipping a gold coin across his knuckles. "Funny. The Crimson Fang mentioned you owe them 3 gold this month. Shall I settle both debts?"
The butcher froze. "You're bluffing."
"Harlon V. Skimmed 12 gold over four years. I wonder what their collection methods are these days?" Eamond recites.
The color drained from Harlon's face.
"Now," Eamond said, sweet as poisoned honey, "let's renegotiate. 1 gold for your silence, and we'll call the offal a… charitable donation."
The butcher snatched the coin and fled.
Debt Reduced: -1 Gold (Orphanage)
Karma Adjustment: -2 (Blackmail)
As the Butcher leaves,
Matron Celine collapsed into a coughing fit, blood speckling her handkerchief, and all the other children who came out because of the commotion hurriedly came to her side. Eamond turned away—but not before seeing Matron Agatha in her sunken eyes.
Memory of his first life, age seven. Agatha's hands, calloused but warm, pressing a stolen apple into his palms. "Eat, child. Grow strong."
He'd bit into it, juice running down his chin. "What about you?"
She'd smiled, her own plate empty. "I've already eaten."
Lies. She'd died two weeks later, her stomach hollow.
Karma Adjustment: +3 (Guilt-Induced Generosity)
Eamond yelled. "Enough!"
The orphans flinched.
He tossed a pouch of coins at Lyasandra. "Pay the coal merchant. Buy medicine. And stop coughing—it's bad for morale."
Lyansandra stared at the gold, clearly a bit baffled by Eamond's reaction. "Why…?"
"Tax write-off and take her back to her room, we don't need any more liability," Eamond lied, already striding away and returning to his room.
After returning to his room, Eamond added a new entry to his secret ledger:
Debts Repaid (Unnecessary):
Butcher: 1 Gold
Matron's Medicine: 2 Gold
New Blankets: 1.5 Gold
Justification: Asset preservation. Sick orphans = bad labor.
He ignored the footnote at the bottom:
P.S. The apples here are rotten. Buy fresh ones tomorrow.
As Eamond finished writing in his ledger, a knock on the door was heard
" Eamond, are you there?" Syd the elf peeked in.
" What is it ?"
" You know that Lysandra went out to buy the things you mentioned. She asked us to tell you to meet the matron and take care of her."
"And why would I do that?"
" She just said to tell you that," Syd said as he left Eamond's door.
" Fine, I guess I should asses the liability," Eamond said as he left his room and walking to the matron's room.
As he reached the matron's room, he knocked on the door, and a weak voice called from inside the room
" Come in."
Eamond comes into the room and starts to scan the room. It was barren, only a bed, a desk, a chair, a wardrobe, a cabinet, and that's it. As he comes closer to the bed, he finally sees Matron Celine more clearly.
She looked like she was already halfway across the Veil.Her face was pale and waxen, her cheeks sunken, her lips tinged faintly blue. Breaths came shallow and rattling. Her hands, once firm and calloused from years of work, trembled slightly as they clutched the thin blanket over her lap.
Eamond stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. "You asked for me?"
Matron Celine managed a wan smile. "You always had a sharp tongue, Eamond… and a sharper mind."
He said nothing.
"I won't last the week," she whispered. "Maybe not even tomorrow. So listen closely."
Eamond exhaled, long and slow. "Matron, don't waste your breath. We'll get the medicine. You'll be fine."
"No," she said, voice suddenly firmer. "Stop lying. I know what blood in the handkerchief means." Her gaze locked onto his. "I need to ask you for something."
Eamond already knew what it was. The weight of it pressed against his chest like lead.
"I need you to protect them," she said. "The children. Jake, Syd, little Mirelle… even Lysandra, fire and fury though she is. They need someone to look out for them." Her voice quivered. "They need you."
His fingers curled, nails biting into his palm. "I'm not a hero."
"No," Celine agreed. "But you're what they have."
And just like that, a memory cracked through his mind, unbidden.
Matron Celine coughed into a handkerchief flecked with blood, her skeletal fingers trembling. Sunlight filtering through the moth-eaten curtains painted her pallid face in shades of decay.
Eamond's Money Magic flared instinctively, appraising her:
[Matron Celine – Age 54]
Health: 23% (Consumption, Stage III) | Debt Liability: 87 Gold
Value: -1,200 Gold (Estimated funeral costs + orphanage collapse)
Pathetic, he told himself. Another liability. But the tremors in her voice tugged at a memory—Matron Agatha, the silver-haired woman who'd tucked him into flea-ridden cots in his first life. Who'd sold her shoes to buy him medicine when he'd nearly died of fever. And made him promise the same thing, but he couldn't do it.
Karma Adjustment: +1 (Unresolved Trauma)
Eamond sat up and stepped out of the Matron's room with an unreadable expression, the weight of Matron Celine's plea still echoing in his mind. He ran a finger along the dusty cover of the orphanage's debt ledger—then snapped it shut with a soft thud.
A slow exhale rattled his chest. He rose, smoothing his hair as if resetting a mask.
He stepped into the hallway. At the foot of the stairs, Lysandra lounged against the wall, arms folded, watching him expectantly.
"Time to earn breakfast," he said, voice low. He offered her a curt nod-no—words, but the unspoken promise was there.
She lifted an eyebrow. "Wordless today?"
He shook his head once, "Quite before the storms. Did you finish your errand?"
Lysandra nodded and clicked her tongue. "Fine. Let's get those preserves ready. "
In the kitchen, the toddlers were already awake, whiskers of fruit juice crusted at their elbows. Garret and Jake sorted empty jars brought in from the market run. Pip perched on the table, stroking the label Lysandra had burned onto wood scraps.
Eamond laid out the morning's orders:
Wash and sterilize jars (clear water from the back cistern; scrub with vinegar).
Prepare fruit mash—today's mix: bruised apricot and overripe pear, spiced with cinnamon and a pinch of clove.
Label each jar "Phoenix Brand Preserves: Limited Dawn Edition," then pack into crates.
He moved through the room like a conductor, hands and eyes everywhere. "Toddlers, rinse those jars. Garret, mash faster—nobles don't wait. Jake, double-check the spice ratios. Lysandra, stoke the fire under the pot."
She lit the burner with a lazy flare. "You really think they'll buy more?"
Eamond dipped a finger into the simmering fruit. A hot bead popped against his skin. He tasted. "Hope tastes sweeter at dawn."
By mid-morning, the first batch was bottled, labeled, and crated. Eamond shouldered the heaviest box and strode for the door. The children fell into line behind him—his makeshift sales force.
At the market's edge, he paused. Above him, the sky was pale as parchment. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, remembering Celine's trembling hand, her final plea: "They need you."
He inhaled. Opened his eyes. His golden hair caught the light, a silent banner.
"Alright," he said, voice firm. "New strategy today. We'll hit the noble district. Jake, you know the spiel. Garret, you and the toddlers be heart-wrentching. Lysandra, I want that sign blazing—fire magic only, no smoke. Understand?"
They nodded, faces set.
"Let's go make some hope—and profit."
He led the way toward the grand gates, each footstep a promise: he would keep them alive, even if only to mine their labor.
And somewhere in the folds of his coat, hidden behind the preserves ledger, lay the delicate thread of his vow—waiting for the day he might truly honor it.