Laufa, the Soon-to-Be Deceased

The Commons, Krastas. October 18, 1434.

Laufa hunched over the worn wooden table, her mother’s face just as scrunched in focus as her own. Their fingers were calloused and rough against the dress. A needle dove, its silver head jutting above the silk surface, before plunging right back under.

“Easy, Laufa,” her mother murmured over the rustling of their work.

“But the Temple’s silver’s due today…” Laufa refused to raise her eyes. “If we don’t finish soon—”

Her thimble clattered to the floor. “Ack!”

The candle beside them sputtered, and before Laufa could even stifle a gasp, a single bead of red splashed onto the silk, staining the gown with blood.

Her mother snatched the garment away. She pooled water behind her frowning lips then spat onto the stain. Her fingers, bonier than Laufa’s but just as calloused, blotted the fabric.

“Oh no, I’m sorry!” Laufa’s hands flew to her mouth. “We’re ruined. What should we do? What should we do…? My dress, should we give them my dress instead!? Of course, I’ll rip it off right now! But those nobles wouldn’t want these plain old—”

“Good as new.” Her mother let out a sigh.

“—rags. Oh, it is?“

Her mother lifted the gown. “It’s not about making mistakes, dear,” she said. “It’s how well you hide the mend.”

Laufa leaned closer, squinting to the point of drawing tears. Or, the tears might have already been there. The stain was nearly unnoticeable. Nearly. Laufa brushed the damp smear. It wasn’t quite good as new… But it might be good enough to fool our client?

“Right…” Laufa paused, then sprang up. “Ah, the client! I’ll be right back, mother!”

Laufa snagged the dress and flung open the curtains separating their workspace. The sizzling candles gave way to rustling, patched blankets and drowsy murmurs. She tip-toed over her sleeping siblings, careful to avoid their tangle of limbs.

A muffled cough from her sister, Isnir, made Laufa’s chest tight. She remembered the priest’s sleazy promise and the overpriced stena-infused concoction he’d sold them. What a waste.

“Laufa?” A small voice piped up.

It was her younger brother, Fiann. “Where’re you going…?” His head was barely visible over the sheets.

“Just a lil’ errand, Fiann.” Laufa adjusted the dress over her arm. “Got a delivery to make.”

“To who? Can I come!?” He asked, already pushing himself up.

“Not this time, it’s too early,” Laufa shook her head gently. “But, tell you what. How about, when I’m back, we’ll head to the festival together. Just me and you.”

His face lit up. “Really? You promise!?”

“Promise.” She ruffled his hair.

Before Fiann could protest further, she rose to her feet. The door creaked open, and she was hit by the familiar scents of stale water and the distant waft of fresh bread. She slipped into the morning’s hustle of porters hauling goods.

Though the sun had risen, the Lodrian Wall kept the Commons’ narrow, dirt streets in shadow. Its mountain peaks dominated the entire skyline, dozens of times larger than the genuine, man-made wall ringing Krastas.

Her gaze climbed up to its stone summit, where the Castle of Krastas was carved into the rock itself. And below the castle’s pillars was her destination: the Uppercity.

* * *

The Uppercity, Krastas. October 18, 1434.

The Uppercity roads were paved with stone instead of dirt, and the air smelled of beeswax, far more pleasant than the Commons. Laufa tapped on their client’s polished front entrance and waited. The awkward silence was only broken up by the ticking of a clock somewhere deeper inside.

Nobles and stewards alike passed, glaring at Laufa. Their eyes felt like hundreds of needles pricking at her skin. She fought the urge to pull her dress tighter.

Suddenly, the wooden door swung open, revealing an attendant with an expression colder than the Welkin Cradle’s winters. He took the dress with a sneer, his clean fingers avoiding hers.

“You’re late,” he said. “Lady Rustes was kept waiting. Your compensation will reflect this… Delay.” His voice was completely flat.

“We…” Laufa trailed off. “Right.”

We weren’t late. Laufa swallowed her response. She knew she couldn’t win that argument. Instead, she gave a stiff nod, lowering her eyes to the polished floor. The attendant pressed a handful of coins into her palm. She clenched her fist around them, but they felt insultingly light.

The path home was swarmed by people, the air thick with the murmurs of a festival crowd. Men bartered over Garath specialities and fractured stena gems. The stones had no manra left, but Laufa had to admit, they were still a beautiful, deep blue. Plenty of stories claimed they caused miracles, too. Not that I could afford one.

“Cast your gaze upon the sacred Wall,” A voice boomed. “Where five centuries past, our blessed Kres’thar first harnessed the raw power of manra!” On an altar ahead, an Archbishop stood, wrapped in embroidered, crimson robes.

Laufa ducked under a father’s arm as he raised his child up for a better view.

The crystal ring on the Archbishop’s finger, a single, polished stena, flashed. “Behold, the Lord’s protective power!”

The gemstone bloomed into the air like a crystallising snowflake. Light exploded out in glowing blue pathways, forming a pulsing barrier above him. A gasp escaped the woman beside Laufa as bodies pressed in closer, and heads craned to witness the display.

“This gift from the Almighty is a sacred privilege,” the Archbishop said. “It courses through the blood of our noble houses, a lineage traced from the Founding Bearer himself! It is through this divine blood that our lords are ordained to protect this Compact!”

She weaved through the thinning crowd. The Archbishop’s voice faded into the background, but his words still clawed at her mind. Divine grace.

She rummaged in the pouch tied to her waist, her fingers closing around the coins. They felt pathetic against her hand. Her fingertip still stung as well. She felt no grace at all.

Laufa rounded the bend to her neighbourhood, practising the phony smile she’d offer Fiann to hide her disappointment. But when she reached her home, she froze, her foot hovering just above the dirt.

“...Huh?”

The usual bustle of children and labourers had vanished. Every wooden shutter, every door, stood shut. Except for hers.

Her mother gripped their doorframe as Fiann peeked out from behind her dress. In front of them stood a military captain in a flat cap and a pleated collar, a piercing sword hanging at his side.

Laufa’s eyes fell to his nearly spotless boots on the mud. His spine was uncomfortably straight as well, as if leaning against some invisible wall. Three men, their colourful uniforms equally as loud, guarded him, swarming the entryway.

“The Temple has shown considerable patience with your debts.” The captain raised a ledger, tapping it with his glove.

Her mother’s voice trembled. “Captain, we’ve paid what we could, but—“

“Enough. Your family has been offered far too many chances,” he said. “However, in its benevolence, the Compact offers a simple solution.” He gestured towards Fiann with the ledger. “Military enlistment. An opportunity for the young man to clear his family’s debts while serving his nation. What greater honour could he ask for?”

Fiann hugged their mother’s waist. “Mother…”

Military… Enlistment? The coins tumbled out of her grip, skittering into the dirt. She hardly noticed them.

All she could hear was the thump of leather on paper. The grating of steel in sheaths. Fiann’s anxious whimpers. Fiann…

“No,” Laufa stumbled forward. “Fiann’s, he’s too young. He’s only fourteen, a child, there’s no honour on a battlefield for a child!”

Her mother’s eyes snapped to her. “Laufa, don’t—“

“Silence.” The captain’s voice dropped. “The boy is of age.”

Across the street, doors slid open and shutters groaned as they were pushed aside.

“He’d die, he’d most certainly die,” Laufa said. “I'm good with my hands, I’ll find you the silver, we just need a little more time—“

The captain raised his hand. “It’s better to die a hero on the battlefield, than a rebel in a common alley. Choose your next words carefully, girl.”

A crowd of curious neighbours formed around their home. One of the guards stepped towards Laufa, gripping the pommel of his piercer. Behind their mother, Fiann’s thin shoulders shook. They won’t take no for an answer. They want Fiann, they want… a soldier? Is that all they want?

“Then…” Her own voice cracked. “Then take me! I’m stronger than Fiann, sir, I swear! He can barely help mother at home, I’m definitely much, much stronger!”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, and her mother pulled Fiann closer.

“If I were anyone else, girl, your passion might be mistaken for defiance.” The captain’s stern gaze swept over their neighbourhood. He frowned and adjusted his glove. “Very well. I’m not unreasonable. If you claim to be stronger, prove it.”

He gestured at the man beside her.

“Let all here witness the Compact’s grace,” he said. “Survive one blow from my guard, and I’ll take your offer into consideration.”

Her eyes dropped to the sharpened edge of the guard’s sword. The strength vanished from her legs. Survive a blow… from his blade? Is that the only way to save Fiann!?

“Laufa, don’t.” Her mother clutched Fiann’s hand with her own, reaching for Laufa with the other. “Please.”

Laufa bit her lips.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, and took a hesitant step forward. She turned to Fiann and her mother with a weak smile.

“It’ll be okay.”

Liar. That would be the second promise she had broken today.