Laufa, the Soon-to-Be Deceased

The cramped room smelled of candlewax. Laufa was hunched over the worn wooden table, her mother’s face was just as tight with focus as her own. Fingers danced across fabric. Their skin was rough and calloused against the silk of the dress. A needle dove, its silver head jutting above the surface, before plunging back under.

“Easy, Laufa,” her mother warned, her voice was barely a murmur over the rustling of their work.

Laufa refused to raise her eyes. “But if we don’t finish soon…”

Fatigue had made her movements clumsy. The silk felt slippery, as if it was wriggling and eager to escape her grasp.

The sweated needle sliced into her finger. A sharp pain pricked her skin as the candle beside them sputtered. Before she could even stifle a gasp, a single bead of red swelled on her fingertip. It splashed into the silk below, staining the dress with blood.

Laufa’s thimble clattered to the floor. “Ack!”

Her mother’s hand shot out and 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, no, I’m sorry!” Laufa brought her hands to her mouth. “We’re ruined. What do we, what do 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.” A sigh escaped her mother’s lips.

“—rags. Oh, it is?“

Her mother lifted the gown. In the wavering candlelight, the silk’s gorgeous gloss seemed to shimmer, revealing an ornate embroidery of a castle.

“It’s not about making mistakes, dear,” her mother said. “It’s about 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 a nearly imperceptible smear of red. It wasn’t quite good as new, but good enough to fool their client. Hopefully.

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

Laufa snagged the dress. She flung open the frayed curtains separating their workspace. The sizzle of a candle gave way to the sounds of her siblings sleeping: the rustle of a patched blanket and drowsy murmurs from pallets of straw. She tip-toed, careful to avoid the tangles of limbs. The floor was more hands and feet than ground.

A muffled, rattling cough. Her younger sister was propped up against a wall, a sheen of sweat on her pale forehead. Laufa knelt, and laid a hand on her sister’s warm face.

“Isnir…”

Isnir’s eyelids fluttered open. She managed a feeble smile.

Laufa’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The Temple’s medicine… Are you feeling any better?”

She smoothed a stray strand of hair from her sister’s face. Isnir thought for a moment, before giving a slow nod. Laufa felt a bitter taste in her mouth. The priest’s sleazy promise echoed in her mind, his stena-infused concoction had barely soothed her sister’s throat. Laufa forced a smile back, tucking a corner of the shabby blanket around Isnir’s arm.

As she straightened, a small voice piped up. “Laufa?”

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

“Just a lil’ errand, Fiann,” Laufa said, adjusting the dress over her arm. “Got a delivery!”

“To who? Can I come?” he asked, already pushing himself up. “Please-e-e?”

“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 said, ruffling his hair.

Before Fiann could protest further, she rose to her feet. The door creaked open, and the familiar smell of their home gave way to Krastas, stagnant water and the distant waft of fresh bread.

* * *

The narrow, dirt streets were shadowed by the Lodrian Wall. Its steep, craggy peaks dominated the entire skyline, peering down on them. It was dozens of times larger than the genuine stone wall ringing the Commons below. Laufa was swept into the morning’s hustle of porters hauling goods, their faces already set for the early shifts.

Her gaze swept up to the mountain’s peak, where the Castle of Krastas was carved into the rock itself. It stood high above the Commons, its stone columns reached towards the sky. Below its pillars, she spotted her destination, the Uppercity. She sprang back as a painted carriage nearly toppled her.

The dirt path merged with a wide, stone bridge. Her steps echoed above the swift river rushing down from the Wall. A young boy stooped at the bridge’s edge to lower a wooden bucket into the stream. He grunted, heaving it onto his shoulder. A trail of water leaked behind him as he departed, though she doubted he had even noticed.

Cart-hauling horses snorted as the road began its gradual incline. As Laufa climbed, the Commons below shrank into a maze of thatch roofs and dirt alleys. The winding path steepened, and soon it was less of a road and more of a staircase.

The ground became firmer under her feet. The clatter of hooves was replaced by the exhausted huffs of men towing loads. She felt gazes of stewards and servants alike lingering on her every move. They stared at her plain dress, the scuffs on her boots. Their eyes felt like hundreds of needles digging into her skin. She pulled her clothes tighter around herself, her calves ached.

The client’s heavy wooden door swung open, revealing an attendant with an expression colder than the Welkin Cradle itself. He took the dress with a dismissive sneer, his fingers avoiding hers. A cold shiver traced up her spine.

He hasn’t noticed the stain. Please, don’t notice the stain. An uncomfortable silence filled the entry hall, broken up only by the tick of a clock somewhere deeper inside.

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

“We—” Laufa stammered. “...Right.”

We weren’t late. Laufa swallowed the retort. It was an argument she knew she couldn’t win. She gave a stiff nod, dropping her gaze to the polished floor. The attendant pressed a handful of coins into her palm. She clenched her fist around them, they felt insultingly light.

On the descent, her steps quickened, her frustration catapulted her down the mountain. She just wanted to escape the stuffy, silent judgement of the Uppercity as soon as she possibly could.

* * *

Rounding a bend, a public square opened up. The air was thick with the murmurs of a festival crowd. Men bartered over fractured stena gems and Garath specialties. She ducked under a father’s arm as he hoisted his child up for a better view. Feet shuffled, and shoulders jostled against her.

A booming voice hushed the crowd of commoners. On an altar, an Archbishop stood, wrapped in embroidered, crimson robes.

His wrinkled hands stretched towards the summit above. “...Cast your gaze upon the sacred Wall, where five centuries past, our blessed Kres’thar first harnessed the raw power of manra!”

The crystal ring on his 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 pathways, forming a pulsing barrier. A gasp escaped the person beside Laufa. Bodies pressed in closer and heads craned to witness the display. The crowd's restlessness was gone, replaced by silence.

“This gift from the Almighty is a sacred privilege,” the Archbishop roared. “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!”

Laufa turned her back on the ceremony and began to weave through the thinning crowd. The Archbishop’s thunderous voice dissolved into the background, but his words hung in her mind. Divine grace.

She rummaged in the pouch tied to her waist, her fingers closing around the few coins. They felt cool and pathetic against her calloused palm. Her fingertip stung, the pain was still fresh. She felt no grace at all.

The familiar damp earth of the Commons welcomed her, but her mind was elsewhere. The attendant's sneer, the nobles' gazes, and more than anything, the promise she’d made to Fiann. She practiced the phony smile she’d offer him to hide her disappointment.

An unnerving silence had settled over her neighbourhood, missing the usual bustle of children and laborers coming home. She reached her street and stopped mid-stride, her foot hovering just above the dirt.

“...Huh?”

Her mother gripped their doorframe as Fiann peeked out from behind her dress. In front of them stood a military captain. A man in a flat cap and a pleated collar, a piercing sword hanging at his side. Laufa’s eyes fell to his spotless boots on the well-walked earth. His spine was uncomfortably straight, as if he leaned against an invisible wall. Three men, their bright uniforms equally conspicuous, guarded him, swarming the entryway.

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

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 clung tighter to their mother’s waist. “Mother…”

She heard the crisp 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!”

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

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

Across the street, a door crept open, followed by the creak of wooden shutters being pushed aside. A crowd of curious neighbours began to form around their home.

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

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

One of his 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?

Her own voice rose with desperation. “Then… 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 bubbled from the crowd, and her mother’s eyes widened in shock.

“If I were anyone else, girl, your passion might be mistaken for defiance.” The captain’s stern gaze swept over their neighbourhood. He frowned, adjusting 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.”

Laufa’s eyes dropped to the sharpened edge of the guard’s sword. She felt the blood drain from her face. Survive a blow… from his blade? Is that the only way to save Fiann?

“Laufa, don’t.” Her mother shook her head, pleading. “Please.”

She clutched Fiann’s hand with her own, reaching for Laufa with the other.

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

“It’ll be okay.”