A Debt of Thanks

The game winds down, the garden brimming with the innocent chaos of laughter and sugar-fueled excitement. Candy wrappers flutter in the breeze like battle flags left behind on a victorious field. A few kids lounge in the grass, trading sweets like seasoned gamblers. Others already argue over rules for tomorrow’s rematch.

I stand at the center, letting it all unfold around me like a king watching over his unruly court.

They don’t know it yet—but they will.

These aren’t just children. They’re seeds. Potential waiting to be shaped, sharpened. All they need is a reason to look up. A leader. A voice.

My voice.

“Guys,” I say, just loud enough to pierce the din. It cuts through like a clean blade. Heads snap toward me—eyes eager, smiles still sticky with candy.

Even the quiet one—the observer—looks up from the wall he leans against, brow arched like he already knows what I’m about to do.

“I’m Orion,” I announce, my voice smooth but carrying a firm weight behind it. “And this… this is just the beginning. Let’s play tomorrow too.”

Oliver—brash and predictable—pumps a fist into the air, his grin obnoxiously wide. “I’m in! I’ll beat you for sure next time!”

I give him a lazy smirk. “We’ll see.”

He thrives on challenges. Good. Keep him motivated, but never let him win too easily.

From the side, the sibling pair exchange a look—quiet, wordless communication that speaks louder than most arguments. The boy steps forward, his stance protective, but not confrontational.

“I’m Ethan,” he says. Calm. Measured. “And this is my sister, Lila.”

Lila doesn’t speak. She never does. Her small fingers curl tighter around the slate she’s been scribbling on. But when she raises it—there’s a faint smile sketched beside her stick-figure drawing of me.

I nod once. A simple acknowledgment. They’ll follow—if they trust me. That takes patience.

Oliver practically bounces in place. “Name’s Oliver! But you can call me Ollie. Everyone does.”

“Because you never stop talking,” mutters Callen, the rebel boy, with a sigh. He kicks a stone near his foot, arms folded across his chest. His tone is dry, unimpressed—but not dismissive.

He’s not hostile. Just doesn’t like being outshined.

Oliver spins toward him with mock outrage. “Hey! You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m better than you at everything!”

Callen shrugs. Doesn’t even blink. “I’m Callen,” he says to me, like I’m the only one worth addressing. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, eyes locking with his just long enough to let him know I see him—and that I don’t flinch.

One more piece added to the board.

Then comes a tiny tug on my cloak.

Mina.

She stands barely to my waist, eyes wide like saucers, cheeks puffed with sugar. Her hands are sticky, clenched around a half-melted candy like it’s gold.

“I’m Mina!” she declares proudly. “Can we play now? I wanna play now!”

She bounces on her heels, too small to understand the rules yet—but eager all the same.

I kneel slightly, meeting her gaze.

“Tomorrow, Mina,” I say, voice dipping into something softer—almost warm. “Even queens need rest before their next game.”

She gasps at the word queen, her mouth forming a silent “O.” Then she giggles and runs off to chase a butterfly.

I rise to my feet.

The garden is mine now.

They just don’t know it yet.

The group laughs, their energy contagious, but one figure remains silent. The boy at the back of the garden, who has been watching everything with those sharp, calculating eyes.

“And you?” I ask, my gaze locking onto him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but after a moment, he pushes off the wall and steps forward. His movements are deliberate, his posture relaxed but confident.

“Liam,” he says simply, his voice calm.

I nod. “Good to meet you, Liam.”

The garden empties slowly, the clatter of footsteps and candy wrappers fading into quiet. The sunlight bleeds gold over the crooked fence, casting long shadows through the trees. A breeze rolls in, gentle but sharp, ruffling the edges of my cloak as I approach him.

Liam doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look up at first.

He leans against the stone wall like he’s part of it—arms crossed, eyes distant. Watching. Always watching.

“You’re different,” I say as I stop a few steps from him.

He raises an eyebrow, still not moving. “You said that already.”

“And I meant it,” I reply, calm and measured. “The way you watch, the way you move. You don’t play the same game as the others.”

Now his gaze shifts, locking onto mine. There’s no fear in it. Just sharp edges dulled by something heavier—loss.

“Neither do you,” he says.

I smirk faintly. “Fair enough.” I take a small step forward, keeping my tone casual. “So… what’s your story?”

He tilts his head slightly, scanning me. Like he’s weighing the cost of the words. His eyes flick past me—toward the chapel, the steeple casting its shadow across the cracked garden wall.

“You really want to know?” His voice is quiet, but not uncertain.

“I don’t waste time asking questions I don’t want answers to.” I reply evenly.

Liam watches me for a breath longer. Then, slowly, he exhales and uncrosses his arms.

“I wasn’t born here,” he says. “Town up north. Forest line. Cold winds, tighter roads. My parents—merchants. Not rich, but stable. Good people.”

His words are clean and clipped. Practiced, almost. But there’s steel buried underneath.

“One winter, we took a route down south. Routine trade. Same road we’d used a dozen times. Bandits hit us at night.” His jaw tightens. “They didn’t even ask. Just took. My dad tried to fight. My mom screamed.”

He pauses.

I don’t speak. I don’t need to. He’s not telling this for comfort—he’s telling it because he needs someone to understand the silence between the words.

“I hid. Under the wagon. I could see their boots. Hear every step. Every cry. Then nothing.” His fingers curl into fists, knuckles pale.

“By the time the guards came, it was morning. They found me. Didn’t find anyone else.” His voice is flat now, like stone being set in place. “I didn’t cry. Not even then. Just watched as they buried two bags of blood-soaked clothes. Called it closure.”

He gestures vaguely toward the chapel behind us.

“They brought me here. Said the church would take care of me. Like kindness could erase what happened.”

He falls silent for a beat. The wind stirs again. I hear the faint sound of the church bell echo in the distance—just once. It feels too soft for the weight in his words.

“I learned that night,” Liam says, finally looking at me dead-on. “No one’s coming. No miracles. No saviors. You want to survive—” his eyes narrow, voice cold, “—you do it yourself.”

I watch him carefully, reading not just the words, but the weight behind them.

Scarred. But not broken. Not yet. There's something in him—a hunger. Not unlike mine. A boy forced to wake up too soon. A boy who knows the world won't hand him anything.

Perfect.

I nod slightly, letting his words sink in. “That’s why you watch. You’re always looking for threats. For weaknesses.”

Liam doesn’t flinch. He nods, slow and sharp. “You have to,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “If you don’t, you end up like my parents—blind to what’s coming until it’s too late.”

There’s no emotion in his tone. Just fact. Cold. Clean. Like a blade that’s already drawn blood.

“Remember,” he adds, eyes never leaving mine, “people show you who they are if you pay attention. Most don’t even realize it.”

Smart. I like that.

“You’re sharp,” I say, studying him back. “That’s rare.”

He tilts his head, squinting slightly. Always measuring. Always weighing. “And what about you, Orion?” he asks, voice low. “What do you see?”

I step closer, lowering my voice so only he hears. “I see potential. I see a world that’s waiting to be shaped, moulded. But to do that, I need people who understand—people like you.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I see it. The shift. That flicker of interest hiding behind his suspicion.

“What are you saying?” he asks, guarded.

“I’m building something,” I say, slow and deliberate. “Something bigger than this village. Bigger than these walls. And I need people who get it—who see the cracks, the patterns, the leverage.”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “What makes you think I’d join you?”

“I’m saying we could help each other,” I reply, eyes locked on his. “Stick with me, and I’ll show you how to stop just surviving and start ruling.”

That gets him. Just for a second, his stare wavers. Not from doubt—but temptation. The idea takes root behind his eyes.

“You’ve already figured out the game,” I say. “Now you just need a better seat at the table.”

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t walk away either.

“Think about it,” I say, stepping back, letting the weight of the moment settle. “You’ve seen enough of this world to know it doesn’t reward the weak. But together... we can make it ours.”

Liam stares at me a long while. Then, slowly, he nods. “I’ll think about it.”

I offer a satisfied nod of my own, turning toward the path back to the church. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Liam.”

I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I know he’s still watching me. Still thinking. The hook is in. All that’s left is time.

The church doors creak open behind me, and Sister steps out, her white robes fluttering gently in the breeze. Her soft eyes scan the garden like she’s counting stars.

“Children!” she calls, her voice warm like sun-drenched cloth. “Father has returned, and he’s brought treats. Come inside!”

The garden shifts instantly.

“Treats?!” Oliver yells, launching himself toward the doors like a missile. Mina squeals, chasing after him, arms flailing with excitement. Ethan nudges Lila gently, signs something quick, and she smiles faintly, clutching her slate as they follow behind.

And I watch.

Even Callen seems interested, though he masks it well—hands shoved into his pockets, posture lazy, like the sweets don’t matter. But his steps angle toward the church anyway. Silent curiosity. I catch it.

Liam, as expected, hangs back. Controlled. Watching everyone, including me.

I trail them at a steady pace, not rushing. The church doors creak softly as we pass through. Inside, the air shifts—cooler, still, tinged with incense and the faint scent of old parchment. Light spills through the stained-glass windows, casting shifting mosaics across the stone floor. Colors ripple beneath my feet as I move forward. Red. Blue. Gold. A reminder of something sacred. Or just decoration.

The children gather near the altar like bees around honey. Father Eldric stands before them, dressed in simple robes, the edges faded but clean. A tray sits on the altar—sweet rolls, bits of dried fruit, sugared crumbs. Enough to matter.

He’s smiling. Warm. Familiar. But when his eyes find me, there’s a flicker. A pause. His smile falters—just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But I see it.

I weave through the crowd of eager hands and hungry voices, each child reaching for their treat like it’s gold. I don’t push or raise my voice. I wait until his attention shifts to me. When it does, I step forward.

“Father,” I begin, tone level. Measured. “Thank you. For saving me.”

His brow lifts. He studies me for a moment—like he’s unsure of what’s changed. Maybe he sees it. Maybe not. “Ah,” he says finally, “you’re Anara’s son, aren’t you? Orion, yes?”

“Yes,” I answer simply, reaching into my cloak. The envelope is thin, pressed flat between my fingers. “My mother asked me to give you this.”

He accepts it with a nod, brushing his thumb over the seal. He doesn’t open it. Just slides it into his robe, like he’s already decided it can wait. “Thank you, Orion. Your mother is a remarkable woman.”

I incline my head. “She is,” I agree. Not flattery. Just fact.

I take a half-step back. My part is done. “I’ll take my leave now, Father.”

He doesn’t stop me, but his eyes linger. Long enough to feel it. As if he's trying to read something buried just beneath the surface—something he can’t quite name.

His voice is gentle, but there's something behind it. Something cautious.

“Go safely, child.”

The walk home is quiet. Purposeful. The sky bleeds orange at the edges, and the breeze carries the earthy scent of smoke and distant bread. My fingers brush against the candies in my pocket with each step—the reward, the bait, the investment.

When I push open the door, I don’t even get one foot inside before the ambush begins.

“You’re late!”

Elara stands planted in the center of the room like a little general, hands on hips, brows drawn together. Her patchwork dress hangs slightly crooked on one shoulder, and her hair’s a mess of tangles and stubborn curls. But her eyes—they’re sharp, glowing with that strange mix of worry and ownership that only she can pull off.

I raise an eyebrow. She doesn't wait for permission to scold. Bold. She’s always been bold.

But I don’t snap. No. I smile instead.

I reach into my pocket and retrieve the candies, letting them catch the last rays of sunlight streaming through the door.

“Sorry,” I say, voice calm, controlled. I hold the sweets out like a peace offering. “It took me some time to find these.”

The change is instant. Her frown collapses, replaced by the kind of awe only children and kings can pull off convincingly.

“For me?” she asks, her voice dipping from scolding to soft in a heartbeat.

I nod once. “For you.”

She lunges forward, arms wrapping tight around my waist, quick and sudden like a pounce. “Thank you!” she squeals, then immediately pulls back to snatch a candy from my hand like it might vanish if she waits too long.

She unwraps it like she’s defusing a magical artifact, then pops it into her mouth and sighs dramatically. “It’s so good!” she mumbles, her words melting with the sugar.

I chuckle—quiet, practiced. I slip the second candy back into my pocket. One for her. One for later. There’s always later.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Without warning, she grabs my hand. Her fingers are small, warm. She grips like she means to drag a mountain.

“Come on! Playtime now!”

I glance down at her, amused. She’s already forgotten her fury. A few sweets and she’s sunshine again. Simple needs. Simple moves.

“Playtime?” I echo. “You’re not even going to let me rest first?”

“Nope!” she beams, already pulling me toward the door. “You made me wait, so now you have to play extra!”

I sigh, exaggerated and theatrical, but I follow. Of course I follow. She’s not just a child—she’s leverage. The right kind of string to pull when the time comes.

“Fine,” I mutter, letting her drag me out into the evening light. “But you’re not going to win, you know.”

She shoots me a grin over her shoulder, wicked and bright. “We’ll see about that!”

Her laughter bursts across the yard like fireworks, chasing away the last hints of dusk.

And I follow—smiling, watching, playing.

But always thinking.