Orphan of the Ivory Throne

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Three decades ago, the world as it was known changed forever. The last independent kingdom, the Ivory Kingdom, fell in a brutal campaign that would later be recorded in history as the final chapter of the Unification War. The Empire's forces laid siege to its grand capital, crushing its defenses with ruthless efficiency. Its nobles were executed, its ruling family erased from existence—or so the world believed.

The Ivory Throne, a symbol of defiance and sovereignty, was shattered. The lands were assimilated, its people forced to swear fealty to the Emperor. Those who resisted were purged, their names stricken from records, their legacies reduced to whispers in the dark.

But not all of them were gone.

Nika had been six years old when she was told the truth. That she wasn't just another orphan scraping by in the slums of Amsten. That her blood carried the weight of a kingdom long lost. That she was the last of her line.

She had no crown, no wealth, no army. All she had was a name whispered in secrecy and the burden of a destiny she never asked for.

"You must survive, little one." The old woman who told her the truth had gripped her shoulders tightly, her eyes filled with urgency. "One day, you will restore the Ivory Throne."

Nika had nodded back then, not fully understanding. Now, at the age of ten, she knew better.

There was no throne to restore.

There was no kingdom waiting for her.

She was not a hidden princess destined to reclaim her birthright. She was just a starving orphan, surviving only because of an age-old promise made by a noble just as miserable as she was.

Robin's Promise

Robin Arkwright had been the only constant in her life. He wasn't family, not really, but he had looked after her, kept her safe. She had never questioned why—until the day he came home with a stranger.

Nika had been in their dilapidated cabin when Robin knocked in a familiar rhythm. She opened the door, peeking out cautiously, only to see him standing beside a tall man she had never met before.

He had dark hair and sharp eyes, dressed in fine clothes that didn't belong anywhere near a place like this. Something about him unsettled her immediately.

Robin had introduced him as Nicholas Lorekleim.

She had thought, in that moment, that Robin was selling her off.

Her heart had pounded in her chest as she clenched her fists. She had always feared this day would come. Robin had no money. He had no real way of supporting her. Maybe he had finally grown tired of the burden.

She had wanted to scream, to run, to fight if she had to.

But Robin had knelt before her, his hands on her shoulders, and said, "I will come back."

She had searched his face for a lie and found none. Robin Arkwright was an honorable man. He had never broken a promise to her before.

So, against every instinct screaming at her, she had swallowed her fear and let herself be taken away.

Life with Mr. Lorekleim

Life with Nicholas Lorekleim was strange.

He wasn't cruel, but he wasn't exactly kind either. He was… odd.

He had taken her to a tailor first, ordering durable clothes that would last her years. He had spent an obscene amount of worths to have her cleaned and fed at Shinemere Inn, a place far too luxurious for someone like her.

When they had been nearly turned away at the entrance because of her ragged appearance, he hadn't hesitated to bribe the staff into compliance.

Nika wasn't sure what to make of him.

At first, she had expected him to treat her like a servant, but he never gave her orders. Then she thought he might expect her to act like some noble girl, but he didn't care about that either.

He mostly left her alone, save for the occasional sarcastic remark or cryptic comment. He seemed more interested in observing her than anything else, like she was some puzzle he was trying to solve.

Nika didn't trust him.

But she couldn't deny that, for the first time in a long while, she wasn't cold. She wasn't hungry. She wasn't scared.

That, in itself, was something.

Life with Nicholas Lorekleim was unlike anything Nika had ever known.

For the first time, she had a roof over her head that didn't leak when it rained. She had food every day—real food, not scraps stolen from market stalls or whatever Robin could scrounge up. She had clothes that weren't full of holes, warm enough to keep the biting cold at bay.

But more than anything, she had time.

Time to think. Time to watch. Time to wonder.

Nika was an observant girl. She had learned early in life that survival meant knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. And with Mr. Lorekleim, silence was the safest option.

She noticed things about him.

Like how he disappeared sometimes.

It wasn't often, but every now and then, he would leave without saying a word. When he returned, he was always a little richer. A heavier coin pouch. A new piece of jewelry. A fresh stack of worths tucked into his wallet.

She never asked where it came from.

It wasn't her place.

Still, she wondered.

Mr. Lorekleim didn't work. At least, not in any way she could understand.

He wasn't a merchant. He wasn't a noble. He didn't run a shop or sell anything. He just… existed.

And yet, money never seemed to be a problem for him.

At first, she thought maybe he was a painter. After all, there was a painting in their room—a striking, heroic, and bloody piece that stood out in the otherwise neat and organized space.

She had seen paintings before, of course. The wealthy liked to hoard them, and sometimes, if she was lucky, she could catch a glimpse of one through a shop window or hanging in the halls of an estate she snuck into.

But this one was different.

It wasn't just art. It was a story, frozen in time.

And Nika knew that story.

The woman in the painting wasn't just some warrior. She wasn't just some battle-hardened soldier.

She was Ivory blood.

Nika had only heard whispers about her—a distant ancestor who had abandoned the Ivory Kingdom in its infancy and sided with the Empire instead. She didn't know the full truth, only that it must have been an act of betrayal.

Her fingers traced the air just above the painting, careful not to touch the surface.

She wished she could be that girl.

Fierce. Strong. Unstoppable.

Instead, she was just Nika—a nameless orphan, a child of a dead kingdom, living under the roof of a man she didn't understand.

So she did the only thing she could.

She watched.

She listened.

And when Mr. Lorekleim wasn't looking, she drew.

There was always crumpled paper left over from things he discarded. She smoothed them out as best she could, taking bits of charcoal from the fireplace, and sketched whatever came to mind.

Sometimes it was people. Sometimes it was animals. Sometimes it was the warrior in the painting, her sword raised high, crimson streaking across the battlefield.

Nika didn't know what Mr. Lorekleim wanted from her.

So until she figured it out…

She did as she liked.

Nika had always been careful.

She knew better than to get caught.

But one day, she did.

She had been so engrossed in her drawing, her fingers smudged with charcoal dust, that she didn't hear Mr. Lorekleim return. By the time she noticed his presence, it was too late—he was already standing behind her, looking over her shoulder at the paper on the desk.

Her heart froze.

Would he be angry? Would he punish her for using his discarded papers without permission?

Slowly, she turned, her fingers curling into fists, prepared for the worst.

But Mr. Lorekleim didn't scold her.

He didn't say anything at first—just smiled.

"That's an interesting interpretation," he said finally, tapping a finger against the page.

Nika blinked, stunned by his reaction.

The drawing wasn't an exact copy of the painting in their room. Instead of a battle-worn warrior, she had drawn a regal figure, clad in flowing silks instead of bloodstained armor. Stella Amsten, not as a fighter, but as a queen.

"I-I just…" she hesitated, not knowing what to say.

Mr. Lorekleim hummed in thought. "Wait here."

And just like that, he left the room.

Nika sat there, confused, her heart still pounding in her chest. Had she done something wrong? Was he going to come back with punishment?

But when he returned, he wasn't empty-handed.

He placed a small wooden box in front of her and flipped it open. Inside were paints, brushes, and a palette—art supplies far better than the crude charcoal she had been using.

"If you're going to draw," Mr. Lorekleim said, "then you might as well do it properly."

Nika's breath caught in her throat.

"For… me?" she asked, hesitant.

He shrugged. "You have talent. Would be a shame to let it go to waste."

She stared at the art materials, almost afraid to touch them. Was this really happening? No one had ever given her anything like this before.

"Come on," Mr. Lorekleim said, grabbing a chair and sitting beside her. "Let's see if you can mix colors without making a complete mess."

And just like that, her lessons began.

Nika had never been taught anything before.

Sure, Robin had taught her how to survive, how to run, how to hide—but this was different.

Mr. Lorekleim showed her how to hold a brush, how to blend colors, how to layer paint so it wouldn't crack once it dried. He even told her stories while they worked, weaving history into their lessons.

"Stella Amsten wasn't just some warrior," he said one evening as he guided her hand to mix the right shade of blue. "She founded this city. Amsten City wouldn't exist without her."

Nika frowned. "But wasn't she a mercenary?"

"She was. But she was also of Ivory blood. A secret, of course—one she never cared to reveal. Not that the Empire cared, considering how they gave her land as a reward for her efforts."

Nika's grip on her brush tightened slightly.

Ivory blood. Her blood.

"W-why didn't she fight for the Ivory Kingdom?" she asked, her voice quieter.

Mr. Lorekleim glanced at her.

"Because," he said, "she saw something worth building here instead."

Nika thought about that.

She thought about the stories she had been told when she was younger—the promises that she was meant to revive the Ivory Throne.

And she thought about her reality.

She wasn't a princess. She wasn't a warrior. She wasn't even a proper noble. She was just an orphan, surviving at the grace of an age-old promise.

So she sighed and turned back to her painting.

Days passed, then weeks.

She kept painting.

And eventually, she finished her piece.

It wasn't war. It wasn't bloodshed.

It was a what-if—a vision of Stella Amsten, not as a warrior, but as a queen. A ruler sitting upon the Ivory Throne, untouched by battle, draped in the finery of royalty. The paint blended seamlessly. Every small detail contributed to the picture as a whole.

"A queen, regal and true…"

She stared at it for a long time.

And in her heart, she imagined her own face in place of Stella's.

Nika had always been careful.

She had learned from a young age to pay attention—to listen to the way footsteps echoed, to watch the way people moved, to always be aware of her surroundings.

So when she noticed something strange, she trusted her instincts.

It was a fine afternoon. She and Mr. Lorekleim had just finished eating lunch at a small eatery when she felt it—a presence lingering behind them.

At first, she ignored it.

But as they walked, she caught glimpses—shadows that moved when they did, figures that kept pace just a little too well.

They were being followed.

Her grip on her sleeves tightened, her breath quickening as she looked up at Mr. Lorekleim. He didn't seem to notice anything—or if he did, he didn't seem to care.

Nika hesitated before whispering, "We're being followed."

To her surprise, Mr. Lorekleim only smiled.

"Calm down," he said, patting her head as if she were a skittish cat. "Just keep walking."

She stared at him, baffled by his response.

Keep walking? Was that really it?

But she obeyed, keeping close to his side as they strolled through the streets. The further they went, the more she noticed—the way the homeless watched them with keen eyes, the way thugs seemed to loom at the edges of alleyways, waiting.

Nika swallowed hard.

Word must have spread.

Mr. Lorekleim had money. People knew.

She felt like the smallest shadow could jump out at her at any moment. Her stomach twisted with anxiety. But as they continued down desolate alleyways and finally hailed a carriage, something strange happened.

Nothing.

No one made a move.

No one attacked.

The carriage door shut behind them, and Nika sat stiffly in her seat, her hands still curled into fists. She expected something—anything—but the streets remained eerily still.

She frowned, staring out the window as they left the district.

The next day, something even stranger happened.

The people who had once watched them so closely—the thugs, the beggars, the criminals—now avoided them like the plague.

When they walked through the streets, men who once leered at them now turned their heads away. Women whispered behind hands, casting furtive glances before scurrying off.

It was as if an invisible force surrounded them.

Days passed.

Life went on as normal.

But Nika couldn't shake her curiosity.

One evening, after they had returned to the inn, she bravely asked, "How did you do it?"

Mr. Lorekleim, who had been lounging in a chair, glanced at her. "Do what?"

She frowned. "The thugs. The ones following us. They disappeared. They're scared of you now."

He simply shrugged, feigning innocence.

"I don't understand what you mean."

Nika stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deception.

But as always, Mr. Lorekleim was an enigma.