The Weight of Chains

Morning comes slow.

The storm from last night has passed, leaving behind a sky of dull gray and air thick with dampness. The wooden beams of the orphanage creak as the building shifts in the cold, groaning like the tired bones of an old man long past his prime. I sit up, feeling the stiffness in my body, the ache of too many restless nights spent on this unforgiving mattress.

Outside, the other orphans have already begun their routine—filing out of their rooms in silence, dragging their feet toward the dining hall, where breakfast will be a meager portion of bread and thin broth. It's always the same. Every day, the same. Hunger gnawing at our insides like a starving beast, the weight of the headmaster's watchful eyes pressing down on us, the knowledge that we belong to no one, that our lives are dictated by men who see us as little more than bodies to be shaped, disciplined, and discarded when we've outlived our usefulness.

I should follow them. Should fall in line, do what's expected. But something about last night lingers in my chest, a quiet defiance I can't quite shake.

I stay sitting, watching the thin light of morning creep through the cracks in the walls, painting lines across the floor like the bars of a cage.

It's suffocating.

With a slow breath, I rise, pulling on my threadbare tunic. The fabric is stiff from too many washes in cold water, rough against my skin. My boots are worn, the leather cracked and barely holding together. Everything about me is falling apart, and yet I'm still standing. That has to count for something.

I step out of my room, the hallway empty now, the others already gone. The quiet feels unnatural, like a breath being held. I move toward the staircase, the weight of the orphanage pressing down on me from all sides—the scent of damp wood, the distant voices of the kitchen workers, the lingering ghost of every child who has walked these halls before me.

At the bottom of the stairs, the headmaster stands waiting.

His eyes are like a vulture's, dark and hollow, drinking in everything. He doesn't need to speak for me to know that he's already aware I broke routine. He has a way of knowing these things, as if the walls themselves whisper secrets to him.

"You're late," he says, voice like gravel grinding against stone.

I say nothing.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate. "There are rules for a reason, Draeven. Do you think yourself above them?"

The words slither around me, coiling tight. This is how it always is. They push, waiting to see who will break first.

"No, sir," I say, keeping my voice flat.

His lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. "Good. Then remember your place."

I force myself to nod, to look obedient, to let the moment pass. I've learned that fighting back gets you nothing but bruises and longer hours working in the cold. But the fire inside me, the one that started last night, refuses to go out. It smolders beneath my ribs, quiet but unyielding.

He gestures toward the dining hall. "Go."

I don't move at first. I stand there, meeting his gaze, knowing full well that he could break me in half if he wanted to. And yet, for the first time, I don't feel small beneath his shadow.

I turn and walk past him, my silence my only act of defiance.

The Scholar

The day drags, an endless cycle of monotony. The morning meal is cold and flavorless, the chores brutal, the lessons dull. The orphanage doesn't teach for knowledge's sake. It teaches for obedience. We are not educated—we are shaped, molded into something useful. Or discarded if we fail.

By mid-afternoon, my arms ache from hauling firewood, my breath thin in my chest. Outside the orphanage gates, the city moves like a living beast—horse hooves on stone, voices raised in barter, the scent of fresh bread from street vendors mixing with the stench of filth from the gutters.

And then, in the midst of it all, I see her.

She is seated at a wooden bench near the edge of the market, a book in her lap, oblivious to the chaos around her. Unlike the rest of the city—so desperate, so loud—she is still. Poised. A quiet force.

Her cloak is dark blue, rich but unassuming. Loose strands of auburn hair slip from beneath her hood, catching the sunlight in streaks of ember and gold. She doesn't belong here. I can see it in the way she holds herself, the way she turns each page with precision, as if savoring every word.

Something about her draws me in before I can stop myself.

I don't speak at first. I just stand there, watching her, knowing I should leave, knowing that nothing good comes from getting involved with strangers. But then she looks up, and our eyes meet.

Sharp. Intelligent. Unreadable.

"You're staring," she says.

Her voice is steady, uninterested. Not cold, but not warm either. She says it like an observation, like she's studying me the same way I'm studying her.

I blink, caught off guard. "I—"

She closes the book with a soft thud. "Did you want something, or are you just going to stand there?"

I open my mouth, then shut it again. I don't know what I want. I don't know why I stopped.

Her gaze flickers over me, assessing. "You're from the orphanage, aren't you?"

I tense. "How did you know?"

She tilts her head slightly. "You have the look of someone who doesn't belong anywhere."

The words cut deep, not because they're cruel, but because they're true.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

Then she exhales softly, as if deciding something. She shifts on the bench, making just enough space beside her. "Sit, if you want."

I hesitate. There are a thousand reasons to walk away. To keep moving, to keep my head down, to stay unseen like I've always done.

And yet, for some reason, I don't.

I sit.

And just like that, something in my world shifts.

The moment I sit, a strange silence settles between us—not uncomfortable, but weighted, as if we both recognize that something significant has shifted. The market around us moves on, indifferent to the two strangers sharing a bench, but I feel its pull like a tide, dragging me toward something unknown.

She doesn't speak immediately. Instead, she opens her book again, scanning the page with methodical focus, as if I'm nothing more than a passing shadow. It should irritate me. Maybe it does. But more than anything, it intrigues me.

I glance at the book's spine. The cover is thick, bound in cracked leather, the pages yellowed with age. I don't recognize the title.

"What are you reading?" I ask.

She turns a page. "Something beyond you."

The words are sharp but not cruel—just matter-of-fact, as if stating a simple truth. I should walk away. I should let my pride win and leave her to her book. But instead, I lean back slightly and say, "Try me."

For the first time, she looks at me as if I'm worth considering. Her head tilts slightly, studying me like I'm a puzzle she hasn't yet solved. Then, with a soft sigh, she holds the book up so I can see the text.

It's written in an old dialect, one I can barely piece together. The words shift before my eyes, familiar yet foreign, like a language I once knew but forgot.

I frown. "It's… about fate?"

Her lips curve, just slightly. "Close. It's about the illusion of fate. About whether we are bound to a path laid out before us, or if we carve our own way, despite the weight of the world pressing down."

Something about the way she says it, so calm, so certain, makes my chest tighten. I glance at her hands, the way her fingers rest lightly against the edges of the pages.

"You believe that?" I ask.

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she closes the book, setting it on her lap, her gaze turning toward the city beyond us. "I believe most people live as if their lives are written before they're born. They follow the path set for them. They obey. They submit. But the ones who step off that path—the ones who dare to carve their own story—those are the ones who change the world."

I exhale slowly, the words pressing into something raw inside me.

The Scholar turns back to me, her eyes unwavering. "So, Draeven. Are you the kind who follows fate? Or the kind who fights it?"

I don't know how she knows my name. Maybe she heard it somewhere. Maybe it doesn't matter.

All I know is that no one has ever asked me that before.

"I don't know," I admit, my voice quieter than I expected. "I never thought about it."

She hums in response, not in disapproval, but in consideration. Then she stands, adjusting her cloak. "You should."

She makes a move to leave, but I find myself speaking before I can stop myself.

"Wait."

She pauses, one eyebrow raised.

I shift slightly, not sure why I want her to stay. "You never told me your name."

For a moment, I think she won't answer. Then, with the faintest hint of amusement, she says, "Erynn."

The name lingers in the air between us, solid and unshakable.

She nods once, then turns, disappearing into the flow of the market like a ghost slipping into the shadows.

I sit there for a long time after she's gone, staring at the space she left behind.

And for the first time in my life, I wonder if the world is bigger than I thought.

I return to the orphanage at dusk, the sky painted in streaks of amber and violet. My body is exhausted from the day's work, but my mind is restless. Erynn's words stay with me, circling like vultures over a battlefield.

Are you the kind who follows fate? Or the kind who fights it?

I don't have an answer. Not yet.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of boiled potatoes and the low murmur of voices. The other orphans sit at the long wooden tables, eating in near silence. The headmaster watches from his usual place near the front, his expression as severe as ever.

I take my seat, my mind elsewhere. The food is bland, the room dimly lit by flickering candlelight, but none of it registers.

I think of the way Erynn spoke. The way she carried herself. She wasn't like the others in this city—wasn't desperate, wasn't broken. She had knowledge, confidence. She had choice.

And for the first time, I wonder if I could have that too.

I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white.

I don't know what comes next.

But I know one thing.

This life—this orphanage, these rules, this existence of scraping by under the boot of men like the headmaster—it isn't enough.

Not anymore.

Something has shifted inside me.

And there's no going back.

I do not sleep.

The ceiling above me groans with the wind, the wooden beams straining under the weight of the storm outside. Rain lashes against the glass panes, and beyond them, the world is dark—formless, shifting, a void waiting to be filled. But it is not the storm that keeps me awake.

It is the words still burning in my skull.

"You are not meant to be here."

Erynn's voice lingers like the last flicker of a dying flame, whispering through the marrow of my bones. I want to rip it out of me, cast it away like a blade that has drawn too much blood. But it remains. Because deep down, I know it is true.

This orphanage is a graveyard, and I have been rotting in it for seventeen years.

I sit up, the thin blanket falling from my shoulders. The room is quiet, save for the slow, rhythmic breathing of the others—boys and girls who have long since surrendered to the life handed to them. I was one of them once. A nameless thing, drifting between cold beds and empty meals, taught to endure rather than to live.

But I am not them.

Not anymore.

I swing my legs over the cot, my feet hitting the stone floor. A draft slithers in through the cracks beneath the door, cold as the winter air before a coming war. My hands curl into fists. My breath slows.

The thought comes sharp and sudden, like a dagger pressed to my throat:

"No one is coming to save you."

Not the gods. Not fate. Not some unseen hand to pluck me from the filth and tell me I was always meant for something more.

If I want freedom, I will have to take it.

The rage that has lived in me since childhood stirs—no longer quiet, no longer buried beneath obedience and hunger. It is an ember that refuses to die, smoldering beneath the weight of everything I have suffered.

And tonight, I will feed the fire.

I rise, careful not to wake the others, and move toward the door. The wooden planks creak beneath my step, but the storm outside swallows the sound. I press my palm against the rough surface, fingers tracing the splinters along the edge.

Beyond this door, the headmaster sleeps in his chamber. Beyond him, the halls that lead to his office. And inside that office—keys. Names. The records of every orphan who has been swallowed by this place.

If I can reach them, I will no longer be just another forgotten name.

I will be something more.

The candlelight flickers from beneath the doorframe, casting long shadows across the floor. I close my eyes, exhaling slow, steady.

I am done waiting.

I am done being bound by men who do not know my name, who do not care if I live or die.

I press against the door. It gives way beneath my touch.

And I step forward—into the first choice I have ever made for myself.