The Treasury stood apart from the rest of Halrest’s structures, its presence looming like a silent sentinel at the heart of the town. It was all sharp lines and unforgiving stone. Its façade was a sheer wall of smooth, dark granite, unbroken by any decorative embellishments. No signs, no symbols—only the severe, unadorned expanse of rock.

Two tall, iron-banded doors, blackened with age and heavy as tombstones, marked the entrance. Unlike the rest of the town, which had been allowed to sprawl and settle organically, the Treasury was unnaturally precise—each corner at a perfect right angle. Even the windows were narrow, slit-like openings that let in only the barest slivers of light. It was a building designed not for comfort or beauty, but for protection and scrutiny.

A pair of guards flanked the entrance, their expressions stern and unreadable as statues. They were the only guards in the town, clad in dark, heavy leather armour that made them look like shadows come to life. They carried long spears, the tips gleaming faintly in the dim light, and their presence was a clear deterrent—silent reminders that this was no place for idle curiosity.

Marin—no older than nine, hesitated at the foot of the steps, his small form dwarfed by the vast, unyielding bulk of the Treasury. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, glancing up at the guards nervously. One of them turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over Marin, lingering for just a moment before flicking back to the doors. Marin shivered, his heart pounding in his chest, but he forced himself to take a deep breath, squaring his shoulders.

“Mother’s inside,” he whispered to himself. “She’s inside. She’ll be happy to see me.”

But even as he said the words, doubt gnawed at him.

He climbed the steps slowly, his feet dragging on the worn stone, and pushed at the doors. They swung open with a heavy groan, the sound reverberating through the still air like the creak of a giant’s bones. Inside, the air was cooler, laced with the scent of ink and parchment and the faint metallic tang of coin—an almost sterile, lifeless smell. A small, circular entryway greeted him, its floor polished to a mirror-like sheen.

There was no warmth here. No comfort.

A lone attendant sat behind a high, imposing wooden desk, her posture straight as a rod. She wore a severe, dark blue dress, the collar buttoned tightly at her throat, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. The room was silent except for the scratch of her quill as she made quick, precise notes in a ledger before her.

“State your business,” she said curtly, her tone clipped and professional. It wasn’t a question—it was an expectation.

Marin swallowed, clutching the small wooden toy in his hands. “I… I’m here to see my mother,” he stammered, his voice small in the stillness.

The attendant’s gaze swept over him, cool and unblinking, taking in the sight of his scuffed shoes, his rumpled shirt, his small, anxious face. She pursed her lips slightly, a faint crease forming between her brows. “You are not permitted here without purpose,” she said, her voice softer, but no less stern. “The Great Treasury is not a place for children.”

Marin felt his cheeks flush with a mix of shame and frustration. “She—she’s my mother,” he insisted, his voice wavering. “She—she’ll want to see me.”

The attendant hesitated, her gaze flicking briefly toward the heavy door that led deeper into the Treasury, to the rooms where the ledgers were kept, where the records of the town’s history and its wealth were stored. For a moment, she seemed to consider sending him away.

But then, with a soft sigh, she stood. “Wait here,” she murmured, and turned on her heel, disappearing through the door.

Marin waited, his heart pounding. The minutes stretched out, each one an eternity. He could hear the faint murmur of voices beyond the door, the low, steady drone of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of metal. He shifted on his feet, glancing around the empty room, feeling small and out of place.

And then the door opened, and the attendant reappeared. “You may go,” she said, her tone begrudging. “But be quick. Lady Orla is very busy.”

Marin nodded quickly, ducking his head in a small, nervous bow. “Thank you,” he whispered, and hurried past her, his heart racing.

The hallways beyond were narrow and dim, the walls lined with shelves stacked high with ledgers and scrolls. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of paper and the distant, steady clink of coins being counted. Every door was closed, each one marked with a small brass plate—“Inventories,” “Trade Records,” “Town Expenditures”—names that meant little to Marin but seemed to pulse with a heavy, unfamiliar importance.

He hurried down the corridor, his small feet padding softly on the cold stone floor. Finally, he reached a door at the end of the hall—the only one unmarked, its surface smooth and unblemished, the wood polished to a dark, gleaming finish. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the latch.

“Mother,” he murmured softly, his voice barely a breath.

And then, with a deep, steadying breath, he pushed the door open.

The room beyond was even darker than the hall. It was larger than the entryway, its walls lined with shelves that stretched up to the ceiling, filled to bursting with thick, leather-bound ledgers and scrolls. A single oil lamp sat on the massive oak desk that dominated the centre of the room, casting a pool of cold, pale light across the papers strewn across its surface.

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And there, hunched over the desk, her quill moving in swift, precise strokes, was Orla.

Marin paused in the doorway; the toy clutched tightly in his hand. He opened his mouth to call out to her, to say something—anything—but the words died on his lips.

There was something about the way she moved, the way her quill dipped and scratched across the page, that made the room feel… heavy. Like a weight pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

For a moment, Marin just stood there, staring at her—the woman who was his mother, and yet… not. Not in this place. Not in this room filled with the cold, unfeeling weight of numbers and ledgers and responsibility.

And then, slowly, tentatively, he took a step forward.

“Mother,” he whispered.

Orla looked up, her gaze sharp and focused, the quill pausing mid-stroke. And in that instant, as her eyes met his, Marin felt the weight of her gaze—the intensity, the sheer force of her will, like the sharp edge of a blade.

“Yes, Marin?” she said, her voice cool and controlled.

“I—” Marin shifted from foot to foot, clutching a small wooden toy in his hands. It was crudely carved, the shape of a fish, its surface smoothed by hours of handling. “I just… wanted to see you.”

Orla blinked, the mask of concentration slipping for just a moment. And in that tiny sliver of time, Marin thought he saw something—a flicker of warmth, of something almost like… surprise.

But then it was gone, replaced by the cool, impassive mask she always wore. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze flicking to the toy, then back to her desk.

She reached for another sheet at the top, a small note read, “Invitees – Next Council.”, her fingers brushing the edges of the medical ledgers she’d set aside earlier. Her eyes flicked to the margins—notes scribbled in a tight, hurried hand. Requests for more herbs, for salves, for bandages. Supplies running low. Costs rising.

Her mouth tightened into a thin line. Resources were stretched thin already. She made a quick mental calculation, the numbers flashing through her mind like clockwork gears.

“Mother?”

She looked up, her gaze sharp.

“Marin,” she said crisply, her tone more businesslike than warm. “You know you’re not supposed to interrupt me when I’m working.”

Orla’s gaze flicked back to the parchment, her fingers tightening around the quill. She could feel his eyes on her, waiting, hoping, but she forced herself to ignore it.

“Is it important?” she asked, her voice brisk. “Because I’m very busy right now, Marin. There’s much to do, and the town depends on my work.”

He hesitated, his small fingers fidgeting with the toy. “I made this,” he said softly, holding it up for her to see. “For you.”

Orla glanced at it—a rough, simple thing, barely more than a lump of wood shaped into a vague resemblance of a fish. The sight of it sent a faint pang through her chest, but she quickly smothered it. There was no time for frivolities, no time for distractions.

“It’s… very nice, Marin,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “But I need you to understand something.”

She set the quill down and folded her hands neatly on the desk, fixing him with a stern, unwavering gaze. “This,” she gestured to the ledgers and scrolls piled high around her, “is what keeps the town running. It’s what ensures that people are fed, that they have what they need to survive. This is what matters.”

Marin’s face fell, the small smile that had been forming on his lips fading into something small and uncertain. He lowered the toy slowly, his shoulders hunching.

“I know, Mother,” he murmured. “But… can’t you take a break? Just for a little bit? I—”

“Absolutely not,” Orla cut in, her tone brooking no argument. “There’s no room for indulgence. No time for idleness. Not when there’s so much at stake.”

His eyes widened, hurt flashing across his face, and Orla felt that pang again—sharp and insistent. She steeled herself against it, forcing her voice to soften just slightly.

“You have to understand, Marin,” she said quietly. “Everything I do, I do for this town. For you. If I fail—if I let even the smallest thing slip through the cracks—everything falls apart. People go hungry. This town will suffer. Do you want that?”

“N-no,” he stammered, his voice small and trembling. “I don’t… I just—”

“Then you need to learn,” Orla continued, her voice hardening. “You need to understand what it means to have responsibility. To put the needs of others above your own. To serve.”

Marin swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor. “But… what about you, Mother?” he whispered. “Don’t you ever want to… to just—”

Orla’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want anything, Marin. What I want doesn’t matter. What matters is what the town needs.”

There was a long, heavy silence.

He took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around the toy. “I just… I thought maybe you’d want this,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “So, you could remember me… while you work.”

Reaching out he offered her the toy.

Orla stared at him. She opened her mouth, the automatic reprimand on her lips—I don’t need to be reminded of you, Marin, I’m your mother—but the words died in her throat.

The boy looked up at her then, his eyes wide and bright and filled with a hope so fragile it made her chest ache.

Orla swallowed hard, her throat tight. She reached out slowly, hesitantly, her fingers brushing against the rough surface of the toy. For a moment, just a moment, she let herself feel it—the warmth of his small hand, the weight of his love.

And then, with a deep, steadying breath, she set the toy down on the desk.

“Thank you, Marin,” she said softly. “But I have work to do.”

The hope shattered. His shoulders slumped, and the light in his eyes dimmed. He nodded quickly, turning away before she could see the tears gathering in his eyes.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I… I understand.”

And in that moment, Marin knew.

He was just another entry in her ledger. Another line, another responsibility, another burden to be accounted for.

And with that, he slipped out of the room, the sound of his footsteps fading into the silence.

Orla sat there for a long moment, staring down at the toy on her desk. It looked so out of place among the ledgers and reports—so small, so insignificant.

And yet, it felt like it weighed more than the entire town.

With a sharp intake of breath, she turned back to her work, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up the quill. The numbers blurred in front of her, the words running together, but she forced herself to focus.

Because she had to. Because if she didn’t…

Everything would fall apart.

But even as she bent over the parchment, even as she forced herself to concentrate, her gaze kept drifting back—again and again—to the small, wooden fish lying beside her, the only piece of warmth in a room filled with cold, hard order.

And for the first time in years, Orla wondered if maybe, just maybe…

She had lost something precious.