“I’m coming in now.” Lyra warned as she pushed back the flap and entered the room.

Inside she found the room in the same state it was in yesterday- disarray. She turned her gaze to the stone slab topped with a few layers of hide cloth. On this bed, lay a young man looking, without a care in the world, at the dark brown ceiling.

Lyra gave an exasperated sigh. “My lord, this is your working quarters, not a sty.” She eyed the sheets parchment lying on the ground and her disappointment grew.

“At least try not to leave several brownings worth of materials lying about.”

She took a further look at the paper on the ground and noted it was covered in sketches of the night sky.

“More skymaps.” Her disappointment almost fermented to anger. The mere purchase of parchment was bad enough, but wasting it on doodle of the night sky was explicitly indulgent. Paper was a rare commodity, as it could only be made from the corpse of a treefolk. Treefolk were hard enough to find separated from the forests, and harder then to kill. The few sheets on the ground would’ve been enough to give everyone in her old settlement hearty meals of warm bread and mash.

Adjusting to the inner circle had been hard. As daunting as the transition to massive stone buildings from squat weedsprout tents had been, Lyra found the indulgent opulence much more difficult to adapt to. The lords of the inner circle around the jutting metal poles left from the ancestors. They used carefully carved bricks inserted on top of the poles and held together by weedsprout sap to build homes. What was the point? A simple tent made using unfurled weedsprouts would do the same at a fraction of the cost. Worse than that, the lords each used wooden doors are entrances to their estates. At least they were sensible enough to use weedsprout curtains to close of individual rooms…

“Lord Fain, is it really prudent to spend your day drawing more skymaps? Your farms are reporting a below average crop yield this season. The house finances are poised to take a large hit. Get up and do something!”

“Ah yes… Let me just step outside and grab one from my hidden stash.” Lyra stated drily, annoyance dripping from each word. Most assistants wouldn’t dare speak to their lords in such a manner, but Lyra knew that Fain was far too lazy to care. And kind, but Lyra was more focused on the lazy aspect right now. After a few more moments trying to shrug off Lyra’s matronly glare, the High Lord of Molanter rolled out of bed and climbed to his feet.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

He was a young man, approaching his 15th cycle. He walked over to bowl of water and towel that Lyra had laid out earlier and rinsed his face. The rinse, and impeding drudgery, seemed to wash away the boy’s natural joy, leaving apathy and weariness in its place.

“Far too young to have to bear such responsibility.”

Alas, Fain’s father, the High Lord of Agriculture, had passed from wounds received as he left the circles on an expedition. Most common folk, or lords, didn’t know that know that this expedition was to retrieve a crucial ingredient for making Evergrowth packets. Lyra had been Fain’s aid back then, as well. She had been there to hold him when he wept, and in the moons after to guide him to maintain his House’s standing. Other Houses, smelling blood in the caverns, had come hungrily like a pack of Chits. They offered “aid” and “counsel”, but really desired the formula for Evergrowth packets.

Lyra, transitioning into her role as advisor and confidant, had advised him to guard that secret closely, even from her. As soon as the other houses had it, they would depose him and cast him off to the Outer Rings, if they were feeling generous. The other lords did not think much of the aging aid. It wasn’t hard to think little of Lyra. She was a lowly woman from the Outer Ring, nearing forty cycles in age. This age, and a life of hardship, had marked her face, cracking it like a wind-torn stone. Beneath this however, rest a clever mind, held in check by her innate benevolence.

“Well Lyra, I’m up. What now?” Fain inquired, resting his brilliant green eyes on her, filled with a deep trust.

“You could start by looking at the ledgers.”

“I do that every day! They never get better.”

“Try taking action after looking. I hear that’s an important part in the process of managing a Circle.”

“Thank you.” he replied, without much gratitude.

Another silent moment passed. Tempting as it was to break the silence, Lyra did not waver. Sometimes it was best to not let conversations with Fain devolve to trading quips. Her gambit was rewarded.

Fain strode over and rested his hand on the pale, yellow weedsprout flap. He seemed almost apprehensive, scared to begin the process of tackling this problem. Lyra sighed and shook her head. Then, she put her hand on his gently, and helped him pull it open.

“Where to, my lord?”

Fain stepped out and started towards the chisel steps to the lower floor. Shoulders slumped, gait lethargic, he did not make for a regal image.

“I think it’s finally time to see what Sacriel has to say about this.”

“Your uncle?!”

He let out a weary breath. So much burden.

“I prefer to call him treespawn, but yes. My uncle.