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Chapter 17 - Gates and Guards

Chapter 17 - Gates and Guards

Her body trembled with each step, silent sobs catching in her throat as her breath hitched erratically. She cradled her swollen hand against her chest; the throbbing pain convinced her she’d broken it when she slapped Boris square across his ugly, smug face. She could do nothing for the sharp agony shooting up her arm except give a wry smile. A half-laugh, half-sob escaped her. It was worth it. It had to be. It might be the last defiant action she would ever take, but at least she’d taken it. The smile fell from her face.

Blood seeped from her injured hand, dark crimson droplets staining her last good dress. She winced as she glanced down, noting the vivid red smears against the fabric. At least it wasn’t torn—just ruined. That was something, right? She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to keep walking down the road, trying to avoid bumping into anyone. It was a difficult feat in this crowded city, especially since every step sent a jarring pain through her hand, and no one cared to delay themselves for her. People pushed past as usual.

One hit caused her to stumble to a stop, leaning heavily against a soot-streaked wall just off the main street. The rough stone was cold and damp against her back, grounding her for a moment. She cradled her injured hand tighter, her fingers trembling as she inspected the mess. The swelling had worsened, her skin turning a darker shade. With a bitter sigh, she thought back to the moment of... theft. That’s what it was—not a repayment on a loan. But what else should she expect? Lie, cheat, and steal. That’s all this city was full of. Now, all she had left were three measly Étains to her name.

It had been a stupid idea to use the last of the Argine to finish the loan. She scratched at her temple with her good hand. Her cracked nails digging into her skin. “Not that any idea I have is any good,” she choked out with an unamused laugh. “Can’t do that, Rose. Stop with the silly ideas, Rose. Shut up, Rose.” She could only laugh bitterly at how every opportunity she brought to that useless manager was shot down for no reason. None he would tell her anyways, but maybe he was right. She couldn't even find a better job, or even another job.

“I mean, this is a fantasy world; they obviously would have some stupid magical printer just because,” she muttered sarcastically. Tapping her head to quiet the throbbing ache inside. That would mean everything was just too expensive—that she had nothing new to bring to this world, making her just another useless peasant. Two short giggles escaped her lips. Her hand fell uselessly to her side at the idea. The throbbing ache faded with it. She shook her head slowly.

Not so long ago, she’d felt a flicker of pride for the two extra coins she’d managed to save that week. Now, she was further away than she’d ever been. With a sigh, she clenched her jaw and pushed off the wall, willing her legs to keep moving.

By the time she reached the city gate, she had regained what little composure she could muster. The towering gates loomed ahead, dividing the city to keep the so-called proper citizens within and the less desirable out. No one liked the poor—not even the poor themselves. She let out a sharp chuckle, the thought pulling a faint smile to her lips. “No one likes the poor, not even themselves,” she sang softly, her gaze sweeping over the sturdy iron bars and the armed guards stationed nearby.

She couldn’t help but scoff at the irony—a free library, the Archekaasè, supposedly open to all, yet guarded by gates that kept out the poor and unwanted. Another cruel joke in a world full of them. She laughed, the rhythm of her pain pulsing through her swollen hand.

Her job did entitled her to live beyond the gates, but the cost of even a small room there was triple her current rent. “A penniless old woman surrounded by paper gold, polish them nicely so they can get sold. And a penny she’ll earn to keep her from starving, but stolen away by her sister's orphaned offspring.” She sang, wanting to cry but laughed instead. After all, her tears were long spent.

She passed the long, chaotic line for the main gate. The crowd was a noisy tangle of commoners, laborers, and the occasional low-ranking noble trying to blend in. Almost all carried a pass—a carded iron plate that would grant them entry without issue. Others, however, had to submit to inspection. Rose, however, was technically a city employee, so she could use a different gate—more of a door, really. Her hand drifted to her coin purse, her fingers fumbling for the small iron tag inside.

Near a smaller side entrance, another line had formed. This one was shorter and far less ornate than the nobles’ bypass on the opposite side of the main gate. She shuffled toward it, the faint clang of the city bell echoing in the distance as the morning haze began to lift. She sighed inwardly.

She was officially late.

The iron door was marked with the city guard's insignia—a shield quartered in the city’s colors, blue and yellow, forming a checkerboard pattern—beside the city administration’s emblem: a yellow bell tied with a blue ribbon, outlined against the shape of a building. She joined the line, tucking her injured hand beneath her cloak to hide its state as the two others ahead of her cast her sideways glances. Their expressions, tight with judgment, weren’t new to her, but today she felt the urge to adjust her cloak and stare straight ahead, feigning indifference while biting her tongue against the pain.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

She would have preferred using the main entrance over this gate, but the process would be slower, and there was nothing to gain from it. She’d still be pulled aside randomly for an "inspection," despite her iron tag marking her as a state employee. Iron was expensive, especially now that it was designated as a military resource. It made sense, given the state of things—they needed weapons, and they needed them soon.

The iron door creaked open with a metallic groan, and a guard stepped out, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Next.”

The man at the front of the line stepped inside, the door clanging shut behind him with practiced efficiency and a hint of annoyance. The process repeated, and Rose found herself at the front of the line. A few others had trickled in behind her as the door opened again.

“Next,” the words came, and the familiar voice burned Rose’s ears, causing her stomach to fall. She stepped forward and sighed sharply. She didn’t need to look up to know who was on duty today.

His voice laced with unwelcome familiarity as she stepped inside. “Hello, little flower.” She raised her iron pass without a word, hoping he’d just send her on her way, but she couldn't hope for it. He knew she was late.

Her fears were confirmed when he took the tag from her and told her to “take a seat,” with a smirk.

Rose exhaled sharply as she walked past him. Four tables were lined up neatly along one wall, each meant for processing unrecognized workers. Unrecognized, new, not her but here she was coming to one of the unoccupied tables and sitting down while the other guards were gathered in a corner playing cards.

Rose muttered under her breath, her voice laced with bitterness. “Bet the nobles don’t have to deal with this.”

The familiar guard slid into the seat across from her, leaning back casually, as if this were a friendly chat and not childish harassment. The guard might have been passably good-looking and even kinder than some of his colleagues, but she wasn’t about to trade her dignity for his so-called kindness. Especially not to be a tool in his petty grudge against his wife.

“So?” he began, his tone light but prying. His gaze dropped to her swollen hand. “What happened to your hand, little flower?”

Her grip tightened around her injured hand, shielding it from his eyes. “Fell,” she replied flatly. It didn’t matter what she said; he didn’t care. He was probably in that bastard’s pocket—or maybe not. He was likely too low-level for even that. She gritted her teeth to stop a smile from curling on her lips.

“Awful fall, huh?” he mused, tapping the iron tag against the table absentmindedly. “You know, I happen to know a good priest. Don't take kindly to strangers, but I could put in a word for you. But…” he let the suggestion hang open.

Rose didn’t even flinch, her response automatic. “I’m not working for free,” she said, her voice firm. She’d repeated this line to him so many times it had become second nature. He always came back with the same offer, refusing to take a hint.

The guard leaned in slightly, his smirk widening as he lowered his voice. “Who said anything about working for free? I’d pay you, of course,” he chuckled, “just not with coin.” His fingers reached out, grazing her cheek with deliberate slowness, and her stomach churned.

She froze. The air seemed to thicken around her as she was trapped by a memory—a recent one. This morning. Her hand burning. Her broken finger on fire. Despite this, she managed to respond with a steady voice. “I need a job that pays.”

The guard chuckled softly, the sound low and grating, sending a shiver down her spine. “Oh, Rose,” he murmured, flicking her nose playfully and causing her stomach to stiffen. Her jaw tightening as a grimace crossed her face. “Still clinging to that lovely little story about your child? Sometimes I think you make her up just to turn me down.”

“She’s doing fine at merchant school,” Rose said, her tone sharp and clipped. “Gets top marks.”

Not that it really mattered in the end. This would be Dahlia’s last year at school either way. Rose couldn’t afford anything beyond that. She’d saved enough for two years, foolishly thinking she could find another job or convince her boss to give her a raise. But all she’d learned was that she was unemployable… and desperate.

Her hand twitched involuntarily, the sharp pain from her broken finger making her flinch. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look back up at the guard’s twisted grin. Not that desperate. The thought felt hollow, growing dimmer with each passing day.

Still, Rose clung to one small consolation—Dahlia had made a few friends. That had to count for something. She wasn’t alone and miserable. At least she had that going for her. It had to.

In the end, Dahlia would leave happy, without the need for revenge. Soon. Rose’s head throbbed, the usual ache returning. Any day now.