Rose left the checkpoint, her steps slow and deliberate, requiring more focus than usual. Her body felt heavy, each movement taking conscious effort. She’d have to sneak a nap at work and hope Felix Silvio—her ever-absent boss—was true to form today. Sleeping after being late would definitely get her fired, but that wasn’t something she could worry about right now. Her eyes were too heavy and her legs felt like they were led. For now, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, her mind clouded by fatigue and pain.
The Archekaasè loomed ahead, an imposing structure of cut stone that seemed to rise out of the ground like a fortress. Paid for by public funds, it lacked the elegance of marble or the charm of brick. It didn’t have any windows—or at least, none that were recognizable as such or could be seen. The building felt more intimidating than inviting, the idea of beauty long abandoned in favor of practicality. Its only attempt at decoration was to avoid lowering the aesthetic of the square where it rested. Not that bushes and trees helped distract from the massive thing.
Circling the building, Rose made her way to the employee entrance tucked along the side. There, she paused, leaning against the cool stone wall as she fished through her bag for the key. The coolness soothed the heat radiating from her body. She closed her eyes and let her forehead rest against the wall, her heavy eyelids drooping.
Her body sagged, and for a brief moment, the pull of sleep threatened to overtake her. With a jolt, she forced her eyes open wide. Quickly, she shook her head vigorously, chasing away the last remnants of sleep.
After a few deep breaths, she resumed her search and finally pulled out the small iron key. Her movements were clumsy as she tried to fit it into the keyhole with her off hand. The metal slipped and scraped at odd angles, stubbornly refusing to align. Frustration bubbled up, and she muttered a low curse under her breath.
Eventually, with a soft click, the lock gave way. Rose let out a weary sigh of relief and slipped inside, carefully closing the door behind her. The dim interior welcomed her into the storage area-turned-break room. It was small but orderly, thanks to her relentless efforts.
Rose rummaged through the boxes until she found one containing fabric scraps. She pulled out a few pieces and chose one that was somewhat clean to wrap around her injured hand. She cursed softly as the pain throbbed, but the wound was still bleeding slightly, and she needed to work with books. Felix wouldn’t just fire her if she bled on one—he’d kill her.
It took some time, but she managed to fashion a decent makeshift bandage.
Next, she changed into her uniform before turning toward a basin of water in the corner. Kneeling, she dunked her bloodied dress into the icy water, the chill sending a sharp jolt through her fingers. She watched as the red swirled in the murky water.
She knew the blood wouldn’t come out completely. It didn’t matter; the water was dirty anyway—she hadn’t yet refilled it. Another task she needed to do. Still, she could spare a little bit of the dress.
“Could’ve been worse,” she muttered to herself, the words barely above a whisper.
A voice cut through her reverie, sharp and impatient. “So you are alive.”
Rose jumped, nearly dropping the dress back into the basin. Her heart raced as she turned to find Felix standing in the doorway of the adjoining red-walled room, his arms tightly folded across his chest. His expression radiated thinly veiled irritation. She scampered to her feet.
“So much time has passed,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “I was half expecting to find your corpse in the street. You know, if I’d bothered to look on my way home.”
Rose inhaled deeply. “Forgive me,” she said, bowing her head slightly. Her voice was steady, though her pulse thrummed in her ears. “There was an issue at the inspection gate.”
Felix rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard about that.”
His words made her blink in surprise. “You… heard about it?”
He nodded, his expression twisting into a sneer. “Yeah, Count Ricaut gives his daughter far too much leeway. He placed that little brat in a posting to keep her out of the way and out of harm’s reach so she could play soldier. But seriously—a female guard? What stupidity.” He waved a hand dismissively, muttering to himself before fixing his gaze back on her. His eyes flicked to her wet dress, frowning.
Rose opened her mouth to say something—anything—but his heavy sigh punctuated the air as he waved her off. “Just try to be on time from now on. Leave early if you have to—I don’t care.”
She blinked, momentarily stunned by his unexpected leniency. Felix never missed an opportunity to berate her or dock her pay for circumstances well beyond her control. It was why she needed a loan in the first place. Yet here he was, dismissing the issue with what almost felt like understanding.
She wanted to tell him that Ricaut’s presence might actually make things easier for her—that it could mean an end to the usual harassment. But she held her tongue. It wasn’t worth burning the free pass she had just been handed.
“Yes, sir,” she said finally, bowing her head again.
“Need a rush order on Grand Rites of Passage by Lamar Toto,” Felix barked, his sharp voice cutting through her thoughts. “A courrain came from Count Ricaut’s estate with a rush request. I’m charging them three times the price, so get it done quick, get it done clean, and get it done today.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
He turned to leave, but Rose called after him, the words spilling out before she could stop herself. “But I still have to finish Segway’s Price of Passage, and the Banović Commerce Guild still needs their book rebound—”
Her boss spun on his heel, his glare piercing. “Ignore it. Your only priority right now is that rush order.”
Rose blinked, stunned. “But… but it’s over 500 pages,” she stammered, her voice faltering. There was also the fact that if she did what he asked, he would undoubtedly scold her later for failing to meet the other deadlines due today. She wanted to plead her case, to explain why this was impossible, but what was the point?
“Get it done,” he snapped before slamming the door shut behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening, pressing against her temples like a vise. Rose shook her head, muttering bitterly to herself. “If I just had time, I could’ve made a printing press...”
The thought was a fleeting fantasy, abruptly cut short by a sudden, sharp pain.
Rose cried out softly, clutching her head as laughter bubbled up again, echoing in the quiet room. The sound startled even her, its edge bitter and sharp. Her injured hand instinctively moved to soothe the throbbing ache at her temple, but the pressure only made the pain worse. She winced, her eyes stinging with fresh tears. Everything felt heavier now—her body, her spirit, and the insurmountable task looming ahead.
“Looks like I can’t take that nap,” she muttered, voicing her disappointment as she forced herself to stand. Soon. She repeated the word in her mind like a mantra. Everything would be better… soon. She just needed to keep up for now. Hold on until then. Her legs felt like lead, but she managed to hang the dress to dry, her movements slow and unsteady.
“And of course, there’s this,” she muttered bitterly, looking down at her poorly bandaged hand. She only had her non-dominant hand working today. Yet somehow, she was expected to copy over 531 pages of text in a single day.
Biting her lip, Rose turned toward the small slit of a window on the far wall. Pale, filtered light trickled through an opening barely enough to allow a breeze. She stared at it for a long moment. Then, with a resolute shake of her head, she turned to face her task.
The Scriptoriaire was a few doors down—a hallway to the first, then the second door to the room itself. It was here that the pleasant scent of paper filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of wet ink. The room’s light came through a special magical lens, producing a light gentle enough not to damage the books. The irony was that this magical light could sometimes feel a bit too bright.
The book her boss had assigned lay waiting on the main work desk, its thick, cracked leather cover seeming to mock her. In the fractured patterns, she could almost imagine a face laughing at her. She shook her head, closing her eyes tightly in an attempt to clear her sight. From the face in the book to the spots in her vision. It didn’t work, but she refused to let her heart hammer this rapidly in fear of a long-dead cow.
She opened her eyes, the face was gone but her heart still hammered away. She clicked her tongue while getting to work. Hoping it would distract her. She stepped closer, her eyes scanning the materials her boss had laid out: stacks of blank paper, an inkpot, a quill. It was a rare gesture for him to set up anything in advance, but even that faint kindness did little to ease her burden. It just meant that this was important.
Rose’s gaze shifted back to her hand. The bleeding had stopped, but the makeshift bandage was already discolored, and the dull, constant throb of pain reminded her that the worst was yet to come. She flexed her fingers experimentally and winced. There was no way she could write with her left hand—it would be illegible at best.
“Fuck,” she hissed, the word slipping out before she could stop it. Her voice sounded small in the stillness, swallowed by the oppressive quiet.
Taking a shaky breath, she prepared herself as she grabbed a rather large quill with her other hand. Then with a nod, she bent her broken finger. A searing fire shot through her hand, stealing her breath for a moment as she adjusted to the pain. She clutched the edge of the table for support, nausea rising in her stomach.
She fumbled for the bandage she’d hastily tied around her hand earlier. Her fingers trembled as she worked, tying the quill to her broken hand with clumsy, jerky movements. The setup was pitiful, and the hopelessness of it all gnawed at her resolve. But it was the only option she had. She couldn’t afford to ask for understanding—her boss wouldn’t grant it. Her only choice was to push through, no matter how much it hurt.
Besides, it was only a little bit longer, soon.
Soon.
Soon.
“Soon!” she cried out as she finished tying the makeshift contraption. Tears streamed down her face, and she let them fall freely. Finally, the bandage was secured. She exhaled, releasing the air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The strain eased just enough to make the pulsing pain somewhat bearable.
“And that was just the start,” she murmured, a bubble of laughter escaping her lips. It was bitter, hollow, as she wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to rub away the fuzziness clouding her vision. “Leave early if you have to,” she mocked, mimicking her boss’s gruff tone. “Like I have such a luxury.” She laughed again, though she knew the joke wasn’t funny. She wasn't even sure if it was a joke.
“Well, it’s not going to write itself,” she muttered, turning her attention to her work. She opened the book before pulling a large, blank sheet of paper, placing it before her. For a brief moment, she allowed herself a fleeting, bitter smile at the absurdity of the situation. Maybe if she blamed Ricaut for her broken hand, her boss would let it slide.
The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. Not likely, she thought grimly. He’d never allow me a reprieve. She shook her head, no I mean what am I thinking? I cant blame others, especially when they could help.
With a resigned sigh, she dipped the quill into the inkwell. The quiet plink of the nib broke the heavy silence. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she hesitated before pressing it to the page and began to write.
Each stroke was agony. The pain radiated from her hand, pulsing with every careful movement, threatening to undo her. Every letter she managed to form felt like a small victory, but the excruciatingly slow pace was a cruel reminder of how far she still had to go. The task was unrelenting, and the endless blank pages loomed before her like a mountain she could never hope to climb.