The ground-floor dining hall of the orphanage.
The last dinner before term began was a cut above the usual fare.
Every child’s plate overflowed with dishes the caretakers had poured their hearts into: roasted baby potatoes for the main, flanked by British Dish Number One, British Dish Number Two, British Dish Number Three, and a bowl of thick vegetable soup.
Forgive Soren for not calling any of them by name.
Doing so would only ruin what little appetite he had.
To borrow a venomous quip from the internet of his previous life: the British ate as though German planes were still circling overhead.
This explained why Soren had been diagnosed with mild malnutrition on more than one occasion.
Fortunately, today had been physically taxing.
Hunger made even life-sustenance-level meals taste…
less awful.
To further numb the pain of eating, he struck up casual conversation with the children nearby.
In Britain, there was no rule about silence at the table.
Quite the opposite: most Britons considered quiet dining antisocial, the table being an important social venue.
Taking full advantage, Soren used the chatter to squash the baseless rumour that “a creepy, middle-aged man in black who didn’t look like a decent person” had adopted him.
The children learned he was simply heading off to boarding school.
Curious, but not curious enough to pry.
Nothing unpleasant happened until dessert, when Alyssa the caretaker, acting as representative of the staff, served up post-dinner pudding, syrup sponge drowning in a lethal quantity of golden syrup, and offered every child her warmest wishes.
When she reached Soren, the boy about to leave for boarding school, she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and murmured, voice thick with genuine concern, “Eat up, little Soren.
Once you’re at your new school, you won’t get food that tastes like home.
Look at you, poor thing, thin as a noodle and a picky eater besides.
Whatever will you do…”
Soren couldn’t make out the rest.
That alone nearly broke him.
Why would anyone say something so cruel to a child?
Why equate the taste of home with British cooking?
Why?
Why??
Why???
He would never be able to look at the phrase “taste of home” the same way again.
He loathed it.
Managing a forced smile, he ushered Alyssa along.
Once she was gone, Soren felt thoroughly miserable and wanted nothing more than to retreat to his room and study, far from the chaos of the outside world.
Before leaving, though, he did one last thing: his gaze swept across the junior members of the Ouroboros organisation.
Eyes met.
The boys, led by Sean, were buzzing with excitement.
But they remembered the organisation’s Three Prohibitions, reined themselves in, and offered subtle bows of the head to their glorious leader. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Soren gave a satisfied nod and rose from his seat.
To his left, Ayla sped up, polishing off a double portion of pudding in a few quick bites.
Still half-chewing, she scrambled up and fell into step behind him, resuming her role as his ever-present shadow.
Soren had expected this.
Ignoring the odd looks from the other orphans, he turned and walked away.
After more than a month together, the rumour that he and Ayla were an item had spread through the orphanage like wildfire.
Let them talk.
Back in his room, Ayla didn’t clamour to play this time.
She seemed to have overeaten, flopping onto the bed and refusing to budge.
Soren picked up his book again.
Between bouts of serious studying, he would occasionally glance at her happily swinging legs, letting the sight rest his eyes.
At eight o’clock sharp, Director Brent arrived to collect her.
Usually so well-behaved, Ayla threw a rare tantrum, which Director Brent effortlessly steamrolled right in front of Soren.
Wailing, Ayla was carted off.
Soren could only wish her a long and healthy life.
What surprised him was that Director Brent didn’t leave immediately tonight.
Instead, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Soren sensed she had something to say.
He set the book down and rose to his feet, quiet and composed.
Director Brent regarded him in silence for a long moment before speaking softly.
“Soren, tomorrow you leave for school.
There are some things I feel I must discuss with you.”
“Please, go ahead.” The picture of obedience.
Looking at that deceptively innocent face, the headmistress could only sigh.
“Soren…
I may be getting on in years, but I’m not deaf or blind yet.
What you’ve been up to this past month, I haven’t witnessed firsthand, but I can guess well enough.
I don’t understand.
Your teacher explicitly told you to follow the school’s rules and the Ministry’s regulations.
Why won’t you listen?
Aren’t you afraid they’ll discover the violations and expel you?”
Soren didn’t bat an eye.
He had anticipated this conversation. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
He knew full well that sneaking Ayla into his room, taking her and Brigia rat-hunting in the warehouse, and founding the Ouroboros organisation were hardly covert operations.
Anyone who bothered to investigate, even without magic, could figure out what he’d done.
Yet he had gone ahead with near-reckless abandon, and he had his reasons.
Some of those reasons involved secrets he couldn’t share.
He could only offer the less sensitive ones.
“Director Brent, I don’t follow the rules because many of them are unreasonable.
Blind obedience would only slow my growth.
As for whether I’m afraid of being caught…”
Soren paused, a sly grin creeping onto his face.
“I’m really not.
In fact, from the very beginning, my assumption was that everything I did would be observed by the Ministry or anyone else paying attention.”
“…What?” Director Brent looked thoroughly confused.
“Then why would you still…”
“Exactly.
I did it anyway.” Soren picked up where she left off.
“Because that’s part of the plan too.
By repeatedly breaking the rules, I needed to map the blurry lines between ‘legal,’ ‘illegal,’ and ‘actionable,’ and find the grey areas in between.
Only then could I gain extra advantages outside of school and escape the predicament of having nothing.”
Director Brent seemed to half-understand, yet also half-not.
“I can appreciate how desperately you want to change your circumstances.
Most children in the orphanage feel the same way.
But what you’re doing is dangerous.
You’re playing with fire.
You’re so young.
Can’t you focus on your studies first, then make these decisions with a more mature mind after graduation?”
“After graduation…”
Soren drew the words out, speaking in a low, measured tone.
“That would be too late.
I can’t wait that long.
I’m afraid I can’t share the specifics.
What I can promise you is this: as long as I don’t cross the lines that are clearly marked in red, even if someone reports me for breaking the rules, they can’t actually do anything to me.”
“And what exactly is your guarantee…?”
“My universally recognised, absolutely invincible trump card!”