The stench hit Galus before he even passed through the workhouse gates.
His hand moved involuntarily to his face, pressing against his nose and mouth as bile rose in his throat. Twenty-three years of adventuring had exposed him to battlefields strewn with the dead, to sewers crawling with creatures that fed on rot, to the aftermath of plagues that turned villages into open graves. He had thought himself hardened against such things.
He had been wrong.
Lysandra, what have we found?
The courtyard beyond the gates assaulted his senses from every direction. Filth caked the cobblestones in layers that spoke of years, perhaps decades, of accumulated neglect. Children in ragged tunics shuffled past with hollow eyes and gaunt faces, their bare feet leaving prints in the grime. The buildings surrounding the yard showed walls stained with substances he refused to identify, windows so coated with dirt they admitted only the faintest suggestion of light.
And the smell. Gods above, the smell, human waste and rotting food and unwashed bodies and something else beneath it all, something that spoke of despair made physical.
Galus forced his hand away from his face and straightened his shoulders. He had not spent two decades tracking genealogies, hiring scryers, paying necromancers to question the long-dead about their bloodlines, he had not followed leads across three provinces, watched family lines wither and die, spent a fortune in gold and an equal fortune in hope, to turn back now because of a foul odor.
They're here. After all this time. They have to be here.
A man approached him, thick-bodied and wearing clothes that, while not clean, were notably better than the rags adorning the children. His eyes swept over Galus with the practiced assessment of someone who dealt in human commerce, cataloguing the fine cut of his coat, the quality of his boots, the subtle indicators of wealth and purpose.
"Help you with something?" The foreman's voice carried a tone of oily familiarity. "Looking for something specific, or just... browsing?"
Galus's stomach turned, and not from the smell.
"I'm looking for some children."
The foreman's expression shifted into something knowing, something that made Galus want to scrub his own skin raw. A smile crept across the man's face, not a pleasant smile, not a human smile, but the smile of a predator recognizing a fellow creature of appetite.
"Well, you've come to the right place." He gestured broadly at the courtyard, at the shuffling children who carefully avoided looking in their direction. "Take a look around. See if anything catches your eye. We've got all types here, young, old, strong, pretty. Whatever you're after, I'm sure we can accommodate."
The implication landed like a physical blow.
Galus had known, intellectually, what happened in places like this. He had heard the stories, seen the reports that crossed Lysandra's desk, understood that the children who disappeared from workhouses did not always find legitimate employment. But hearing it spoken so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if the trade in human beings was no different from haggling over livestock,
A shudder ran through him, visible despite his efforts to control it.
"That's not what I mean." His voice came out harder than intended, edged with disgust he could not entirely conceal. "I'm looking for specific children. Two of them. Twins."
The foreman's eyebrows rose slightly, but the predatory smile remained. "Specific, eh? Well, that's fine too. Makes my job easier, actually. What are their names?"
"Isolwyn and Veylin."
Something flickered across the foreman's face, recognition, quickly masked behind a performance of confusion. He scratched his chin, furrowing his brow in theatrical concentration.
"Isolwyn, Veylin... can't say I know those names." His hand extended, palm up, in a gesture as old as commerce itself. "Memory's not what it used to be, you understand. Might need a little something to help it along."
Galus reached into his coin purse and produced a silver piece. The metal glinted briefly before disappearing into the foreman's meaty fist.
"Ah, yes." The man's face brightened with sudden recollection. "Iso and Vey. The twins. Why didn't you say so? Come with me."
He led Galus through the courtyard and into one of the buildings, navigating corridors that grew progressively darker and more claustrophobic. The smell intensified as they walked, close quarters, inadequate sanitation, too many bodies in too small a space. Galus breathed through his mouth and kept his expression neutral.
Twenty years. I've been searching for twenty years. Before they were born, before their mother died, before,
The memory rose unbidden: Amara's name in the scryer's report, the prostitute who had died giving birth to twins in a Lyskos brothel. The trail of paperwork, such as it was, that led from brothel to orphanage to this festering wound of a workhouse. The knowledge that somewhere in this place, the last living descendants of Lysandra's bloodline were slowly being ground into nothing.
The foreman stopped before a door and produced a key.
"Wait here." He unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing what appeared to be an unused office, desk, chairs, couch, bed. Cleaner than the rest of the building, but not by much. "I'll have them brought to you shortly."
The door closed. Galus stood in the empty room, his hands clasped behind his back, his heart beating faster than it had during any battle he could remember.
What if the scryer was wrong? What if the lineage died with Amara after all? What if,
Minutes passed. Galus paced the small space, his boots leaving tracks in the thin layer of dust that coated the floor. He could hear sounds from elsewhere in the building, distant shouts, the clatter of machinery, the ever-present murmur of too many people crammed into too small a space.
The door opened again.
The foreman entered, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Before you see them, let me show you something." He moved to one wall and pressed something, a hidden latch, and a section of the wall slid aside to reveal glass. "One-way window. Useful for... evaluating merchandise."
Galus stepped forward, his breath catching.
Two children stood in the room beyond, visible through the enchanted glass. Small, thin, dressed in identical ragged tunics that hung from bony shoulders. The girl had choppy, uneven hair that looked like it had been hacked off with a dull blade, while the boy's face showed the purple-yellow evidence of a recent beating. They stood close together, shoulders touching, their postures radiating tension and fear.
"That them?" The foreman's voice was casual, almost bored.
Galus reached into his coat and withdrew the monocle, a simple brass frame fitted with a plain glass lens. From his inner pocket he produced a small silk pouch, and from the pouch, a single strand of russet fur.
Lysandra's fur. Given to him twenty years ago, when she had first tasked him with this search.
He wound the hair around the monocle's frame, positioning it carefully, and raised the device to his eye. The incantation was short, three words in the old tongue, a focusing of will and intent.
Through the enchanted lens, the foreman remained unchanged, a man like any other, unconnected to Lysandra's bloodline.
Through the lens, the twins glowed.
Faint at first, barely visible, but unmistakable: a blue luminescence that clung to their skin, wreathed their ragged forms, marked them as surely as any brand or birthmark. The light of divine heritage, diluted by generations but still present, still burning.
Found them. After all this time. Found them.
"Yes." Galus lowered the monocle, his voice steady despite the emotion threatening to crack it. "That's them."
The foreman nodded, entirely unsurprised. "Right then. Five gold for the boy." A pause, weighted with implication. "Twenty for the girl."
The disparity in price told Galus everything he needed to know about what purposes this man assumed the children would serve. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, hidden by the folds of his coat.
Calm. Stay calm. Getting angry won't help them.
"Any paperwork required?"
The foreman laughed, a short, ugly sound. "Paperwork? No, no. Cash is fine. These two aren't exactly registered anywhere official, if you understand my meaning. Born in a brothel, handed off to an orphanage, ended up here. Nobody's looking for them. Nobody's going to ask questions."
Nobody except Lysandra. Nobody except me.
Galus reached into his coat and withdrew a purse heavy with gold. He counted out twenty-five pieces, the price of two children, the price of two lives, the price of two decades of searching, and placed them in the foreman's waiting palm.
The coins disappeared into the man's pocket with practiced speed.
"Pleasure doing business." The foreman moved to a door Galus hadn't noticed before, one that connected to the room where the twins waited. "They're all yours."
He pushed open the door and stepped aside, gesturing for Galus to enter.
The children's faces turned toward him as he stepped through, identical expressions of fear and wariness, bodies tensed to flee or fight. Up close, they looked even worse than they had through the glass. Malnourished. Exhausted. Covered in layers of grime that obscured their features and gave off a smell that nearly rivaled the courtyard.
And beneath the dirt, beneath the fear, those same eyes, bright and alert and desperately alive.
Lysandra's eyes. Generations removed, but still hers.
"Please." Galus kept his voice gentle, aware of how he must appear to them, a stranger, an adult, someone with power over their lives. "Sit down."
He lowered himself into a chair and gestured toward the couch. The twins didn't move.
"I understand. Truly." He spread his hands, keeping them visible. "But we have much to discuss, and I suspect you've both been on your feet for quite some time."
Something passed between them, a glance, a subtle shift in posture, and slowly, carefully, they moved to the couch. They sat on its very edge, ready to spring up at a moment's notice.
Smart. Cautious. They've learned to survive.
"My name is Galus." He folded his hands on the desk, making himself as non-threatening as possible. "And I've been searching for the two of you for quite some time. Isolwyn. Veylin."
The girl flinched at her full name. The boy's good eye widened.
They've never heard those names before. They don't know who they are.
Galus explained what he could, the trading company, the apprenticeship, the offer of a new life. He watched the emotions play across the girl's face: suspicion, fear, a desperate hope she was trying to suppress. The boy remained harder to read, his bruised features giving little away.
When Galus mentioned a debt owed to their family, the confusion in their eyes was almost painful to witness.
They don't understand. How could they? They don't know anything about where they came from.
The conversation continued, question and answer, negotiation and reassurance. Galus found himself impressed despite the circumstances, the girl's direct challenge about whether they had a choice, the boy's quiet watchfulness, the way they communicated without words and reached a decision together.
"Together," the girl said. Not a question.
"Together," the boy confirmed.
And finally, hesitantly, they agreed.
When Galus asked about belongings, something in their expressions made his chest tighten. The girl's shrug, the boy's flat statement, We don't own anything. Not even these clothes., carried a weight of deprivation that twenty years of searching had not prepared him for.
The carriage ride passed in relative silence. Galus watched the twins devour the food he offered with a desperation that spoke of chronic hunger, their small bodies tense even as they ate. They shared everything, he noticed. Every piece of bread broken in half, every slice of cheese divided down the middle. Even in abundance, they could not bring themselves to take more than their equal share.
What has this world done to them?
The inn appeared as the sun began its descent, warm light spilling from its windows like a promise. Galus had sent word ahead, rooms prepared, hot water ready, the innkeeper's wife and daughter standing by to assist. He had paid well for discretion and kindness, and as the carriage rolled to a stop, he hoped it would be enough.
The common room drew stares, as he had known it would. Two filthy children in rags, bare feet leaving marks on the clean floor, they stood out like shadows in sunlight. Galus kept one hand near the small of the girl's back, not touching, but ready to guide, as he led them toward the stairs.
Almost there. Just a little further.
The suite was ready. The bath steamed in its copper tub. The innkeeper's wife and daughter waited with towels and soap and patient smiles.
When the wife reached for the girl's tunic, everything went wrong.
The child exploded into motion, jerking away with a violence that spoke of deep-rooted terror. Her voice cracked through the air like a whip: Don't touch me. She positioned herself between the women and her brother, her thin body coiled to fight, her eyes blazing with fear and fury.
Galus understood immediately. The workhouse. The foreman's knowing smile, his casual discussion of prices. The girl knew what happened to children who attracted the wrong kind of attention.
She's been protecting herself. The dirt, the short hair, she's been hiding.
He spoke carefully, gently, promising safety he hoped he could deliver. The innkeeper's wife, bless her, caught on quickly, no sudden movements, no assumptions, every action announced before it was taken. Slowly, slowly, the tension drained from the girl's shoulders.
The bathing took hours. Three changes of water before actual skin emerged from beneath the accumulated grime. Galus remained in the far corner of the suite, his back turned to give them privacy, listening to the quiet sounds of scrubbing and splashing.
Lysandra needs to know. As soon as we reach Trenis, she needs to see them.
When the twins finally emerged, clean and dressed in the simple nightclothes he had arranged, Galus barely recognized them. The girl's features had sharpened into something almost elfin, her cropped hair revealing a face of delicate bone structure. The boy's bruises stood out starkly now, but beneath them his face held an echo of the same lines, the same angles.
Family resemblance. After four hundred years, the bloodline still shows.
The innkeeper's wife asked about their old clothes, and the girl's answer surprised him.
"Burn them. They were a part of our past."
Not grief. Not hesitation. A cutting away of what had been, a refusal to carry the weight of the workhouse forward into whatever came next. Galus filed the observation away, adding it to the picture he was building of these children he had searched so long to find.
The table laden with food drew them like moths to flame. Galus watched them approach, saw the moment the girl's hand reached forward,
The boy caught her arm. Murmured something about rich food and stomachs unused to abundance. Wisdom beyond his years, hard-won through experience.
Clever boy. He's right to be cautious.
But hunger won over wisdom, as Galus had known it would. Within minutes, both children were eating with a ferocity that bordered on desperate, hands grabbing, fingers tearing, mouths chewing with single-minded focus. No utensils. No manners. No concept of the social niceties that governed meals in civilized company.
And still, they shared. Every piece of meat divided, every chunk of bread broken, every portion split exactly in half.
They've had no one but each other. For ten years, no one but each other.
Galus waited until they were deep in their eating, absorbed in the novel experience of abundance. Then, carefully, subtly, he let his hand drift toward them beneath the table, not touching, but close enough. The healing magic flowed from his fingertips in a gentle current, seeking out the distressed stomachs that were struggling with food richer than anything they had ever processed.
It was a small working. A soothing of cramped muscles, an easing of digestive protests, a gentle assistance to bodies unprepared for the feast before them. Not enough to heal the deeper damage of years of malnutrition, that would take time and consistent nourishment, but enough to spare them the worst consequences of tonight's indulgence.
They deserve this. One night without suffering for having too much instead of too little.
The meal wound down. The twins sat back in their chairs, expressions dazed with satisfaction, their bellies round beneath their clean cotton shirts. Galus rose and led them to the adjoining room, where two beds waited with clean linens and soft pillows.
"Tomorrow will be another long day of travel." He kept his voice soft. "Rest well. We'll have breakfast before we leave."
He withdrew, pulling the door mostly closed behind him, leaving it cracked just enough that he could hear if they called out. The main room of the suite suddenly seemed too large, too quiet, and he sank into one of the chairs with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion.
Twenty years. I've been searching for twenty years, and they were here. In that place. For five years.
The guilt settled over him like a physical weight. Five years in the workhouse. Five years of abuse and hunger and fear, while he followed false leads and traced dead-end lineages. If he had been faster. If he had looked harder. If he had thought to check the brothels of Lyskos sooner,
Enough. Enough of that. They're safe now. What matters is what comes next.
Through the cracked door, Galus heard movement, soft sounds of bodies settling, the rustle of blankets, murmured words too quiet to make out. Then, unexpectedly, the sound of feet on floor and more movement.
He rose silently and peered through the gap.
The beds lay empty, blankets pulled aside. The twins had migrated to the floor between them, curled together like puppies in a basket, sharing a single pillow and a tangle of blankets. The girl's back pressed against her brother's, their hands intertwined even in sleep.
Of course. Of course they couldn't sleep apart.
Galus watched them for a long moment, their breathing synchronized, their small bodies rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Lysandra's descendants, the end of a search that had consumed two decades of his life, reduced to two children sleeping on the floor because beds were too unfamiliar to be comfortable.
He turned away from the door and moved to the window, staring out at the darkening sky.
We found them, Lysandra. After all this time, we found them. Now the real work begins.
The twins slept on, unaware of the weight of legacy settling around them, dreaming whatever dreams came to children who had finally, for the first time in memory, gone to bed with full stomachs and clean skin.
Tomorrow, they would travel.
Tomorrow, their new lives would truly begin.
But tonight, Galus kept watch, and the twins slept.