Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 119: Chapter 114: Children of Sorrow

Location: Tardide → Oldstrand → Tardide

Time: Days 536-538 | Telia: Days 26-28

Realm: Telia (Mission World)

The wagon left Tardide at dawn, Master Rainer’s magic sense already active, reaching out across the miles between village and city. Jayde sat beside Elder Ryunzo, watching the countryside roll past—farms and forests, the occasional hamlet, and everywhere the signs of feudal poverty ground into the landscape like scars.

”You’re quiet,” the Elder observed.

”Thinking.” Jayde gestured at a field where women and children worked with primitive tools while armed men watched from horseback. ”About what we’re going to find.”

”Suffering,” Master Rainer said from behind them, his voice flat. ”Desperation. Children who’ve forgotten what hope looks like.” He stared at his hands, weathered and scarred from years of magical practice. ”I’ve seen Oldstrand’s slums. I know what waits there.”

Mission objective: Identify magically gifted orphans. Secondary objective: General orphan selection for adoption. Tertiary objective: Gather intelligence on Oldstrand’s social systems. Estimated success probability: High. Estimated emotional impact: Severe.

(How many children? How many with no families, no futures, just... existing until they don’t anymore?)

Reiko lay at Jayde’s feet, unusually subdued. Through their bond, she felt his discomfort—the shadowbeast didn’t understand human cruelty, not really. Predators killed to eat. Humans killed each other for reasons that made no sense to him.

[Why do they abandon children?] he’d asked last night.

Because systems fail. Because war destroys. Because sometimes survival means impossible choices.

[That’s wrong.]

Yes. It is.

They reached Oldstrand by midday, entering through gates that dwarfed Tardide’s entire population. The city sprawled across the valley—hundreds of thousands of people, buildings stacked on buildings, the wealthy districts gleaming in sunlight while smoke rose from the slums like offering to uncaring gods.

”The orphan district is east,” Master Rainer said, his magic sense pulling him like a compass needle. ”I can already feel them. So many sparks, buried under despair.”

The wagon turned, moving through increasingly narrow streets. Wealth gave way to poverty, poverty gave way to destitution, and destitution gave way to something that didn’t have a name because naming it would require acknowledgment.

Children.

Everywhere, children.

Begging at corners. Sleeping in doorways. Picking through garbage. Fighting over scraps that dogs wouldn’t eat. Hollow-eyed and skeletal, dressed in rags that barely qualified as clothing, moving with the careful wariness of prey animals.

Population estimate: 2,000+ orphans in visible range. Malnutrition rate: 90%+. Disease indicators: Prevalent. Life expectancy: Drastically reduced. Economic value to city: Zero. Social support systems: Non-existent.

(Gods. Oh gods. There are so many.)

”Stop the wagon,” Master Rainer said suddenly, his voice sharp.

They halted near a corner where five children huddled around a small fire, burning something that produced more smoke than heat. The oldest looked maybe ten, the youngest no more than four.

Master Rainer approached slowly, hands visible, non-threatening. Jayde followed, heart hammering against her ribs.

The children watched them with dead eyes. Not afraid. Not hopeful. Just... watching.

”Hello,” Master Rainer said gently. ”I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to ask something. May I?”

The oldest—a girl with tangled dark hair and a scar across her cheek—shrugged. ”Ask. We got nothing to steal.”

”I’m looking for children with magic. Even a little spark, buried deep. Can you feel heat in your chest sometimes? Or see things others don’t? Or move things by accident when you’re angry?”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. ”Why? Warlords conscript mages. Kill ’em if they refuse.”

”Not for conscription,” Master Rainer said quickly. ”For teaching. Proper teaching, ethical magic, serving people instead of killing them.”

Silence. Then the second-oldest boy, maybe eight, raised his hand slowly. ”Sometimes... sometimes when I’m really hungry, my hands get warm. Like holding them near fire. But there’s no fire.”

Master Rainer’s expression brightened. ”That’s Inferno essence. Weak, but there. You have potential.”

He reached out with his magic sense, and Jayde felt the ripple of Qi assessment. The boy’s Crucible Core—tiny, undeveloped, barely flickering—showed clear Inferno affinity.

”You,” Master Rainer said with certainty. ”You could be trained.”

The boy blinked. ”What’s that mean?”

”It means if you want, you could come to a village called Tardide. Learn to control that warmth. Become a mage. Have a family, food, safety. A future.”

The children stared at him like he’d just sprouted wings.

”You’re lying,” the girl said flatly. ”Adults lie. They promise things and then...” She shook her head. ”Nobody helps street rats.”

Trust broken by repeated betrayal. Survival mechanism: Assume deception. Logical adaptation to hostile environment. Counterpoint required: Demonstrate genuine intent.

”I’m not lying,” Jayde said, kneeling to their level. ”Look at me. I’m fifteen. I was powerless once, hurt and alone. Someone helped me, and now I help others. That boy’s magic is real. Master Rainer is real. And Tardide is real—a village where people care about children instead of using them.”

The girl studied her face, looking for deception. Whatever she saw made something flicker in those dead eyes. Not hope, not yet. But maybe... possibility.

”If he comes,” she said slowly, ”I come too. We stay together. That’s the rule.”

”All five of you?” Elder Ryunzo asked gently.

”All five. We’re family. Only family we got.”

Pack bonding. Survival unit. Common among orphan populations. Separation would cause trauma. Recommend: Accept all five as unit.

”Then all five come,” Jayde said immediately. ”Together.”

The girl’s lips trembled. Just for a second, just a tiny crack in the armor, and then it was gone. ”Okay. But you try anything, I’ll kill you. I know how.”

”I believe you,” Jayde said, and meant it.

***

By sunset, Master Rainer had identified twelve children with magical potential. Twelve sparks buried under starvation and abuse, twelve possible futures salvaged from certain death.

But oh gods, the stories.

Six-year-old Mira, whose parents were killed by bandits two years ago. She’d been begging since, sleeping in an abandoned building with two dozen other orphans. Her Torrent affinity manifested when she cried—tears that never seemed to end, pooling around her feet, making older orphans call her ”the leaking girl.”

Ten-year-old Tomin, whose father was conscripted four years ago and never returned. His mother died of plague the following winter. He’d been surviving by stealing food from market stalls, always caught, always beaten, but always trying again because starvation hurt worse than fists. His Verdant essence showed in how plants seemed to grow faster near him, reaching toward his presence.

Fourteen-year-old Kira, the oldest of four siblings. Parents killed in a warlord’s raid, village destroyed, survivors scattered. She’d kept her siblings alive for two years through begging, stealing, and things she wouldn’t talk about. Her Inferno affinity was strong—dangerously strong—manifesting in rage that made her hands burn hot enough to blister skin.

”I’ll do anything,” Kira said, her voice steady despite tears streaming down her scarred face. ”Anything, if it means my siblings eat. You want me to kill? Fine. You want me to die? Fine. Just promise they’ll be safe.”

Protective instinct weaponized by desperation. Willingness to sacrifice self for family unit. Common pattern in eldest orphan siblings. Psychological damage: Severe but treatable with proper support.

”Nobody’s dying,” Jayde said firmly. ”And nobody’s killing. You’ll learn magic, proper magic, and use it to help people. Your siblings will have homes, families, and futures. All of you.”

Kira collapsed, sobbing—the first time she’d allowed herself to break in two years.

Eight-year-old twins, Salla and Jorn, whose mother sold them to a brothel owner to pay gambling debts. They escaped before anything happened, but not before learning that parents could betray. Both showed weak Galebreath affinity, sometimes making small breezes when frightened.

Eleven-year-old Rhen, born blind, was abandoned by parents who considered him useless. Survived by developing a magical sense—a rare variant of Radiance that let him ”see” through light that others couldn’t. He navigated the slums better than sighted children, sensing danger before it arrived.

Four-year-old Lysa, found next to her mother’s corpse three months ago. Didn’t speak. Barely moved. But Master Rainer sensed Inferno potential so strong it made his hands shake. ”She’ll be Blazecrowned minimum,” he whispered. ”Maybe higher. If she survives long enough to train.”

Each story worse than the last. Each child a testament to systems that failed, societies that abandoned, futures stolen by poverty and war, and casual cruelty.

Total identified: 12 magically gifted orphans. Age range: 4-14 years. Malnutrition: Universal. Trauma indicators: Severe across all subjects. Training prognosis: Excellent if proper support provided. Alternative outcome without intervention: Death within 1-3 years.

(Every single one of them would die. Without us, they’d just... die. Alone and forgotten, and nobody would even notice.)

Reiko pressed against her leg, offering silent comfort. [We found them. Now we save them.]

Yes. Now we save them.

***

Day two began at the official orphanage—a massive building that smelled of mildew and despair, packed with children like cargo waiting for disposal. Five hundred souls crammed into space meant for two hundred, sleeping in shifts, eating once daily, taught nothing useful, and given no hope.

Counsellor Andillevé had arranged this, clearing bureaucratic obstacles with efficient ruthlessness. ”Take as many as want to go,” he’d said. ”The matrons will be grateful. Every child gone means more resources for those remaining.”

The selection process was heartbreaking.

Children lined up, youngest first, while Jayde and Elder Ryunzo assessed each one. Not based on worth—every child had worth—but on practical limitations. They could take three hundred. Only three hundred.

How do you choose? How do you look at five hundred desperate faces and decide which three hundred get futures?

Prioritization protocol: Youngest children first—highest intervention impact, longest potential lifespan extension. Children with siblings—keep family units intact. Children showing initiative or leadership—highest adaptation probability. Children with useful skills—economic sustainability factor. Harsh calculus required. Emotional considerations secondary to survival mathematics.

(I hate this. I hate choosing. They all deserve to be saved.)

But we can’t save everyone. Not yet. Not with Tardide’s current capacity.

Three-year-old twins who clung to each other, too young to understand but knowing they needed each other. Accepted.

Seven-year-old girl with one leg, crutch carved from scrap wood, eyes bright with intelligence despite malnutrition. Accepted.

Nine-year-old boy who read—actually read, taught himself somehow, a precious skill in a world where literacy was rare. Accepted.

Twelve-year-old girl with infant sister strapped to her back, refusing to put her down even when asked. Accepted.

On and on and on. Three hundred children selected. Three hundred futures salvaged. And two hundred were left behind, because math was cruel and resources finite, and someone had to make impossible choices.

Selection complete. Success rate: 60%. Remaining children: Increased resources per capita, improved survival odds. Not optimal outcome, but acceptable under constraint parameters.

(We’ll come back. Once Tardide can support more, we’ll come back for the rest.)

But when? Months? Years? How many will die waiting?

”There’s one more thing,” Counsellor Andillevé said as they finished. ”The veterans.”

He led them to a different building, smaller, grimmer. Fifty men sat in a common room—ages ranging from forties to seventies, all missing pieces. Arms. Legs. Eyes. Pieces sacrificed to warlords’ ambitions and then discarded when no longer useful.

”Conscripted, served, broke themselves in service, and then... abandoned,” the Counsellor explained quietly. ”No pensions. No support. Nothing. They beg like children, except society considers them failures instead of victims.”

An older man—maybe sixty, scars covering visible skin, one arm ending at the elbow—stood slowly.

”You’re from Tardide?” His voice rasped from disuse.

”Yes,” Elder Ryunzo confirmed.

”Heard you’re taking orphans. Teaching them. Giving them futures instead of graves.”

”That’s the plan.”

The veteran nodded slowly. ”We got skills. Combat, tactics, strategy. Most of us can still teach even if we can’t fight. And we got nowhere else to go. Cities don’t want crippled soldiers cluttering their streets.”

Proposal assessment: Elderly veterans as combat instructors. Benefits: Experienced tactical knowledge, discipline training, and defensive capability enhancement. Costs: Medical care, housing, food. Net calculation: Positive. Significant positive.

”Can you teach children to defend themselves?” Jayde asked. ”Not to be soldiers, but to protect their homes? To understand tactics and awareness, and how to survive?”

”Better than anyone,” the veteran said simply. ”We learned the hard way. Rather pass that knowledge on than die with it rotting in our skulls.”

”Then you’re welcome in Tardide,” Elder Ryunzo said. ”All of you who want to come. We’ll find purpose for you, and you’ll find home with us.”

Fifty scarred faces transformed—hope returning to men who’d forgotten what it looked like.

***

That evening, back at their temporary lodging, Jayde sat alone on the roof watching stars emerge. Reiko lay beside her, their bond pulsing with shared exhaustion.

Three hundred fifty people. Three hundred children plus fifty veterans. All depending on Tardide’s ability to absorb them, support them, and transform them from abandoned debris into valued community members.

Resource strain calculation: Significant. Housing requirement: 50+ new buildings. Food requirement: 300% increase. Educational infrastructure: Massive expansion required. Medical needs: Substantial. Economic sustainability: Questionable short-term, excellent long-term assuming successful integration.

(Can we do this? Can Tardide really absorb three hundred fifty people?)

[Yinxin asked about the children today,] Reiko mentioned casually. [She wanted to know if human wyrmlings are as difficult as dragon wyrmlings.]

Despite everything, Jayde smiled. ”What did you tell her?”

[That human wyrmlings don’t try to eat rocks or set themselves on fire, so probably easier.]

(How are the babies? I missed evening feeding.)

[Tianxin learned to breathe a tiny flame today. Very proud of herself. Shenxin tried to copy her and singed his own nose. Huaxin laughed so hard she hiccupped smoke for an hour.]

Dragon social development continues optimally. Sibling dynamics establishing. Emotional security maintained despite external pressures.

(Good. At least they’re safe and happy.)

[They miss you when you’re gone too long. Tianxin asks when you’re coming back about sixty times per evening.]

The thought warmed something in Jayde’s chest. A silver dragon and three wyrmlings waiting for her in a hidden cave, asking when she’d return. Family, in the strangest possible way.

”Tell them I’ll visit tomorrow night,” Jayde said. ”After we start organizing the caravan.”

[They’ll hold you to that.]

”I know.”

Below, in the orphanage, three hundred children slept—maybe peacefully, maybe not. And in the veterans’ building, fifty broken soldiers allowed themselves to hope for the first time in years.

Tomorrow they’d begin the journey to Tardide. Tomorrow, three hundred fifty lives would change forever.

Mission progress: Significant. Phase one complete. Phase two initiating. Estimated integration timeline: 3-6 months. Success probability: 72%. Acceptable margins.

But numbers didn’t capture it. Statistics couldn’t measure what it meant to look at dying children and offer futures. Mathematics couldn’t calculate the value of hope returning to eyes that had forgotten what it looked like.

(We’re doing this. We’re really doing this.)

Master Rainer appeared on the roof, moving quietly, settling beside her without invitation. For long minutes, they sat in comfortable silence.

”You know,” he said eventually, ”when President Andillevé first told me about this mission, I thought he was mad. Identify a dozen magically gifted orphans? From the slums? Why bother? They’d just die anyway, or get conscripted, or end up like every other wasted potential in this gods-forsaken city.”

”But?” Jayde prompted.

”But then I actually looked at them. Really looked. And I saw... I saw what I could have been, if circumstances had been slightly different. I saw children who deserve better than being ground into dirt by systems they didn’t create.”

His voice thickened with emotion. ”I spent twenty years serving the Guild, helping warlords enslave mages, supporting the very systems that create these orphans. And I told myself it was necessary, that I was just following orders, that I couldn’t change anything anyway.”

He turned to face her, tears reflecting starlight. ”You’re fifteen years old, and you’ve shown me what I should have known all along. Power isn’t for controlling. Knowledge isn’t for hoarding. Magic isn’t for destroying. It’s all... it’s all for this. For helping. For saving. For giving people futures instead of just taking away their presents.”

Redemption arc completion: High probability. Psychological transformation: Genuine. Former antagonist converting to ally through demonstrated ethical alternative. Federation principle: Everyone deserves second chances if willing to change.

”You’re here now,” Jayde said simply. ”You’re helping now. That matters.”

”Does it? Can decades of complicity be washed away by a few weeks of decent behavior?”

”I don’t know.” Honest answer, because anything less would be insulting. ”Maybe not. But you can make sure the future is better than the past. That’s something.”

He nodded slowly, wiping his eyes. ”Those twelve children—the magically gifted ones. I’ll teach them properly. Not Guild methods. Not warlord training. Real magic education, focused on healing and helping, and building. They’ll be the first generation of ethical mages Telia has produced in two hundred years.”

Educational infrastructure establishment: Critical priority. Next generation impact: Exponential. Single generation of ethical mages could transform entire world over 50-year timeline.

”They’ll change the world,” Jayde agreed. ”All three hundred fifty of them. Not through conquest or power, but through showing a better way is possible.”

”Is that what your master taught you? This philosophy?”

(Cover story. Maintain it.)

”He taught me that knowledge is meant to be shared, that power is meant to protect, and that every person deserves a chance to become their best self.”

”He sounds like he was wise beyond measure.”

If only he knew. If only any of them knew where knowledge really came from. Federation training, military education, sixty years of experience compressed into tactical frameworks and ethical guidelines. But cover story must hold. Hermit mage fiction serves a purpose.

”He was,” Jayde said, and let the lie stand because truth would help no one.

They sat together watching stars, two people carrying impossible weight, finding strength in shared purpose.

Tomorrow, three hundred fifty lives would begin their journey to a better future.

And Jayde would make sure every single one of them arrived safely.