Chapter 71 — Orphanage
The view finally shifted back to Ivaline.
She stepped out of the guild hall, the afternoon light washing over the stone street, and walked in silence for a while.
Her thoughts, however, were busy.
“The wolf meat wasn’t that delicious.
Can I add that to the guild quest?”
Chronicle answered without hesitation.
“That should be acceptable.
But it wouldn’t be enough to feed all the children.”
Ivaline nodded slightly.
“Umu.”
Only now did Chronicle realize something he should have noticed much earlier.
The orphanage.
Ivaline had mentioned her past to Mireya, casually, without emphasis. The word orphanage had appeared there—quietly, almost as an afterthought. Ivaline herself had never brought it up before, and Chronicle, focused on survival and routine, had never asked.
It was an omission born of habit rather than neglect.
“We should learn the exact number of children first,” Chronicle said, adjusting his tone,
“Then estimate what kind of hunt would be suitable.”
A brief pause.
“…There are two caretakers,” Ivaline continued after pulling together what information she could,
“Thirty children. One old stone building.”
Then, stopped walking.
“That’s… quite strained,” Chronicle added.
He didn’t exaggerate.
Normally, with two caretakers, the ideal number would be twelve to eighteen children. Twenty-four was already pushing it. Thirty was outright overstrain—physically, emotionally, and materially.
Ivaline looked down, fingers curling slightly.
“With that number,” Chronicle said, carefully,
“Even a full hunt wouldn’t let them eat their fill.
Unless the meat is made into soup and bread is dipped in it to stretch the portions.”
Ivaline considered that.
“Soup…”
“Would two rabbits and wild vegetables be enough?”
“Not really,” Chronicle replied honestly.
“But it would be bearable. Better than nothing.”
A small pause.
“…Okay.”
She wasn’t satisfied.
Chronicle could tell.
But she also knew her limits—and chose silence instead of complaint.
That day, Ivaline altered her routine.
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Instead of training after work, she left town early and went hunting first, skipping her usual practice entirely. Training could be done before bedtime if needed.
Feeding people could not wait.
By dusk, her haul was heavier than usual.
One rabbit.
Two birds.
Two fish.
A wild yam.
A bundle of greens tied with vine.
More than she normally carried alone.
She was adjusting the weight on her shoulder when a familiar voice called out.
“Ivaline?”
Brannic, one of the town guards, stared at the game slung over her back and immediately jogged over.
“That’s… a lot. Why’d you hunt so much today?”
He tilted his head. “Got a party or something?”
She shook her head.
“No.
For the kids at the orphanage.”
“…Ha?”
Brannic froze.
His partner, leaning against the gate, straightened just as abruptly.
“For the—wait, what?”
Brannic blinked, then rubbed the back of his neck.
“So… charity?”
Ivaline shook her head again.
“No. A quest.
Work. Adventurer.”
“…Of course,” Brannic muttered, half-laughing.
“You didn’t do it for free, alright.”
He studied her again, slower this time.
“But adventurer, huh?”
A grin crept onto his face.
“Little miss has come this far already.”
He waved someone over.
“Hey! Bring a small cart!”
As the cart was fetched, Brannic offered to escort her back toward the guild.
What Ivaline didn’t see—
Was Brannic’s partner quietly slipping away.
First to Edric.
Then Edwyn.
Then Tomas.
And finally, Corvix.
By the time night settled over the town, the orphanage received Ivaline’s delivery. By another member from the guild, escort by another guard.
Meat.
Fish.
Greens.
And more, from anonymous source.
Bread.
Processed meat.
A bundle of worn-but-clean clothes.
All noted as an anonymous donation.
Registered under a single name:
Ivaline — Copper Rank Adventurer.
The Orphanage — Caretakers
The knock came late.
Too late for visitors, too early to be trouble.
Sister Alme froze with a ladle in her hand. The soup on the stove was thin tonight—thinner than yesterday. She exchanged a glance with Brother Roud, who quietly set aside his ledger and went to open the door.
A cart waited outside.
Not large. Not official.
But real.
Meat wrapped in cloth. Fish packed in straw. Greens still smelling of earth. Bread—fresh. Proper bread. And a bundle of clothes folded with care rather than charity.
Brother Roud stared for several seconds before finding his voice.
“…This is for us?”
The guard nodded.
“Delivery. Registered under a guild quest.”
Sister Alme stepped forward, scanning the list.
Her eyes stopped.
Ivaline — Copper Rank Adventurer.
She inhaled sharply.
“…A child,” she whispered.
Brother Roud knew what that name meant.
Not personally — but enough.
“Count it,” he said quietly.
They did. Twice.
It was not abundance.
But it was enough to cook properly.
Enough to feed everyone warm food.
Enough to give seconds — to children who had learned not to ask.
Sister Alme pressed her palm against the stone wall once, steadying herself.
“…We’ll send thanks to the guild in the morning,” she said.
“And note the additional goods.”
Brother Roud nodded.
“And pray,” he added softly,
“that whoever this child is… she doesn’t go hungry herself.”
The cart had barely turned the corner when Sister Alme spoke again.
“…Wait.”
The guard paused.
“About the adventurer,” she said, carefully neutral.
“Ivaline. Do you know her?”
The guard scratched his cheek.
“Know of her. Seen her around town plenty.”
Brother Roud stepped closer.
“How old is she?”
The guard hesitated — then answered honestly.
“Hard to say. Small. Thin. Not grown yet.
Nine? Ten, maybe. Younger than she should be to carry that much game.”
Sister Alme’s fingers tightened around her sleeve.
“…And what does she look like?”
The guard thought.
“Silver hair. Odd eyes — one lighter than the other. Quiet kid. Works mornings at Edwyn’s bakery, dyeshop after. Doesn’t talk much unless needed.”
Silence fell.
Sister Alme’s breath caught.
Brother Roud closed his eyes.
They both remembered.
A girl standing at the gate, hands folded, posture straight despite hunger.
Asking politely.
Not crying.
Not begging.
We are full.
We cannot take more.
Try again elsewhere.
Just like they had said to so many others.
The guard, sensing something, shifted.
“…You’ve met her?”
Sister Alme nodded once.
“…She came before,” she said softly.
“And we turned her away.”
No excuse followed.
There was none.
Brother Roud bit his lip — hard enough to draw blood — then straightened.
“…Thank you for telling us,” he said to the guard.
“And thank you… for bringing her work here.”
The guard nodded, uncomfortable but respectful, and left.
That night, Sister Alme placed an extra bowl on the table.
No one sat there.
But it stayed.
