The thin mattress beneath Elaric Voss gave a final, defeated creak as he forced his eyes open. Morning light, gray and reluctant, leaked through the warped shutters of his rented room on the third floor of the Leaking Tankard, the cheapest inn in Lowmarket. Every joint in his body protested as he sat up: shoulders stiff from sleeping on a board-thin pillow, spine cracked from the sagging bedframe, knees bruised from yesterday's pointless wandering. He was twenty-three, looked thirty, and felt fifty.
He dug two fingers into the frayed pockets of his one pair of trousers. Moth-eaten wool, patches on patches, and not a single copper left. The holes in the fabric gaped like tiny screaming mouths.
"Fantastic," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Lunch today will be air. Maybe seasoned with despair."
The floorboards groaned under his weight as he stood. His boots—once black, now the color of old dishwater—were held together by prayer and scraps of sailcloth. He pulled on a shirt that had started life brown and was now mostly holes held together by grime, then a coat missing half its buttons. Good enough for Lowmarket; anything fancier and someone would try to rob him for it.
Elaric stepped into the narrow hallway that smelled of boiled cabbage, piss, and cheap lamp oil. At the bottom of the stairs sat the receptionist, a bored half-elf girl named Lissel with bottle-red hair and a permanent scowl. She was curled over the ledger, one hand lazily twirling a lock of hair, the other hidden beneath the desk. From the faint rhythmic motion of her elbow and the way her cheeks were flushed, Elaric had a strong suspicion what that hidden hand was doing. A dog-eared copy of Knights & Maidens lay open in front of her, the centerfold a gleaming armored paladin with far too many teeth and far too little clothing.
He fished out his very last copper—dented, green with age—and slid it across the scarred wood.
"Room's paid till noon," he said politely.
Lissel didn't even glance up. She pinched the coin between two fingers sticky with some kind of cheap rose oil, flicked it into a drawer, and kept curling her hair. The motion under the desk never slowed. A faint, wet sound accompanied the transaction.
Elaric cleared his throat. "Right. Have a… productive morning."
She gave a flat little nod, eyes fixed on Sir Broadchest the Dragonslayer.
He pushed through the warped front door and stepped into Lowmarket's perpetual stink of river mud, horse dung, and frying fat. The only copper he'd owned in the world was now keeping Lissel's drawer company. Somewhere above the rooftops, gulls screamed like they, too, were broke and hungry.
Elaric pulled his threadbare coat tighter, squared his aching shoulders, and started walking.
"Job," he said under his breath, tasting the word like spoiled milk. "Any job. I'll shovel dragon shit if it pays in bread."
Lowmarket didn't care about his resolve. It never did. But Elaric Voss had run out of everything except stubbornness, and today, for once, that was going to have to be enough
The sun had already climbed past its zenith by the time Elaric trudged along the cracked cobblestones of Lowmarket's main thoroughfare. The street heaved with life: dwarves arguing over the price of iron ingots, a pair of cat-folk twins juggling glass orbs that flashed with bottled lightning, a one-eyed orc haggling over a crate of glowing mushrooms. Coins clinked, voices rose and fell, and the air smelled of hot oil, cinnamon, horse sweat, and desperation.
Elaric scratched the back of his head so hard he left red trails in his scalp. He looked exactly like what he was: one more broke twenty-something with hollow cheeks and patched clothes. No one spared him a second glance. There were hundreds just like him drifting through the district, maybe thousands. Lowmarket had seen too many hungry orphans to bother counting.
He tried everything.
The blacksmith with the soot-black beard took one look at Elaric's skinny arms and laughed in his face. The alchemist's shop needed someone who could read; Elaric could, barely, but the gnome owner sniffed at his threadbare coat and slammed the door. The taverns wanted bouncers with scars, not boys who still had baby-fat shadows under their eyes. Even the stables turned him away—"We already got three lads mucking stalls, and they work for bread crusts."
By the time the bells rang three o'clock, Elaric's stomach was gnawing on his spine. His legs shook. The world had started to tilt at the edges.
He stumbled into the last open doorway on Baker Street, drawn by the smell of fresh bread the way a drowning man claws for air. The sign above read Maris's Morning Loaves in faded gold lettering. Inside, warmth wrapped around him like a hug he hadn't earned.
Behind the counter stood a woman in her late thirties, round-cheeked and flour-dusted, with laugh lines around kind hazel eyes and copper-red hair twisted into a practical bun. An apron stretched across her generous frame, embroidered with tiny rolling pins and hearts. Maris Calder, the name stitched in curling thread above her breast pocket.
"Please," Elaric croaked, voice cracking like dry leaves. "I'll sweep, carry sacks, wash dishes—anything. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
Maris looked him over, soft eyes taking in the patched boots, the coat tied with twine, the tremor in his hands. She shook her head gently.
"I'm sorry, lad. Truly. But I can't hire you."
Elaric's last scrap of pride snapped. "Is it because I look like gutter trash? I know I'm a mess, but I work hard—harder than anyone. Please, just one chance."
Maris came around the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Her voice was low and kind, the kind of voice mothers use when they tuck children in after nightmares.
"Listen to me, love. It's not because you're poor. Half my regulars were poor once. It's the law in Caladport now—no one can hire without a Guild Registration Seal. No seal means you're either unregistered… or wanted. Shops caught breaking that rule lose their licenses. I've got three little ones at home. I can't risk it."
Elaric felt the blood drain from his face. "Wanted? No—no, I swear I've never— I grew up in Saint Elia's Foundling House, that's all! I turned eighteen, they kicked me out with a new shirt and a pat on the back. I'm nobody's criminal!"
Maris's face softened further. She reached out and squeezed his shoulder, her hand warm and steady.
"I believe you, sweetling. I do." She glanced at the street, then back at him. "The Adventurer's Guild is in the upper district. Take the Blue Stair up past the fish market, follow the signs to Guild Row. They'll register you for a few silvers—background check, literacy test, the works. After that, any shop in the city can hire you legal."
Elaric's stomach cramped so hard he doubled over. "That's… that's half a day's walk. It's already afternoon. I'll collapse before I reach the first gate."
His voice wobbled. Tears—stupid, humiliating tears—pricked at the corners of his eyes.
Maris made a soft, sympathetic noise. Without a word, she turned, piled a clean cloth napkin high with still-warm honey buns, two apple tarts, a thick slice of seeded rye slathered with butter, and a pair of sugared currant cookies the size of his palm. She pressed the bundle into his trembling hands.
"On the house," she said firmly, before he could protest. "And don't you dare try to pay me back until you're on your feet. When you get that pretty seal on your papers, you come straight here. First job's mine to offer, understand?"
Elaric clutched the food like it was holy relic. The smell alone made his knees buckle. "I—I will. I swear on every god listening, Miss Calder, I'll be your best customer for life."
Maris chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "It's just Maris, love. Now go. Eat while you walk. And mind the gulls near the fish market—they'll steal the bun right out of your mouth if you let them."
He managed a shaky laugh that almost sounded like hope. Cramming half a honey bun into his mouth—sweet, yeasty, still warm from the oven—he bowed as deeply as his aching back allowed.
"Thank you, Maris," he mumbled around crumbs, eyes shining. "I won't forget this. Never."
Then he was out the door, boots flapping, napkin-bundle clutched to his chest like a treasure chest. The sugar hit his bloodstream like liquid sunlight. For the first time in weeks, Elaric Voss walked with something lighter than despair in his chest.
He had a direction now. A full belly. And the memory of a kind woman's smile burning brighter than any lantern in Lowmarket.
He would reach the Guild before nightfall if it killed him.
And tomorrow—tomorrow he would come back to Maris's Morning Loaves with a shiny new registration seal and pay her back every kindness, starting with the biggest loaf of cinnamon bread she'd ever baked.