The cold seeped through the thin straw pallet, a familiar morning greeting in the long dormitory of Provincial Orphanage #7. Ren pulled the threadbare blanket tighter, the rough wool scratching against his chin. Around him, the cavernous room was already stirring with the shuffling, coughing sounds of fifty other boys fighting off the chill and the dregs of sleep. He remained still, listening. The heavy tread of Master Borin's good leg, punctuated by the softer thump of his peg leg, was approaching down the stone corridor.
Ren rolled off the pallet, his bare feet hitting the icy floor. He moved quickly, pulling on worn trousers and a loose tunic, his eyes noticing movement near the doorway. Finn, younger by a couple of years, was already hovering there, eyes wide and nervous, as if hoping to merge with the shadows. Ren offered no acknowledgment.
Master Borin entered, his one good eye sweeping the room. The other was lost to whatever war had also claimed his leg below the knee. He carried a stout wooden cane, more for balance than support, though he wasn't shy about using it for discipline. His voice, rough as gravel, barked out the morning's chores. Latrine duty, floor scrubbing, wood hauling for the kitchens. Ren received scrubbing duty today. He kept his head slightly lowered, avoiding Borin's gaze, and fell into the line shuffling towards the lukewarm water and coarse brushes.
Work was work. Ren focused on the task, scrubbing the worn flagstones with methodical strokes. His arms quickly tired, but he pushed the feeling down. Complaining earned you nothing, maybe less than nothing if Borin was in a mood. He saw Finn struggling with a heavy wood basket near the kitchen entrance, nearly dropping it.
Midday meal was the usual thin gruel and a chunk of dark, dense bread. Ren found a spot on a bench near the wall, away from the main scrum. He ate quickly. Finn squeezed onto the bench beside him, offering a watery, hopeful smile. Ren ignored the smile but nudged a piece of his own bread, fractionally larger than necessary, towards Finn's side of the bench without looking at him. Finn snatched it gratefully.
Later, during the brief period of less structured time before evening chores, Finn shadowed Ren as he sought a quieter corner of the yard. "Did you see the carts this morning?" Finn whispered, glancing around nervously. "New ones. From the west." Ren grunted, his attention caught by a loose stone high up on the courtyard wall. He wondered if it offered a handhold. "They say..." Finn continued, voice dropping lower, "they say sometimes the army takes boys. For drummers, or... or servants." A sudden, sharp prickle of unease went down Ren's spine. He straightened, turning his head slightly, listening past Finn's chatter. Nothing. Just the wind whistling through a crack in the wall, the distant shouts from the street outside the orphanage gates. The feeling faded as quickly as it came, leaving a faint residue of confusion. He shook his head slightly, dismissing it. Probably just hunger, or the cold.
Evening meal was the same as midday, perhaps even thinner. Maybe the water used for the gruel was slightly off today? Stale, almost dusty. He saw Finn looking pale, rubbing his eyes. Others seemed sluggish too.
Later, back on his pallet, a heavy lethargy pressed down on Ren. It wasn't the usual bone-weariness from chores. This was thick, cloying. His limbs felt like lead weights, his thoughts slow and muddy. The usual cacophony of the dormitory seemed distant, muffled. He tried to lift his head, a flicker of something piercing the fog, but the effort was too much.
Dim shapes moved in the periphery of his vision, darker shadows detaching themselves from the gloom near the entrance. Low voices, muffled footsteps that didn't belong to Borin or anyone he knew. He felt rough hands grab his arms, lift him. There was no strength to resist, only a rising tide of fear and overwhelming confusion. The scent of damp sackcloth filled his nostrils, then darkness. The rhythmic thump of Borin's peg leg was the last thing he thought he heard, fading into the thick, enveloping silence.