Richard lay on the Temple bed, staring at the high, arched ceiling. The silence of the room was too deep. It pressed in on his ears, making the hum inside his skull feel like a roaring fire. He had a room, a soft mattress, a blanket that smelled of clean linen, and his stomach was full. He should have been asleep. But Elara was alive. Elara was in this Temple. She was three corridors away, perhaps less, from five beings who could unravel him with a thought. She had already spoken. Her voice, small and reedy, accusing Lydia. Margaret had covered it, of course, twisting it into jealousy, a foundling's petulance. The Lords had accepted it. Elias had even offered pity. But Richard had seen Lucian's eyes. Lucian had looked at Elara as if she were a puzzle. And puzzles were dangerous. He ran the numbers again. If Elara lived, if she spoke again, if the truth of her blood ever touched that gem, everything Margaret had built would collapse. And he would be under it. Margaret would not forgive him for bringing a liability into the sacred halls. The Lords, once they knew, would not forgive the deception. He was a small man, easily crushed. A man whose fear tasted like ash in his mouth. He pictured his wife's face, cold and sharp, then Lydia's, tear-streaked and angelic. He thought of the crown, the wealth, the safety that the Rite promised. It was so close. So incredibly, terrifyingly close. But Elara was a loose thread, a snag in the fabric of their carefully woven lie. She was not a quiet child, not anymore. He had seen the fire in her eyes, brief as a spark, when she looked at the necklace around Lydia's throat. She wanted it back. And what a child wanted, a child would often try to take. He had to fix this. Before morning. Before the Rite. Before a single other word could escape her mouth. Before any Lord, especially Lucian, looked too closely. He needed to make sure she could not speak. Not ever again. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. The solution was simple, brutal, and utterly necessary for his survival. He had to be rid of her. Permanently. --- The room was white. Everything was white. The walls, the big square pillow, the thick blanket folded at the foot of the bed. It smelled like fresh water and something else, something clean and sharp that made her nose tingle. She sat on the floor, in a corner, with her back against the cool wall. The bed was too tall. It looked too soft, like it would swallow her whole if she tried to lie on it. Beds were for other people. She had always slept under the stairs, or on the floor by the cold hearth. Her hand throbbed. The bandage was still white, but stiff. It was bigger now, tighter. It felt like something angry was living under the cloth, pushing out. She held it close, tucked against her chest, her fingers numb and hot at the same time. The clean smell in the room felt like a trick. Like something that would disappear when she did. She watched the door. It was made of dark wood, heavy and quiet. No cracks for light to come through. No sounds from outside. Just the silence. It was a different kind of quiet than the Aldric house. There, the quiet meant listening, waiting for a footstep, a shout, a plate being dropped. Here, it felt like she was the only one in the whole big Temple. Or maybe, the only one they had forgotten about. The window was high up, a narrow slit that showed only a sliver of dark sky. No moon. She tried to count the stars, but her eyes kept blurring. Her head felt heavy, like a stone. She wanted to sleep, but sleep felt dangerous. She didn't know where she was, or what would happen next. They had called her a liar. They had let Lydia wear her mother's necklace. They had put her in this clean, white room and left her. Her stomach growled, a soft, pathetic sound. She hadn't eaten since the forest. The memory of the man in the dark coat, Lucian, floated through her mind. He hadn't hit her. He had brought her here. But then he had let them take her away. He had watched. She felt a flicker of something hot in her chest, not quite anger, not quite sadness, but a new, hard feeling. She would get her necklace back. She would. But first, she had to stay alive. --- Elias sat at the polished table, the last of the reports spread before him. The Rite preparations were proceeding on schedule, the Temple wards reinforced. All seemed well. Yet a faint echo of unease lingered, the image of the small, pale child Lucian had brought. Her hand had been quite inflamed. He was a healer. He could not dismiss suffering, even if it belonged to a disruptive foundling. "Send for a Temple Healer," Elias instructed a nearby attendant. "To the servants' wing. There is a child there with an infected wound. See to it quickly." The attendant bowed, disappearing swiftly. Elias turned back to the scrolls, his brow furrowed. The girl was a distraction, yes, but her physical discomfort was a separate matter. Compassion did not undermine order. A few minutes later, the attendant returned, a middle-aged woman in the white robes of a Healer following behind him. The Healer's expression was tight, a touch of annoyance around her eyes. "Lord Elias," she began, her voice respectful but firm. "I went to the appointed room. The guard there, one of Lord Lucian's men, informed me the child was asleep. He said she was not to be disturbed until morning." Elias paused, his quill hovering over a line of scripture. "Asleep? Are you certain?" "That was his instruction, my Lord. He implied the child was overtired and needed rest more than an immediate dressing change." The Healer shifted her weight. "I offered to simply check the dressing, but he insisted. Said his orders were clear." Elias frowned. Lucian's guards were usually meticulous. Perhaps the child truly needed rest. The infection, while noticeable, had not seemed life-threatening. A night's sleep might do her good before the healer's intervention. "Very well," Elias conceded, a thread of concern already unspooling from his mind. "Return in the morning. Ensure she is seen to then." The Healer bowed, a subtle relief in her posture. She departed, leaving Elias to his scrolls, the brief moment of disruption fading into the quiet efficiency of the Temple night. --- Richard moved through the quieter passages of the Temple, his steps muted by the thick runners on the stone floor. He knew this Temple, or at least its outer layers. He knew the type of men who guarded it. Not the fierce, unwavering men of Kael, nor the silent, shadowed figures of Lucian. But the ordinary Temple guards. Men who had families, who had wants. He found him in a service stairwell, leaning against the cold stone wall, polishing a buckle on his uniform. Grenn. Richard had seen him before, at other events in the capital. A man with a lean face and tired eyes, a man with a daughter of his own, a girl with a cough Richard had once overheard him describing. Debts. Richard remembered the whispers. Gambling, mostly. Small, desperate amounts to keep his family fed. "Grenn," Richard said, his voice low, steady. He made sure no one else was within earshot. The stairwell was empty. The guard straightened, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his short sword. "Sir Aldric." His eyes flickered, wary. "A simple matter, Grenn," Richard began, keeping his tone flat, unhurried. He did not need to explain much. Grenn would understand. Men like them understood certain things without words. "There is a child, a foundling, being kept in the east wing, Room Seven. A disruptive sort. Causes trouble." Grenn's gaze was fixed on Richard's face. He didn't speak, but his jaw worked. He knew the foundling. He had been present during the scene with the Lords. He had heard Elara's reedy voice. "She needs to be... removed," Richard continued, choosing his words with care, not lingering on the implications. "Before morning. Without fuss. Without a trace." He watched Grenn's eyes, seeing the calculations begin. The risk, the reward. The daughter with the cough. Grenn finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. "Room Seven. Lord Lucian's men have the watch." "One of Lucian's men is easily distracted for a short while," Richard countered, his tone implying a pre-arranged convenience. This was a lie, but Grenn would not know that. "A few minutes, Grenn. That is all it would take. No one would question it." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, heavy pouch. The clink of gold inside was soft, but clear in the quiet stairwell. "Enough to pay your debts. Enough to see your daughter well for a year, perhaps two." The guard's eyes dropped to the pouch. He swallowed. The quiet desperation in his face was as clear as any confession. "She is just a child, sir." The words were an automatic protest, a last, faint flicker of something decent. "A child who has already caused a great deal of trouble," Richard said, his voice like cold stone. "A child who will cause more if left alone. Think of your own. Their safety. Their future." He held out the pouch, letting the weight of it speak for itself. "One night, Grenn. Just one." --- Grenn's gaze drifted from the pouch in Richard's hand to the dark, shadowed corners of the stairwell, then back to the gold. His chest rose and fell, a shallow, quick rhythm. The heavy scent of old stone filled the air around them. Richard watched him, patient. He knew the answer before Grenn gave it. The man’s need was a visible thing, a hunger in his eyes. "It will be noticed," Grenn murmured, a last attempt at resistance, a final plea against the bargain. His voice was barely a whisper. "It will not," Richard assured him, his voice unwavering. "Not if it is done quickly. Discreetly. The Lords are occupied. The other guards will be changing shifts soon." He pushed the pouch a fraction closer. The leather was soft against Grenn's fingers. Grenn's hand twitched. He looked down at the gold, then up at Richard's unyielding face. The image of his daughter, pale and small, flickered behind his eyes. A year. Two. No more worries. No more sleepless nights wondering how to buy the next meal, the next medicine. The weight of the gold in the pouch, even unsnatched, was already a comfort. His fingers closed around the pouch. It was a quick, almost furtive movement. He didn't even meet Richard's eyes. The gold was cool and heavy in his palm. He squeezed it once, as if testing its reality. The small clinking sound was the only acknowledgment of the transaction. "East wing," Grenn said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion now. "Room Seven." He paused, then added, "It's the bronze key. On the master ring. The one with the chipped head." Richard nodded. The bronze key. Chipped head.

The Price of an Unlocked Door