The soft knock at the door stirred Daenys from her thoughts. She groaned, her bones heavy as if the day's weight had soaked into them.
"Come in," she called, pressing her hands to her temples.
The door creaked open, and a scrawny figure stepped hesitantly inside. Merd. The street girl turned pseudo-messenger and now—what? Another request? Daenys wasn't sure if she had the energy.
"My lady," Merd began, her voice tentative. She wrung her hands together as if trying to squeeze her nerves out through her fingertips. "I, uh… I didn't mean to interrupt."
Daenys motioned to the chair across the desk. "You're here now. Speak."
Merd shuffled forward, her worn boots scuffing the floor. She hesitated before sitting, her back rigid as if she were afraid the chair might collapse beneath her. "I, uh… I came to ask for something. A favor, I guess."
Daenys arched an eyebrow. A favor? From a street urchin no less. "Go on."
Merd hesitated, her fingers twisting the edge of her tunic. "I was thinking, maybe... maybe you'd let me be your scribe."
Daenys blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things she expected—a plea for food, a complaint about camp conditions, a pointless story—this wasn't one of them. "A scribe?" she asked, tilting her head. "You?"
"Yes," Merd blurted, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I know how to read! And I'm quick with numbers. And—" she paused, seeming to deflate a little, "I know this city better than anyone. I could help you. I swear it."
Daenys leaned back in her chair, studying the girl. There was an edge of desperation in her voice, the kind born of years scraping by with nothing but wits and grit. She was clearly trying to climb out of whatever hole she'd been born into. A gang leader, was it? The so-called leader of the Jagged Scars? Yet here she was, humbling herself in front of a Gahkar.
Daenys let the silence linger, watching as Merd squirmed under her gaze. Finally, she said, "Why a scribe? Surely, you'd prefer a blade in your hand and a chance to prove yourself on the battlefield."
Merd shook her head quickly. "Fighting's not my skill. I've survived this long by thinking first, not swinging wildly. The battlefield's for people like Tasha or Reman, not me."
"Survival," Daenys mused aloud. "That's your reason?"
Merd met her gaze then, and for the first time, there was steel behind her words. "Survival is always the reason. But I'm no fool. I've seen how power shifts in a city like Karlon. When things change, the smart ones put themselves in the right place at the right time. That's what I'm doing."
The honesty caught Daenys off guard. She tilted her head, intrigued. "So you're not pledging loyalty to me out of faith or admiration?"
Merd's face flushed. "I mean... I do admire you," she added quickly. "The way you stood up to that knight, the wyvern, all of it. You're... well, you're incredible. But I also know what happens to people like me when the dust settles. We get swept aside. I'm trying to make sure I don't."
Daenys tapped a finger against the desk, considering. She could appreciate the pragmatism, even if it bordered on selfish. Loyalty born of survival wasn't ideal, but it wasn't nothing either. "And your gang?" she asked. "The Jagged Scars. What do they think of their leader bowing to me?"
"They'll follow where I lead," Merd said confidently. "They trust me. If I say you're worth backing, they'll believe it."
Daenys leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "And why should I trust a street gang? What value do you bring to a Gahkar's warband?"
Merd straightened in her chair, her earlier nerves fading as determination took over. "We know Karlon better than anyone. Its streets, its alleys, the tunnels below—places no map shows. We know where the merchants hoard their food and where the guards keep their weapons. If you need supplies, we can find them. If you need information, we can gather it. We've survived in the shadows of this city while others starved. That's our value."
Daenys nodded slowly. It wasn't a bad pitch. Having eyes and ears in the city could be useful, especially as they moved closer to the Pickette. But she wasn't about to hand out trust freely. "And what of discipline?" she asked. "A warband isn't a gang, Merd. My soldiers fight with purpose. They die with honor. Can your Jagged Scars say the same?"
Merd hesitated, her confidence faltering for a moment. "We... we've never fought in a war," she admitted. "But we're survivors. Teach us, and we'll learn. We'll follow your orders, I swear it."
Daenys sighed, leaning back again. "It's a bold gamble, placing your faith in me."
Merd smirked faintly. "Bold gambles are what I do best."
The ghost of a smile tugged at Daenys' lips despite herself. She could see a bit of her younger self in Merd—scrappy, defiant, determined to prove her worth. Perhaps it was worth the risk. "Very well," she said finally. "You'll be my scribe. But you'll earn the position, Merd. There's more to being a scribe than reading and counting coins."
Merd's face lit up, and she nodded eagerly. "I'll do whatever it takes. You won't regret this."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Daenys warned, though her tone was less harsh than before. She reached for a scrap of parchment and a quill, scribbling out the alphabet in the vertical style of Estil writing. "We'll start with the basics. Letters first, then words. Once you can write a coherent sentence, we'll move on to numbers."
Merd groaned, slumping in her chair. "This is going to take forever."
"You asked for this," Daenys reminded her, smirking slightly. "Now stop complaining and pay attention. The first letter is..."
Hours passed as Daenys walked Merd through the basics of Estil script. The girl was clumsy at first, her letters wobbly and uneven, but she improved quickly. Her determination was palpable, and Daenys couldn't help but respect it.
Between strokes of the quill, Merd asked, "What made you decide to lead, anyway? You don't seem like the type who wanted to be a Gahkar."
Daenys paused, caught off guard by the question. It wasn't something she had an easy answer for. "I didn't choose this," she said finally. "It was thrust upon me. But if it means protecting my home, my family... then I'll carry the burden."
Merd nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Home's important," she said quietly. "Most of us from the Jagged Scars don't have one. Maybe that's why we'll follow you. You might actually build something worth staying for."
Daenys felt a pang of guilt at that. She hadn't promised them a home. She hadn't promised anything beyond survival. But the idea lingered, a faint ember in the back of her mind.
"Finish your letters," she said, brushing the thought aside. "We'll talk more later."
As Merd bent over the parchment, her tongue sticking out in concentration, Daenys allowed herself a small smile. The girl was rough around the edges, but there was potential there. Perhaps more than she'd initially thought.
The weight of the Pickette and the war ahead still pressed heavily on her shoulders, but for now, she felt a spark of hope. Small, but undeniable.