Irya's eyebrow hitched—a ridge of scar tissue above his eye pulling taut as his forehead crumpled.
"Mister...Fairy?"
"That's right."
Silence stretched—a heartbeat—before Irya burst into excitement, bright and sharp as shattered glass.
"Whoa! I had a Mr. Slime friend when I was younger. Funny coincidence. Maybe the two Misters are acquainted!"
The child's eyes widened. His pupils swallowed light like ardent hope.
"Really?"
Irya nodded. "Really."
"Say kid, I didn't quite catch your name."
"Ars is Ars", the boy said. The words fell flat, unhurried.
He reached into his shirt, fishing out a folded slip of paper tied around his neck with rough jute, offering it to Irya.
Irya leaned closer. He read the messy writing on the torn parchment.
"Ars Morningsung...Morningsung? Hey kid, you bear a God's name—like me!" He tapped the paper against Ars's chest—once, twice—like two knocks on a door. "Mine's Irya. Irya Morningsky."
"Since we both carry the name of God, you know what that means, don't you?" His stare held Ars a moment, hard as a deadbolt. Then came the grin.
"We're practically best friends now!"
Ars's ears perked up. His hands stilled, the crayon's tip hovering above the paper. For the first time, the rough surface went unmarked.
"Friends? Like Mister Fairy?"
"Yep! What, you don't believe me? Go on, ask the sister beside you."
The boy looked to Eve. A film of tears shimmered in his eyes, the naked plea unmistakeable.
Eve nodded.
"It's true."
Ars smacked his lips, his gaze vacant as an unblemished canvas, but his shoulders sagged, something in him easing.
The boy's smile flickered, there and gone, like a match in wind.
"Friends..."
Eve dipped her spoon into soup. The air thickened with the scent of herbs and bone marrow as she blew across the spoon's surface, steam curling like ghostly fingers, before leaning over. One hand steadied the spoon; the other hovered beneath, ready to catch spills.
Ars glanced at Irya, prying permission, given with a slight nod.
No longer hesitant, he closed his mouth around the spoon, the metal clinking against his teeth as warmth flooded his cheeks. The tremor in his thighs stilled, legs swaying harmonically to the beat of glee, yet his fingers stayed cold where they brushed Eve's wrist. The broth's thyme stabbed at Ars's throat, washed down all the same with the next morsel. His empty stomach clenched. A drop escaped down his chin like liquid amber—a flush of life where hollow clouds had once clung.
For a while, the soft gulp and hiss of drinking filled the space. The heat flushing their throats was the only real thing, quieting the knots in their bellies. Eve watched small hands clutch at her hem. More servings, it signalled. Peace settled instead of laughter, and not one sought to complain.
The melted frigidity gave Eve the mind to prod.
"Your dad. You said he needs wings, from your Fairy friend?"
Ars's legs jerked. The swing died mid-air, his heels hanging lifeless.
"Last birthday, my dad bought the ball I always wanted. I thought I could make friends if I had a ball, but no one came to play."
Behind his ribs, words gathered. Fierce and heavy things that would hurt to voice. He couldn't name why. He only knew their weight, and how they pressed against his lungs, turning the air in his mouth to curdled milk.
"Dad is...sad. He told me to listen to Mister Father while he's gone", he said, looking at Gregari making the rounds.
"I thought I could make him smile if he saw me with lots and lots of friends. But I know the truth. My next birthday is in a few days. So he left to plan a big surprise!"
His arms cut the air in sharp arcs, too big for his frame, like a puppet mastering its strings.
"Mister Fairy told me. He's in a land far, far away to find me friends. Mister Fairy said he'll let my dad borrow his wings. That way he can fly back!"
Ars gripped his paper with balled fists, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Its a secret...", the child confessed. Fragile knuckles whitened around paper, its edges biting at his palms. "I never needed the ball. Or friends. I'm happy with just dad."
Irya's ribs cinched. He pulled a smile from somewhere far and ruffled Ars's hair.
"I'm sure he'll find his wings again. Sooner than you'd think."
Tears welled in the child's eyes—not falling, just pooling, each droplet a small lens. When the first escaped, he scrubbed at it with his elbow, the rough fabric leaving red trails across his cheeks.
Ars lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Irya's waist. Irya's body went stiff. His ribs locked, his hands hovering at his sides, unsure what to do with a child's grief. Then his arms remembered. They folded, pulling the boy in.
Before a second tear could fall, a bell clanged, breaking the moment. The hall's soft hums drowned in metallic cries.
The dorm mother beckoned, her voice a rusted hinge cutting through the hall.
Ars stood up, sparing a final glance behind.
"Will you come tomorrow?"
Irya nodded. Ars ran to join the dorm mother, his steps small and quick, the weight in his chest lighter.
"You're good at this", Eve remarked.
"Comes with practice", Irya shrugged. "I raised a brother, you know. Cute rascal. Made me tear my hair out on more than one occasion though." He held back a chuckle, but his "It's not too different from being a father. You know how it is. Parents out of the picture, trying to make ends meet."
He stared at the knot of children racing up the stairs, his fingers tracing the scar on his palm.
"Maybe its the name", he muttered. His thumb worried the scars on his palm. "Morningsky. Morning means benevolence, they say. That's the weight of it." He looked towards the knot of children racing up the stairs. "Someone reaching for that, trying to live up to the strange responsibility of that ideal—he wouldn't leave these kids alone I think."
Eve turned to look at Irya.
"Sounds suffocating."
The bowl rested on her palms, its depths empty, where warmth had once been. "Is that why you are here? Helping the church?"
A breath caught Irya's throat. He let it out, slow, before answering.
"Nothing that grand", Irya chuckled. "My work keeps me on my toes. Here? I can unwind and give back to the community. Breathe, for once."
"And you?" he asked. "What brings you here?"
"Same as you. I try to give back what I can. Make a difference."
The words they'd traded hung between them, turning the air dense. Around them, the hall thinned, each departure amplifying the silence
"Well, that's my cue", Irya said. "If I don't leave now, I'll never make it back before sundown."
He pushed to his feet, the bowl still warm against his palm.
"Today was good. Thanks."
Eve nodded. Irya made his way out, shaking hands with people from across the hall. She watched his shoulders narrow between the last few bodies, then heard the door swing shut.
The quiet that settled had weight, a flat thing that pressed against the floorboards. Eve let out a low groan, the long day's fatigue a weight in her joints.
From above, Gregari's shadow fell across her.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"He's good with people. He'll fit in just fine."
Gregari settled beside Eve, the bulk filling the space where two had been.
"About Ars...", Eve murmured.
"I thought you might ask."
The priest rested on his palms, leaning back to look at the ceiling.
"He came last week, left at the door before we closed. We tried to ask around after that. Lodged reports at the Nightwatch too."
Gregari's thumb and forefinger found the bridge of his nose, a pressure point against the weight of unsaid words. "So far, nothing." The silence stretched before he added, "We think his father might already be gone."
"One of the Facestealer's?" Eve asked.
Gregari shook his head.
"No. Rather, we don't know. Whether he fled, passed, or something else entirely, we can't be sure", he said, as his eyes hardened, something iron moving behind them. "What's important is that the child is safe here."
His breath left him in a low murmur through pursed lips.
"Poor thing...a child so young."
"You're wrong, Father", Eve retorted. "An orphan is never young."
Gregari looked at Eve. His mouth flattened into a line; his eyes stopped smiling.
"Quite right", he mumbled.
They stared ahead. Around them, staff gathered bowls, the soft clink and rush of water filling the quiet.
"Leaving?" Gregari asked.
"No", Eve said, turning to face the dorm. "Not yet, at least. Selma would do the inspections, normally. I know her system. I'll help the kitchen close, then check the locks before I'm off."
Gragari's gaze softened. His eyes pressed shut, as his neck depressed into gratitude.
"It won't be for long. I sent word to the Bishop. The Central Church should come up with a solution by the turn of the week. Until then—"
"Until then, you can count on me."
Eve's lips curled. She walked with brisk steps, leaving Gregari on the steps.
Right arm to his heart, the Priest offered a prayer, soft as a whisper. "Praise The Sun."