The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Junk Flowers

Read chapter 1 of The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] by Adamus_Auguste on NovelPedia.

Chapter 1: Junk Flowers Two silver crowns for a few hours' work, no questions asked. Kael was sixteen, old enough to know that kind of money only ever came with a cost no one named out loud. He took it anyway. The dead didn't get to be choosy. Sorry, Mom. I'll break my promise today for a peaceful tomorrow. "Ready, Kael?" Sister Harrow's voice drifted from the open door behind him. Aged, like the woman it belonged to. Usually neither warm nor cold. If anything, Kael always found it more thoughtful than necessary for a woman who ran a night shelter for children. "In a minute, Sister Harrow," he answered without turning from the altar that barely reached his knees. He had built it from junk and shaped discarded linen into something that looked like flowers. From the books his mother forced him to read, at least. In truth, he had never seen a real one. At the center lay his treasure: a scavenged scrap of paper no wider than two fingers, its edges curled black where fire had eaten in. For a boy like him, it was a luxury. Ink would have been a king's ransom. A painting, a dream from a better world. Sister Harrow's hand met his shoulder. Even as she spoke, he didn't spare her a glance. "What happened to Nessa was a tragedy, one among many others. No one knows what Morvana weaves for us. At least, we're part of something. You too, child, and that something is calling." He didn't answer. She used to tell the children that people above commissioned painters to immortalise their loved ones. He hadn't understood, back then. Now he did. He wanted that too. Not the sunken one ravaged by the illness that took her two days ago, but the gentle one and its infinite variations of smiles. They were more important than whatever elusive god planned for them… But all he managed was a line scribbled with a soot-coated stick and a graveless memorial. Rest in peace, Mom. He slipped one of the junk flowers into his pocket. At least she'd come with him. Then he turned to the smaller altar beside it—his father's, built years earlier, much less decorated. He didn't remember the man. Too young when the mines took him. He offered his respect anyway, then rose, tight-chested. These memories were his most valuable and only possession. "I'm ready." "Nessa would want you to be strong, not sheltered. I like you, Kael, really, but you know how it is. I can only welcome as many children as there is space on the ground, and sixteen is old enough—past old enough, for some of the others. It's time for you to earn your bread." Sister Harrow sized up his gaunt arms with her deep blue eyes for a silent heartbeat. Something sparkled in their depths, something that always made Kael avoid her gaze. As he turned his head, she lifted his dark hair with a gentle brush. She locked her gaze with his blue eyes, and even though she smiled, he shuddered. "And to put some muscle on you. Not complaining. They needed someone light, which made you perfect for the job. But remember. You can't waste this opportunity. Two silver crowns for a couple of hours and secrecy, and if you do well, they might call you for other jobs. Don't ask me about this one, though; I don't know, and neither will you after you're done. Off you go before they complain about being late. And, Kael, I know you're still grieving, but your parents wouldn't want you to struggle for a spot in this old shelter. Show them your worth, and that, unlike most, you know how to read." She nudged him to the doorsill, and her dark dress swayed. A new one, finery woven across the shoulders. He'd never seen detail like that, not even in the center of the slums. It didn't belong to people like them, not beside his patched grey shirt and his rag-soled shoes. Her share for sending him to the job. It had to be. And what kind of job paid a child's keeper a dress like that? Two silver crowns. A week of the finest meat. A month if he rationed it, with enough left for a real memorial. The numbers didn't add up. Sister Harrow wouldn't sa