Iris's Morning Resolve
I remember the first day I came to the orphanage. I must have been six. I don't recall my parents' faces—only the hunger and cold. That's when Director Karina took my hand. "This is your home now, Iris."
Six years later, I'm twelve, the oldest sister in the orphanage.
"Mm..."
Waking groggily from a dream, the chill of late autumn's predawn air brushed my cheek. A few crimson-dyed leaves had slipped through the window cracks with the wind, scattered on the floor. Come winter, snow would drift in and pile up in little mounds. The orphanage windows were old, full of gaps.
My long, dark hair draped over my face. If there were a mirror, it would show my sharp jawline and the biggest, bluest eyes in the orphanage staring back, just as always. The director said they held the sky, but to me, they just looked tired.
I rose from bed, wrapping a frayed blanket around my shoulders. It was patched everywhere, but still warm. I fiddled with a loose thread, rubbing my sleepy eyes.
The sleeping room was a big one shared with the other kids, but everyone was deep in slumber now. Eight small beds lined the walls, little ones huddled two or three to a spot.
"Iris, up already?"
Director Karina, checking on a few kids in the corner, asked softly. Even in the dim candlelight, her gray hair tucked behind her ear and the worry lines around her eyes stood out clearly.
"Yes, I'll get breakfast ready."
I slipped out quietly. The hallway floor was icy cold, like frozen stone. The stairs creaked, but I knew which to avoid—third, fifth, eighth—from long habit, descending silently.
The orphanage was an old three-story grain warehouse. Wind whistled through the bricks, and rain always pooled in the upstairs corner. The neighborhood smelled of creek water and laundry, a slum to outsiders, but it was our only home.
In the kitchen, early sunlight filtered through a tiny window, making dust motes dance. The place was always shabby, but strangely, my favorite—cozy in its way. Worn wooden table, rickety chairs, old cauldron by the hearth: that was it.
I pulled barley and carrots from the jar to start porridge. Just two carrots, plus the last little onion. Nowhere near enough for thirty kids, but there was no other way.
If we don't feed them something, Rendi's illness will never improve...
Rendi was a ten-year-old boy who'd started losing hair in clumps and getting dizzy spells. The director blamed malnutrition, lack of protein...
As the porridge bubbled, small footsteps pattered in.
"Sis, need help?"
Seven-year-old Serina shuffled in, pajamas askew, her blonde hair lopsided from sleep. The liveliest kid here, she'd come after her parents died of plague. Her bright eyes and cute dimples were her charm.
"Thanks, Serina. Can you set the bowls?"
She beamed, stacking wooden bowls. Her smile lit up the orphanage. Watching her tiny hands carry them always warmed my heart.
"One, two, three." She always counted thrice while lining them up. I couldn't help smiling.
"Sis, off to work again today?"
Her little fingers bore a scar from a broken bowl long ago.
"Yeah, brewery this afternoon. Might earn more than yesterday."
Worry filled her clear eyes, reflecting my exhaustion.
"You look so tired. You okay?"
Her innocent gaze hurt. Sorry for making such a young kid worry.
"I'm fine. Sis is tough." I forced a bright smile, but honestly, I was beat. Dawn breakfasts, cleaning, laundry... afternoons at the brewery or market. Brewery work was brutal: hauling heavy beer kegs, mopping spills, dodging drunks...
"Kids, up! Breakfast!"
Calling down the hall, rooms erupted in bustle—creaking beds, footsteps, yawns.
Sleepy-eyed, they shuffled to the dining room, jostling for bowls.
"I added extra carrot today. Tasty, right?"
I served the youngest first, older ones last—that was the rule. Littles eat first; big, strong ones wait. Mine was always the scraps at the end.
...
Afternoon took me to the market. Apron tied, hair bound tight—easier for brewery shifts, keeps strands from the kegs.
The market buzzed as ever, scents and sounds everywhere: roasting meat, fresh bread, fruit... My stomach growled, but I passed by. Buying anything stole from the kids.
Heading to the brewery, I spotted a crowd at the central bulletin board. Unusual—usually just bounties and missing persons.
"What's going on?"
Curious, I edged closer. Folks whispered, pointing at golden paper.
I squeezed through for a look.
My eyes widened. 3 gold coins? That's six months at the brewery! My heart raced.
I eavesdropped.
"That's three times a noble servant's pay!"
"But it's for Frostia and Ricoris..."
"Worth risking your life?"
"Suicide mission..."
Strange. Suicide? And Frostia? Ricoris? Never heard those names.
"Excuse me, what's Frostia and Ricoris?"
They stared like I'd asked what the sky was.
"What? You don't know Ricoris... or even Frostia?"
A middle-aged man wiped sweat from his brow, face etched with worry.
"Frostia's the ice dragon ruling Sia Kalt Labyrinth. She created the massive ice zone between Heshet Empire and Dians Empire."
"And Ricoris..." An auntie glanced around, whispering like it was a dire secret. "Frostia's minion, born from a flower—a bloodthirsty monster that feeds only on human blood..."
Ridiculous. Dragons? Plant monsters? Like childhood fairy tales. But 3 gold... enough for Rendi's treatment, meat for the kids, new clothes for Serina...
I memorized the notice. Wouldn't tell the director—she'd stop me. I'd say new brewery job and sneak off for the interview.
...
Interview day: my cleanest dress, gray pinafore no holes, red ribbon from the director's birthday gift in my hair. Combed neat, face scrubbed, even dirt from under nails scraped out.
Crystal Elysium was breathtaking. Incomplete yet majestic—not a castle, a colossal artwork. Crystal spires pierced the sky, surrounded by blooming white gardens. Sunlight refracted rainbows everywhere. Like the fairy kingdom from the director's tales, made real.
Eyes dazzled, I paused—goosebumps prickled.
"This the place...?"
Mumbling timidly, I approached the entrance. Massive crystal doors loomed; my reflection distorted, shabby attire making me look poorer.
Empty reception: one white-haired old butler in black suit, wrinkles framing calm eyes.
So few people? Because of the rumors?
"Here for the interview, miss?"
His voice was surprisingly warm.
"Yes, but... the other applicants?"
He just smiled, gesturing to the grand door. "Inside."
It opened. My jaw dropped. The room outshone anything I'd seen: sparkling crystal chandelier, silver walls, translucent icy floor mirroring me vividly. Chandelier light danced shadows on walls.
Two men: dignified middle-aged, elderly grandpa. Both in opulent gold-and-gem robes—unimaginably lavish.
"Such a young child...?"
The middle-aged man sounded shocked, eyes bewildered.
"How old, girl?"
"Tw... twelve, sir."
I bowed politely. Nobles, obviously. First time meeting such. Legs shook; I curtsied awkwardly.
"Heh... This is Adelheit III, King of Jenes Kingdom. I'm his prime minister."
The grandpa's gentle voice hit. Heart stopped. King? Your Majesty!?
I knelt, head to floor. Cold sweat poured; heart pounded.
"Your Majesty! Forgive my rudeness! Spare me, please!"
Not recognizing the king—what had I done? Slum tales: villagers beheaded for less. Guards would drag me off any second...
"What...? No, rise. Nothing like that."
The king's voice held confusion. Peeking up: king and minister exchanged awkward glances. Pity in the king's eyes.
"Ahem... Relax and answer. First, your name?"
"I-Iris, Your Majesty."
Voice still trembled. Relax before a king? Who could?
"Brave, Iris. But do you know what this place is?"
"Crystal Elysium... hiring servants..."
His face sobered. He stroked his beard, sighing deeply.
"This castle is a lair for dragons. For Frostia, ruler of Sia Kalt Labyrinth, and her subordinate Ricoris."
Chill ran down my spine. Market tales were true? They exist?
The king gazed out the window, sighing. "The world's changing... Human kingdoms can't handle all threats alone anymore. Uncontrollable powers rise..."
He glanced sideways, continuing. "Riceris first: fiery-tempered, mighty monster. Could shatter the royal castle in a breath."
His hand trembled faintly. Even he feared her.
He muttered, "You remind me of when I first saw Ricoris..."
"Your Majesty?"
Confused, I asked. He cleared his throat, serious again.
"Anyway, never anger her."
"Frostia is the ice dragon. She once razed Rosteria Kingdom alone, now froze the borderlands between Heshet and Dians Empires eternally."
It was all real. No exaggeration in the rumors. Fairy tales turned fact.
"Working here means duties." The king explained. "When Frostia arrives, shout: 'We welcome the radiant descent of the great Frostia!' Memorize it."
"Offer crystal water in the ice garden, line the path with white flowers," the minister added.
What...? Odd tasks. Dragon tastes? All to avoid wrath, surely.
I swallowed dryly, hands shaking—but thought of the kids. Serina, Rendi, the others...
"I'll do it. But if... I die, can you compensate the orphanage?"
King and minister exchanged looks. Sadness flickered on the king's face; pity in theirs.
"Where's the orphanage?"
"South district, by the old bakery. Director Karina's there."
He nodded. "Promise."
"One more request." Guts for the last. "If I die, don't tell them. Say I went missing..."
A glint in his eyes—pity, and something else. He nodded to the minister.
"Agreed. And... be careful not to die."