Chapter 49: 49 Impartite orders

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49: Impartite orders 49: Impartite orders The Ashford Institute courtyard was a rectangle of packed dirt, enclosed on three sides by blackened brick walls and on the fourth by a gate that led to the back of the building.

The sun was still low, the cold morning air still, when Gregory led the group to the far corner, where a group of eight children was already gathered, waiting.

“That’s number 280,” he said to Kairan softly.

“That’s just one spot above us.

Ninth in the rankings.

If we beat them today, we’ll move up.

And there’s construction going on, so we’d better hurry.” Kairan walked beside Peter, but his mind was focused on a detail that had been buzzing around in his head since that morning.

Eight of you back.

“Peter,” he said softly.

“Someone said there were eight of you this morning.

Not that it was the first time you’d made it to eight.” Peter slowed his pace slightly.

“Yes,” he said.

“There was someone else before you.

His name was Ezra.

He was eight years old, like you.” “And what happened to him?” “One night he went to have his blood drawn, like everyone else.

The next day his bed was empty.

No one told us anything.

Mrs.

Hargrove just said he’d been ‘transferred.’ We didn’t ask any more questions.” “Why not?” “Because asking questions in here usually doesn’t lead to anything good,” Peter said.

“You’ll understand that too, in time.” Kairan memorized the name.

Ezra.

And she wrote it down, along with the closed door at the end of the corridor and the whispered name—Grimsdyke—on that silent list of things she wanted to fully understand, sooner or later.

The leader of the two hundred and eighty stepped forward.

He was tall, at least twelve, with dark hair cut short, his shoulders already broad like those of an older boy.

“Marcus Wraith,” he said, without waiting for anyone to ask.

He looked at Kairan with obvious curiosity.

“And who is this?” “Kairan.

New.

Since last night.” Marcus looked him up and down, then nodded to his men.

One by one, they stepped forward.

“Silas Crane, he runs well,” he said, pointing to a lean, long-legged boy.

“Bartholomew Fitch, arm wrestling.” The stocky boy Kairan had already noticed nodded slightly.

“Percival Aldous, our chess genius.” The nervous boy of his same age raised a tired hand.

“And the other four, if you need them today, I’ll introduce them another time.” “We want to have three competitions,” Marcus said.

“Running, arm wrestling, chess.

Let’s see if your eighth is worth anything or if you’re just keeping him for numbers.” Gregory looked at Kairan, expecting the usual response.

“I’ll participate,” Kairan said.

“Running and arm wrestling.” The silence that followed was total, then broken into seven different, almost simultaneous reactions.

Peter stared at him, mouth agape, as if he’d grown a second head.

“Two?

Both?” Amara crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing not in hostility, but in pure, calculating disbelief.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Gregory looked him up and down, surprise crossing his enormous face faster than he could hide it, and for a moment he looked like he was about to intervene, but didn’t.

Clara looked up from the book she still clutched.

“It’s an interesting decision,” she said simply.

Samuel instinctively approached Gregory, his eyes darting from Kairan to Bartholomew Fitch with genuine apprehension.

Victor, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, said nothing, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

And Lena took a step forward, her voice low but firm.

“You don’t have to prove anything on your first day,” she said, her green eyes fixed on him with a concern that seemed genuine.

“No one’s asking you that.” “I know,” Kairan said.

He said nothing else, and that simple, complete lack of explanation said more than any speech.

Marcus Wraith, on the other end, raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“We’ll see,” he said simply, this time no longer laughing.

“We’ll talk about it after work, then.

The game’s this afternoon.” A bell rang, distant, from inside the building, and the moment was interrupted before it even began: the signal for morning work, which brooked no discussion.

Gregory clapped his hands.

“Come on.

Today we’re taking care of the two hundred and forty…

we beat them yesterday, before you got here.

We have to go give them their orders for the day.” “How exactly do the orders work?” “Each member of the winning room is entitled to one order,” Kairan asked, as they walked down the corridor.

“Only one per person.

No one can give more than one, unless their room is outnumbered by the losers.

And each order is only valid for twenty-four hours, not a minute longer.

Tomorrow we start all over again, with a new game.” “And what about us today?” “Eight against eight,” said Gregory.

“Two hundred and forty is complete.” So no exceptions.

One order each, as always.” “Until yesterday, we were outnumbered,” Peter added.

“Seven against eight, for weeks.” But from today, with you, we’re even.” The two hundred and forty were already waiting for them in line along the corridor of the opposite wing, lined up against the wall with the silent resignation of those who had already accepted their roles for the day.

Eight faces, eight downcast gazes, none seeking eye contact with the one who was about to give them orders.

A tall, thin boy with ash-blond hair and a tired expression stepped forward first.

“Reginald Ashcombe,” he said, without looking up.

“I’m the boss, for what it’s worth today.” Gregory nodded and was the first to step forward from the two hundred and ninety’s side.

“The bed made today, before evening,” he said to Reginald, his voice firm but devoid of cruelty.

“Perfect corners, or you’ll have to remake it.” Reginald nodded silently.

Amara approached a girl with red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

“Beatrice Thorn,” she said.

She introduced herself before Amara could even ask.

“Your ration of bread for breakfast tomorrow morning,” Amara said.

“All mine.” Peter chose a large boy with a broken nose from a past fight.

“Oliver Bramwell.” “Absolute silence in my presence for the rest of the day,” Peter said.

“No words, not even if I ask you a question.” Nods only.” Clara approached a small girl with thick glasses.

“Henrietta Vane.” “You will read me a chapter from the book I choose, tonight, before I go to bed,” Clara said, without raising her voice, as if simply announcing a predetermined fact.

Samuel, his voice lower than usual, turned to a boy twice his height, named Cornelius Pratt.

“You…

you will bring me breakfast in bed,” he said, almost apologetically for the request.

“Tomorrow morning.” Victor silently chose a boy named Aldric Vance and for a long moment said nothing, simply observing him.

“Stay away from me,” he finally said.

“For the rest of the day.” “That’s the order.” And finally, Lena was left alone, facing a girl younger than her, perhaps the youngest of the eight from 240, named Phoebe Merritt, who was trembling slightly, as if she feared more than anyone.

What else was he going to say?

“You’ll clean for me this afternoon,” Lena said, but her voice wasn’t as harsh as the others’, and Phoebe nodded quickly, almost relieved it wasn’t worse.

Only Kairan remained.

The boy assigned to him was named Thaddeus Pell, one of the eight from 240, no older than nine, with unkempt dark hair and a purple bruise on his cheekbone that no one had yet explained.

He barely looked up at Kairan, expecting, like everyone else, an order that would keep him busy or humiliated for the rest of the day.

Kairan stared at him for a long time, in silence, and everyone, both 290 and 240…

held their breath for a moment, waiting.

“Do what you want,” Kairan said finally.

“No orders today.” Thaddeus stared at him, as if he hadn’t quite understood.

“What?” “I have no orders “For you,” Kairan said.

“Today, do what you want.” “Tomorrow, everything starts again.” For a long moment, no one moved.

Then something in Thaddeus’s face cracked: not just surprise, but something deeper, as if those few words had touched a place no one in that corridor had ever thought to.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, his eyes shining and holding back something too close to tears to be completely hidden.

“Thank you so much.” Reginald Ashcombe, the leader of the two hundred and forty, turned to Kairan with an expression torn between suspicion and amazement.

Peter turned to Kairan, his mouth slightly open.

“You…

you didn’t ask for anything?” “No,” Kairan replied.

Amara shook her head in disbelief, but this time there was nothing calculating in her gaze, only a new, deeper curiosity.

“You have no idea how strange what you just did is.” Gregory remained silent longer.

Longer than anyone else, watching Thaddeus quickly wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, before looking at Kairan with a respect he hadn’t yet fully defined.

Lena was the only one to smile openly, a small but sincere smile, as if that gesture confirmed something she’d already sensed about Kairan from the first moment her green eyes had landed on his.