The bell rang with a hollow clang, echoing through the narrow corridors like a reluctant whisper.
Alira snapped her book shut and jumped to her feet. “Elena, come on,” she said, tugging at her sleeve. “Dinner time. If we’re late, we’ll only get bone soup.”
Elena blinked, still perched on the edge of her bed, her journal half open in her lap. “Isn’t there… assigned seating?”
Alira grinned. “This isn’t a palace. You eat what’s left and sit where you fit. Let’s go.”
They hurried through the dim hallway, the flickering oil lamps doing little to chase away the dusk. The dining hall was in the east wing, behind a pair of tall wooden doors that creaked as if groaning from age. The air smelled of boiled cabbage and old smoke.
Inside, the hall was already full of students. Dozens of long, scratched wooden tables stretched across the room. Children and teens sat with heads bowed over their plates, eating quickly, quietly.
It was survival, not supper.
Alira led her to the food queue.
Behind a steaming pot stood a woman in her late fifties, with graying hair tucked under a scarf. Her apron was clean but faded, her expression unreadable. She held a large metal ladle with the authority of a queen.
As Elena stepped forward, the woman gave her a long look—then offered a small, formal nod.
“You must be Elena,” she said, her voice rough but kind. “Welcome.”
Elena was caught off guard. “Thank you…”
“I’m Miss Merda, the kitchen matron and discipline keeper of this hall.” “All the food you’ll find here is grown by the hands of the very people who eat it.” “Every carrot, every grain of rice, every drop of broth.”
She ladled a thick, gray soup into Elena’s tin bowl. Then placed a piece of rough bread on top.
“Enjoy it well, Elena,” she said softly. “And remember, here we all eat the same — royal or not.”
Elena nodded. She could feel several eyes watching her.
They sat near the end of a long bench. Across from them sat a pale girl with sunken cheeks who stared at her food like it was both a blessing and a punishment.
No one spoke. No one asked who Elena was.
Even her arrival, marked by the Matron’s rare greeting, faded into the clatter of spoons and quiet chewing.
Everyone was too hungry to care.
Alira leaned close. “Most kids here aren’t like you.”
Elena turned. “What do you mean?”
Alira pointed subtly with her spoon.
“That boy? His father died in a factory fire.” “That girl in the blue scarf? Her parents are in a trade colony across the sea.” “Some are orphans. Some were abandoned. Some… just got in the way.”
Elena looked around again.
Tattered sleeves. Mismatched shoes. No jewelry. No names. Just numbers and needs.
“What about you?” Elena whispered.
Alira stirred her soup. “My mother died. My father said my face looked too much like hers.”
She looked up and smiled faintly. “Eat up. The soup’s better than it looks.”
Just as Elena lifted her spoon, a sharp sound rang out—spoon tapping glass.
The room fell into reluctant silence.
Miss Merda stood at the front, one hand on her hip, the other still holding the ladle.
“We have a new guest,” she announced. “Stand up, dear.”
All heads turned to Elena.
She rose slowly, cheeks warm.
“My name is Elena,” she began, steady but unsure. “I… just arrived today.”
There was no applause. No curiosity. Only silence.
A boy coughed. Someone dropped a spoon. The room moved on.
Elena sat down again. Her food had gone cold.
No one clapped. No one cared.
And yet... I felt something shift when I said my name.
Maybe that’s what this place is for. To make you quiet. To see if you still remember your own voice.
After finishing their meals, Alira nudged Elena’s elbow.
“We have to clean up. No magic maids here,” she said dryly.
Elena followed the line of students toward the back of the dining hall. There, a long wooden table had been set up near a pair of rusty sinks and a water pump. The students queued in silence, holding their greasy bowls, spoons, and tin cups.
One by one, they scrubbed in cold water, dried them with old cloths, and placed them carefully on the long table—lined up like soldiers. Everything had to be reused the next day. Nothing was wasted here.
When it was Elena’s turn, she scrubbed quietly, unsure if she was doing it right. The water was cold, her fingers numb, but the routine felt grounding.
As she placed her cleaned bowl on the drying table, a small voice piped up beside her.
“You look like a princess.”
Elena turned, startled.
A little girl stood beside her—barefoot, with tangled curls and a dress two sizes too big. Her eyes were wide and unnervingly still.
“You’ll be a queen,” the child whispered. “I saw it.”
Elena blinked. “What did you say?”
The room didn’t fall silent, but those closest paused. Alira stiffened. A few older boys turned their heads. Someone dropped a spoon again, this time on purpose.
The child smiled, as if she hadn’t said anything unusual. Then skipped away with her bowl.
Alira leaned in, eyes narrowed. “That was Mikka.”
“Mikka?” Elena echoed.
Alira nodded. “She doesn’t speak to most people. Ever. But when she does, people listen.”
Elena frowned. “Why?”
“Because,” Alira said slowly, “every single thing she’s ever predicted… comes true.”
Elena’s heart skipped.
A few others whispered, exchanged glances, but soon went back to drying dishes. Most were too tired to care. To them, hunger was louder than prophecy.
But to Elena, the words stayed.
That night, in the shared bedroom, Alira was already curled up under a worn quilt. Elena lay awake, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling, listening to the wind scratch at the windows like fingers lost in time.
She opened her journal.