The book felt far too heavy for something titled Foundational Tax Law and You: A Citizen's Guide. Elena blinked down at the smudged ink and faded print, the weight of it both literal and metaphorical.
"I can't believe this is the 'easiest' one," she muttered to herself.
Master Yora had assigned her a new task: assist with organizing the legal archives on the second floor. It wasn't glamorous—there were no glowing sigils or floating orbs—but she'd agreed without hesitation. The pay was decent: 1 silver crown for the full day, including lunch, which was a hearty lentil stew and a thick slice of nutbread (likely costing around 8 copper crowns if bought in the market). And more importantly, she got to read while working.
"I was promised spells," Elena grumbled under her breath, sliding the next book into its proper spot on the shelf labeled "Municipal Enforcement." "Not tax forms and 'crowns declared.'"
"Knowledge is a kind of spell," came a dry voice behind her.
Elena startled and turned to find Daro—the curly-haired apprentice she'd met during her chores on the first floor—leaning against the wall, holding a tray of scrolls.
He tilted his head. "Did you know that there's a penalty of up to 3 silver crowns for improperly reporting poultry earnings if you run a goose cart in eastern Rothvale?"
"I didn't, but I feel richer for knowing," she replied dryly, wiping dust off her hands with a cloth tucked into her belt.
"I envy your sarcasm. I'm stuck cataloguing noble feudal treaties all morning."
They exchanged tired, book-induced looks of mutual understanding.
---
By midafternoon, her brain was so saturated with clauses and sub-clauses that she actually welcomed a change in topic when Yora approached with a clipboard.
"Elena, how's the re-shelving?"
"Slow, but steady. I finished catalog A through E, cross-referenced the old system with the new tags, and I added notes where scrolls were missing."
Yora gave a pleased nod. "Good. That means you're ready for the next part."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
He handed her a slim leather-bound volume. Unlike the tax books, this one was in surprisingly good condition. Gold foil etched the cover: Ethics of the Arcane Contract.
Elena blinked. "Wait—arcane as in… magic?"
Yora smiled. "Every legally binding spell used in Rothvale has to conform to the Ethical Casting Doctrine, a charter written two centuries ago. You'll need to read and summarize this by next week."
"I'm finally being allowed to read magic-related things?"
"Legal magic," he said, voice calm. "And only theoretical."
Still, Elena felt a flicker of excitement as she cradled the book.
---
She read during lunch, devoured passages between tasks, and sat cross-legged by the fireplace during breaks with her nose buried in magical fine print.
The most interesting section covered magical consent and how binding contracts between mages (or mage and client) required either verbal acknowledgment under a truthseal or a written agreement reinforced with an anchor sigil. Any spell forcibly applied to someone without consent—even something as benign as a barrier—was considered an ethical breach unless immediate danger justified it.
It was clear: magic in this world was more than flashy fireballs or glowing swords. It had structure. Responsibility. Even bureaucracy.
"Who knew sorcery came with disclaimers," she mumbled.
---
That evening, Elena wandered the outer hallway to stretch her legs. The sky outside the tall glass windows was awash in gold and lavender hues. She caught sight of Liora again—this time outside, in the open courtyard, kneeling in a loose circle with several children.
Curious, Elena made her way downstairs.
Liora was leading a simple flame-summoning exercise, teaching the young ones to focus warmth into their palms. Most of them failed, their faces scrunched in concentration. One boy burst into frustrated tears.
Liora murmured something Elena couldn't hear. Then she lit a tiny fire in her palm—a soft, safe ember—and let the children touch the warmth with wide-eyed wonder.
Elena didn't interrupt. She simply watched from a distance, something soft curling in her chest.
"That's magic," she thought. "Not just sparks and incantations. It's being able to make someone feel safe, even when they're failing."
---
Later that night, Elena brought her candle and the contract book to her desk in the attic room. Before she could start, though, her eyes drifted to the drawer—the one where she kept the strange note she'd found tucked in her laundry two weeks ago.
She hadn't forgotten it. The words still haunted her:
"Not all stars fall. Some are stolen."
She hadn't shown it to anyone yet. Partly because she feared it might just be a prank, and partly because she didn't want to look foolish. But she had started watching more closely—listening for whispers, catching the occasional side glance when she passed certain archivists in the halls.
She unfolded the note again, as if expecting the message to change.
It didn't.
Still the same shaky, slanted script. Still no name. Still no explanation.
Elena tucked it back into her notebook, resolved to ask someone soon—maybe Daro, who seemed nosey enough to notice things. Or maybe Liora.
But not yet.
---
The next morning, Master Yora assigned her a surprise task: assisting at the Quill Registry Office, a branch of the scriptorium where contract scrolls were copied, signed, and sealed for guilds, trade routes, and legal negotiations.
Elena wasn't thrilled at first. The scriptorium sounded… dull. But she changed her mind the moment she stepped inside.
Dozens of magical quills floated midair, copying text from dictation spells. Wax seals shimmered with imbued sigils. A bored-looking scribe summoned a ledger to float down from a shelf with a flick of her stylus.
And behind the counter, a clerk was arguing with a red-faced merchant about the fee for a delayed delivery pact.
"It's clearly written here—2 silver crowns per late day after the initial window," the clerk said, tapping the parchment.
"I paid in gold crowns for that expedition!" the merchant huffed. "You're squeezing me!"
"If you'd paid in gold crowns, you wouldn't be here."
Elena took it all in, amazed.
Yora gave her a thin smile. "Watch. Listen. This is where deals are written—and wars are avoided."
Elena spent the entire shift recording contract terms, filing forms, and helping sort fees. She learned that a guild-level agreement could cost anywhere from 5 silver to 2 gold crowns, depending on scope, and that a mage's personal pact for artifact sale required at least one truthbinding signature.
At the end of the day, she received 1 silver and 6 copper crowns for her work—a slight raise from usual, Yora said, "due to complexity."
---
That night, Elena dreamt of glowing scrolls, whispering paper, and stars winking out one by one in the dark sky. She woke with a start, heart pounding.
Something felt off.
She crept to the drawer.
The note was gone.
---
Bread Crumbs and Bureaucracy
Elena Virelle stared at the parchment-covered ledger in front of her. The ink was faintly smudged in the corner, where someone had clearly tried to erase an error and failed. She squinted at the next entry. "Inventory: 14 jars of glowroot sap, 3 dozen sun-spiced loaves, 9 feathercrystal vials…"
"—And eight jars of pickled kelp," muttered Maela, scribbling next to her. "Which we're never selling because the cook keeps stealing them."
Elena leaned over, whispering, "Do we actually need pickled kelp?"
Maela looked over her spectacles. "No one needs pickled kelp. But Lord Rathmore keeps receiving it as 'gifts' from the southern isles and pretending to enjoy it. Politics, dear."
Ah, there it was again. The thing Elena was starting to understand was the real magic in this world—not fireballs or enchantments, but politics disguised as food storage logistics.
---
Elena's new role in the manor had slowly shifted from scrubbing laundry to working in the records room under Maela's supervision. It was not glamorous, but it came with perks: slightly warmer clothes, two additional copper crowns per week, and permission to borrow books from the storeroom—so long as she returned them unburned.
The pay wasn't much. Maela had broken it down bluntly:
Basic servant: 3 copper crowns per day (bare minimum)
Maela's assistant: 5 copper crowns per day
Senior clerk: 1 silver crown per day (i.e., 10 copper crowns = 1 silver)
Head steward: 2 silver crowns per day, plus board
But housing and meals were deducted from the base pay, leaving Elena with about 20 copper crowns per week, of which she saved 10 after essentials.
"What can ten copper crowns buy?" she'd asked.
Maela had answered, "Two loaves of travel bread, a half-block of soap, or a book no one else wants."
A humbling reality. Soap cost 4 copper crowns. A pair of woolen socks? 12 copper. A new set of shoes? Don't even ask—2 silver crowns minimum.
Still, Elena wasn't unhappy. Her nights were spent curled up in the storage loft, reading books of history, magical theory, and increasingly, treatises on the structure of the city itself. And when she woke, it was often to the faint scent of fresh ink and the low voices of staff arranging delivery routes.
---
Today's lesson, however, was not ink or deliveries. It was… letters.
Official ones.
Maela handed her a scroll sealed with red wax. "Address this in your neatest hand. And remember: if you spell Chancellor Merion's name wrong, I'll let you explain it to her personally."
"Noted," Elena muttered, unrolling it carefully.
The scroll was a copy of a requisition request—formally drafted by Lord Rathmore's steward—for a new round of elemental warding crystals from the Academy. Expensive items. She skimmed the parchment again. The estimated cost: 8 gold crowns.
"Eight gold?" she hissed under her breath.
Maela nodded. "And that's just for the basics. The better wards cost three times that. Bureaucracy, dear."
Elena blinked. Eight gold crowns equaled 800 silver or 8,000 copper crowns. That was… 800 weeks of her current pay. Over 15 years of labor.
For a handful of glowing rocks.
---
Later that afternoon, while Maela dozed in her high-backed chair, Elena returned to her corner nook in the storeroom with a fresh volume: A Commoner's Guide to Imperial Structures: From Guild to Throne.
She wasn't sure who had written it, but it was surprisingly honest, peppered with snarky commentary in the margins. She liked it already.
The book laid out the hierarchy:
Local Lords like Rathmore answered to the Regional Council, made up of various Guildmasters and nobility.
Guilds controlled entire industries: apothecaries, enchanters, blacksmiths.
Above them was the High Senate, who advised the Empress.
And somewhere beneath it all was a maze of licenses, permits, taxes, and inspections.
"Basically," Elena muttered aloud, "you need permission to sneeze."
And if you wanted to open a bakery? That required three permits, a bribe to the flour guild, and at least one cousin who could vouch for your kneading technique.
"Sounds familiar," said a voice behind her.
Elena jumped. "Liora!"
The knight-in-training leaned against the wooden beam, arms crossed, watching her with a bemused look. "I see you've found the fun section. Government regulations—the true villains of the Empire."
Elena smiled. "It's oddly comforting. At least they're consistent in being ridiculous."
"I brought you something." Liora held up a small paper bundle. "Guild parchment. Blank. Fresh from the academy scribes."
Elena's eyes widened. "Is this… legal?"
Liora shrugged. "It's unused surplus. Let's call it educational."
---
They sat together on the floor, scribbling silly fake guild applications—Elena applying to become a "Registered Crumb Inspector," Liora applying for a license to "Hunt Unlicensed Ghosts."
Their laughter echoed through the mostly empty storeroom, until Maela's voice called sharply from the hallway, "If either of you are defacing official materials, I'll have your fingers!"
They froze.
Then, giggling, quietly shoved the fake parchments under a loose floorboard.
---
As the day wound down and the sunlight slanted across the manor windows, Elena pulled out the strange note (she had found back in Chapter 10) the one slipped into her pocket the day she cleaned the old chapel.
She hadn't shown it to anyone yet.
The note still read:
"When the bells toll thrice, do not answer. The door remembers."
She had no idea what it meant.
But last night, as she passed the chapel again, she'd heard something. Faintly.
A single toll.
She wasn't sure if it was her imagination. But… the silence afterward had felt heavy.
And though she couldn't explain why, she'd walked faster after that.
---l
[End of Chapter 16]