"The child of shame learns early:
to smile is to lie, to fight is to live.
And to live is to make the world remember who made you." — Anonymous
I tried to read her like a headline, something quick and dirty. Former maid, bastard child, governor's shame. Easy enough.
But she smiled. Calm. Almost rehearsed. Not the look of a woman hiding, but of one already seen. And the child at her chest — not squirming, not sickly. Breathing proof. A living fact no rumor could erase.
Why today? On Alisa's birthday? Too many coincidences. Maybe the wife wanted her gone. Maybe Ortmeran tried to bury the evidence. But if that's true, why ride out in the open? Why in a carriage with an emblem anyone could spot?
Because she isn't hiding. She's parading.
The streak of blonde in her hair caught the light, matched the tuft on the child's head. At first, I thought it vanity. Now I saw it for what it was: branding. She was carving resemblance into the air, making it impossible not to see.
For the poor, with their black-and-white papers, it was invisible. They'd never catch it. But for those with the colored prints — for men like me — it screamed. A secret only privilege could afford. A scandal you had to pay to perceive.
And her destination — Ironreach. The city of contracts, of Aetherium law. She wasn't running from scandal. She was walking into legitimacy. A bastard whispered is nothing. A bastard registered is a weapon.
The paper crumpled in my hand. My hazel eyes locked on hers. She met them, unblinking. The baby shifted, sighed, latched again.
No fear. No shame. Only calm.
That's when it hit me. She wasn't the story I was reading. I was the audience she wanted. She'd written this scene long before I boarded.
And now I couldn't tell if I'd uncovered her plan — or if I'd just followed the script she gave me.
Normally it would've been easy to deny her the joy and walk away clean. But I itched to leave a mark. I leaned in, folding the paper shut with a snap.
"A brilliant script," I said, my voice rough with smoke. "Let's hope the sequel's as compelling."
For the first time, her composure faltered. Not much, just enough for me to catch it — the faint line of a frown threatening her mask.
I couldn't resist.
"Sweetheart," I muttered, tilting my head, "frowning gives you wrinkles."
That did it. The smile was still there, but it was no longer the same smile. It was held, not worn.
Then she asked, quiet as if she were inquiring after the weather:
"Your name?"
The carriage jolted. Wheels rattled against cobble as the city pressed close. I should've laughed it off. Should've stayed silent. But the word slipped before I could stop it.
"Daemon."
She stepped out of the carriage amd turn she seem to be doing something odd,her hand where moving for sure, then she left going to the square.
Ironreach wasn't a city. It was a forge someone forgot to put out. Smoke bled from every chimney,the gutter black with ink, iron dust clung to your coat like fleas, and the streets never stopped echoing with the cough of furnaces. You couldn't breathe here without tasting ash.
The square outside Ironreach station was clogged with bodies. Reporters snapping pictures like vultures, merchants sniffing for profit, and the occasional fat noble pretending they were here "for the people."
Foreign tongues cut through the smoke, accents sharp against the cobblestones. I kept to the edge. Let them chase their big guns; I wasn't about to get my face stamped on tomorrow's paper.
The plaza outside the Registry House boiled with bodies — merchants, nobles, journalists,some didn't even know why they were here,blinding followingthe hype , all circling like carrion birds. Cameras flashed, ink-stained reporters shouted, accents foreign and sharp cut through the noise. Everyone was waiting for money that hadn't yet arrived. Fools, Daemon thought, chasing whispe rs like dogs after scraps.
That's when she came at me. Blonde. Young. Bold enough to piss me off.
"What is it with blondes?" I growled, loud enough for her to hear.
She blinked but didn't flinch. "You're not that muscular. But you've got the build. Hands are rough. Dangerous."
"It's the clothes," I muttered, already done.
"No," she went on, ignoring me. "I doubt you can smile without looking like a freak. That's why you smirk. And let's not talk about your teeth."
"Enough."
"I want an interview."
"Then talk to the rich men."
"But you are one." Her eyes flicked to the smoke curling from my lips, then down to the colored newspaper in my hand. "Who smokes and buys color prints in the morning?"
I froze, just for a breath. Then I shrugged. "One-time thing."
"You're lying." She said it like she already had me.
That's when I caught the insignia stitched on her coat like a snake tongue. Same as the paper. Rachel Bellgrita. A name with teeth. She could indirectly lend me with info, I'll befriend her.
"Fine but only in a Café and your paying"
She lit happy with joy like a child. Probably a newb trying to get big. I looked at my self.
"It's the clothes."
She smiled sharp. "No. It's a mask. Same with that smirk. I doubt you can smile without looking like a freak."
"Enough."
"The new currency. Blessing or curse?"
"Neither," I said flat. "Money doesn't bless. Doesn't curse. It just owns."
Her pen scratched quick as the flashes firing around us.
"And the Register?"
I leaned back, smoke rolling from my teeth. "Birth and blood already do. Money just makes it official."
That landed. She hesitated, pen hovering. Blinked once.
But she pressed harder. "If you held the Register, how would you run it?"
"I wouldn't," I said. "You don't run a noose. You just tighten it."
Color touched her cheeks, but she didn't stop. "And legitimacy? Should bastards be written in?"
The word hooked me. Bastards.
—Flash: white burn across my eyes.
—Pop: a pressman yelling honors for some foreign merchant.
—Flash: my boot hitting carriage stone, lenses swinging toward me.
—Pop: her—blonde streak, child's tuft to match—lifting her chin to the cameras.
—Flash: hand raised, not to hide, to frame.
—Pop: a Gazette sleeve brushing past. Not hers. One of hers.
How many pictures? How many plates with my face branded into them?
I swallowed the heat and leaned closer. "You answer. Should they?"
Her pen scrawled faster, triumphant.
And I knew it—she wasn't asking questions. She was branding me. The same way that woman branded her child with a streak of hair. Writing me into her story. The Registry wasn't paper—it was teeth.
She closed her book with a snap. "One more. A picture, to pair with your words."
I froze.
"You found me," I muttered, low, rising from my chair. "Now find the exit."
She tilted her head, daring. Pen poised like a blade. "Name, picture, truth. That's all."
I leaned down, close enough she could taste the smoke. "Cross my shadow twice," I said, voice a growl, "and the grave will do the talking."
She smiled anyway, cheek pink from the heat of my breath. Then she lifted her little box, shutter cracked— flash.
The room went white. For a heartbeat it felt like every camera in Ironreach was snapping, hammering my face into plates.
I straightened slow. Towering. She looked up like she wasn't sure if I'd kiss her or crush her. I exhaled smoke, a cold veil between us.
Her smile trembled, but she held it. Pen trembling against the page.
Somewhere in the crowd opposite the café , I caught it through the transparent glass seperating us from the outside —the streak of blonde in the other woman's hair, child on her breast, slipping into the storm of journalists.
My stomach dropped. Did she send her?
"A bastard carries no crown, yet kings fear his name.
A slave bears no brand, yet chains remember his weight.
Blood writes its truth, even on torn parchment." — Old Ironreach Proverb