The morning after the feast was a brutal return to reality. The air in the dining room was thick with a heavy, disappointed silence. In the centre of the long table, Sister Agnes ladled the familiar grey porridge into wooden bowls, each slop a punctuation mark in her silent, grim victory. The children, who the night before had been vibrant and full of life, now looked at their breakfast with sullen resignation. The memory of savory meat and rich gravy made the tasteless, watery gruel seem like a punishment.
"Eat up," Sister Agnes said, her voice devoid of any warmth. "This is good, honest food. It will stick to your ribs."
No one met her gaze. The children ate mechanically, their faces blank. The ghost of joy from the previous night haunted the room, making the present reality feel all the more bleak. Sister Marta watched the scene with a pained expression, her own bowl of porridge untouched.
"Agnes," she began softly, once the children had finished and filed out to begin their morning chores. "Last night was… wonderful. The children were so happy."
"They were spoiled," Sister Agnes countered, scrubbing the large pot with a furious energy. "He gave them a taste for luxury we cannot afford. Now they turn their noses up at the food that has kept them from starving. See what he has done? He has planted discontent."
"He planted hope," Marta corrected, her voice firm. "He showed them that life doesn't have to be a joyless struggle. He showed us. That meal wasn't a luxury; it was proper nourishment. It's what they deserve."
"And how do you propose we provide it?" Agnes shot back, turning from the pot, her hands dripping with grey water. "Will you have him spend all his strange coin on mutton every night? We are an orphanage, Marta, not a lord's banquet hall. His grand gesture was a fantasy, and today is the reality. The sooner they remember that, the better."
Darren, who had been listening from the doorway, chose that moment to step inside. "It doesn't have to be a fantasy," he said quietly.
Both women turned to him. Sister Agnes's face was a mask of cold fury, while Sister Marta's was etched with weary hope.
"Last night was an investment," Darren continued, addressing Marta but acutely aware of Agnes's hostile stare. "It was a demonstration. But you are right, Sister Agnes, we cannot buy meat like that every day. So, we will have to earn it."
Before either of them could question his meaning, he bowed his head politely and walked out, leaving them in a tense, unresolved silence. He had work to do.
His opportunity came later that morning. He was in his designated spot near the garden, refining the design for his slingshot on a piece of scraped bark, when two figures approached. It was Erik, the burly hunter, and Jarred, who was walking with a noticeably smoother gait than he had a few weeks ago.
"Boy," Erik began, his tone a mixture of skepticism and grudging respect. "Torvin has been bragging. Says that sling of yours can knock a bird out of the sky from fifty paces."
"The sling helps," Darren said, not looking up from his work. "But Torvin is a good shot."
"We want them," Jarred said, getting straight to the point. "Torvin says you sold him his for five coppers. We'll pay the same."
Darren finally looked up, setting down his bark schematic. This was the moment he had been waiting for. "I'm not selling them for coin anymore."
Erik's brow furrowed. "What? Why not? We have the money."
"I have enough coin," Darren said calmly. "What I need is something else. The orphanage needs it." He met their eyes, his gaze steady and serious. "I will make a new sling for each of you. Better than Torvin's, even. A more comfortable grip, stronger bands. In exchange, you will give the orphanage a share of what you hunt with them."
The two hunters exchanged a look of disbelief. "A share?" Erik scoffed. "We hunt to feed our own families. We can't be giving our catch away."
"I'm not asking for the deer or the boar," Darren clarified. "I'm talking about the small game. The birds and rabbits you hunt with the slings. The ones you catch because the new slings are faster and more accurate." He leaned forward, his voice persuasive. "Think of it. Torvin brought down three grouse yesterday. How many would he have gotten with his old sling? One? Maybe none? Those extra two birds are profit. They exist because of my design."
He let the logic sink in. He wasn't asking for charity. He was proposing a business deal, claiming a percentage of the increased productivity his technology generated.
"I will give you a tool that will double, maybe triple, your catch of small game," he said. "For every five birds or rabbits you kill using my slingshot, you give one to the orphanage. You still go home with four more than you might have otherwise. Your families eat better, and so do the children here. Everyone wins."
It was a revolutionary concept in a world of simple barter. Jarred, who had benefited from Darren's antiseptic salve, was the first to see the sense in it. "The boy is right, Erik. The things he makes… they work. One bird in five is a small price for such an advantage."
Erik grumbled, still hesitant to part with any of his hard-won game. But the image of Torvin's success, and the promise of replicating it, was a powerful lure. He looked at the small, serious boy who spoke like a trader from the city.
"One in five," he repeated, testing the words. He finally gave a short, sharp nod. "Alright, boy. You have a deal. Make us these slings of yours, and we'll bring you your meat."
The agreement spread through the small band of hunters like wildfire. By the end of the day, Darren had secured a pact with all four of them. He had established a supply chain, a steady stream of protein that would flow directly into the orphanage's larder, paid for not with coin, but with innovation.
He immediately set to work, enlisting Lily's help to gather the best materials. He spent his earnings on cured leather from the tanner and strong gut from the butcher, refining the slingshot bands for maximum power and durability.
When he presented the plan to Sister Marta, her eyes filled with tears of relief. "Kael, this is… a miracle. A steady supply of meat for the children…" She looked at him with an expression of pure awe. "How do you think of these things?"
"He thinks of meddling where he shouldn't," Sister Agnes's voice cut in from the doorway. She had been listening, her face a thundercloud. "You have made deals with the village hunters? You have inserted yourself into the workings of this village, into the livelihoods of grown men. This is not a child's place!"
"I am ensuring we have food to eat," Darren countered calmly.
"You are making us reliant on the whims of hunters! And you are drawing attention," she hissed, taking a step into the room. "These things you do, Kael—the bread, the medicines, these strange contraptions—they are not normal. People talk. They wonder. Such attention is dangerous for a place like this. For a boy like you. It will bring trouble."
"It will bring food," Sister Marta said firmly, her patience with Agnes's pessimism finally snapping. "It will bring strength and health to our children. I will not have you scorn a blessing, Agnes. Kael's work is for the good of us all, and I will support it."
The battle lines were drawn. Sister Agnes fell silent, but her eyes, locked on Darren, smoldered with a resentment that was deeper and more dangerous than simple disapproval. He had not just challenged her role in the kitchen; he had now bypassed her authority completely, forging alliances and providing for the orphanage in a way she never could. He was making her obsolete, and she would not forgive him for it.
Darren retreated from the tense atmosphere of the main house to the quiet solitude of his work. He checked on the Alatus, its leg now almost completely healed. The creature no longer shied from his touch and nibbled contentedly on the greens he provided. It would soon be ready.
He then moved to his outdoor lab, a place that felt more like home than anywhere else. Under the shade canopy, his neat rows of clay pots held the beginnings of a dozen new experiments. His hands were small and his resources were primitive, but his mind held the accumulated knowledge of a world built on science.
The hunters' deal was a major victory, a critical step toward creating a self-sustaining system for the orphanage. But Sister Agnes's warning echoed in his mind. He was changing things, and change, no matter how positive, always created friction. He was building a new world for himself and the other orphans, one meal, one remedy, one invention at a time. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that the old world would not give way without a fight.