Story 1: The Scribe's Redemption
Elias Thorne gasped, shooting up from the straw mattress.
His head felt like it was being split open by an axe—the aftermath of cheap, poisonous ale. His hands shook uncontrollably, and his stomach cramped with a hunger so sharp it felt like a knife wound.
The room was a wooden shack, the wind whistling through gaps in the planks. It smelled of vomit, mold, and despair.
Elias closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wave of nausea pass. He wasn't the Librarian anymore. He was Elias. He could feel the memories of the original owner settling into his mind like sediment in a glass—the shame of losing his job, the warmth of the wine, the crushing weight of the debt.
He pushed the physical pain aside, locking it away in a corner of his mind. He looked around.
In the corner, curled up behind a broken chair, was a small boy.
Leo. Six years old. He was wrapped in rags, his face smudged with soot. He was watching Elias with wide, terrified eyes, like a rabbit staring at a wolf.
The debt. Fifty silver coins. The Black Iron Gang coming at noon.
Elias swung his legs off the bed. He was weak—so weak. This body had been abused by alcohol for years.
"Father?" Leo whispered, flinching as Elias stood up.
Elias walked to the water bucket. A layer of ice had formed on top. He punched through it with a trembling hand, scooped up a ladle of freezing water, and drank. The cold shock forced his brain to focus.
"I am not going to hurt you," Elias said. His voice was raspy, destroyed by drink, but the tone was different. It lacked the usual slur. It was crisp.
Leo didn't relax. He knew better.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The door rattled on its hinges. Dust fell from the ceiling.
"Elias! Open up! We know you're in there!"
Elias glanced at the window. The sun was high. Noon.
Leo let out a high-pitched whimper and buried his face in his knees. He knew what was
coming. In the original timeline, Elias would have grabbed the boy by the arm and dragged
him to the door to trade for his own life.
Elias looked at the trembling child. He grabbed a heavy woolen blanket from the bed—the only warm thing in the house—and walked over to the boy.
Leo squeezed his eyes shut, expecting a blow. Instead, he felt the heavy wool settle over his shoulders.
"Stay here," Elias commanded. "Cover your ears."
He turned and opened the door.
Three men stood in the snow.
The leader was Silas, a brute of a man with a scarred lip. Beside him was a weasel-faced man holding a ledger and an ink brush—Mik, the accountant. Behind them stood a silent thug holding a length of rope. The rope was for the boy.
"Time's up, scribe," Silas grinned, revealing rotting teeth. "You got the fifty silver? Or are we taking the payment in flesh?"
Silas tried to push past Elias to enter the shack.
Elias didn't move. He leaned against the doorframe, using it to support his weak legs, but his eyes were sharp.
"The debt is fifty silver," Elias said.
"Interest," Mik the accountant chirped, tapping his ledger. "Sixty silver now. Late fees."
Elias looked at Mik. He accessed the memories of the body. The original Elias had been a Royal Scribe before his fall. He knew the law. He knew handwriting. He knew numbers.
"Let me see the ledger," Elias said.
The gang paused. The drunkard usually begged or cried. He never asked to check the math.
"You think you're smart?" Silas scoffed, but he nodded to Mik. Mik held the book open, smugly pointing to the row marked Thorne.
Elias glanced at it. His eyes narrowed.
"You're using double-entry bookkeeping," Elias said, his voice gaining strength. "But you're lazy."
"What?" Mik blinked.
Elias pointed a dirty finger at the page. "The ink on the 'interest' column is fresh. You added it this morning. But the Royal Decree of Lending, Article 4, states that interest must be agreed upon in writing at the time of the loan. You forged this entry."
Elias looked up, staring directly at Silas.
"Furthermore," Elias continued, his voice cold and authoritative, "Your accountant is skimming. Look at the total at the bottom of the page. The sum is 400 silver. But if you add the individual debts listed here, it only comes to 380. Mik here has pocketed twenty silver coins from the boss and fudged the addition, hoping you're too stupid to count."
Silence descended on the snowy clearing.
Silas turned slowly to look at Mik.
Mik's face went white. He slammed the book shut. "He's lying! He's a drunk! He doesn't know what he's saying!"
"I was a Royal Scribe for ten years," Elias lied—he had been a merchant scribe, but the bluff needed weight. "I can add columns of numbers in my sleep. Do you want to take this ledger to the Boss and have him count it?"
Silas grabbed Mik by the collar of his tunic. "Is that true, you rat?"
"No! No! Silas, please!" Mik squealed.
Silas shoved Mik into the snow. He turned back to Elias. The contempt was gone, replaced by a wary suspicion. The drunkard had teeth.
"You still owe the fifty," Silas growled. "The Boss wants his money."
"And he will get it," Elias said calmly. "But not today. You need to go deal with your thief of an accountant. I will have the fifty silver in three days. Cash."
"And if you don't?"
"Then you can take the boy," Elias said, his voice flat. "But if you try to take him now, while your books are corrupt, I will walk to the Magistrate and report your Boss for tax evasion. I know where the bodies are buried, Silas. Do not test me."
It was a dangerous gamble. But Silas was a thug, not a thinker. He was rattled by the revelation of the theft.
"Three days," Silas spat. "If you don't have it, I'll peel the skin off your back."
Silas kicked Mik in the ribs. "Get up. We're going to see the Boss."
The three men dragged the weeping accountant away into the snow.
Elias watched them go until they disappeared into the treeline. His knees finally gave out, and he slid down the doorframe, sitting heavily on the floor. His heart was hammering like a trapped bird. His body was screaming for alcohol to calm the nerves.
He gritted his teeth and forced the craving down.
He turned his head. Leo had poked his head out from the blanket. The boy was staring at Elias with his mouth slightly open. He had heard everything. He had seen his father—the man who usually cowered and wept—use words like a sword to drive the monsters away.
Elias stood up, using the wall for support. He closed the door.
He looked at the boy. "Leo."
The boy flinched, but less than before.
"We need to clean this house," Elias said, walking to the table and picking up a rag. "And then, I am going to make us some food. Real food."
Elias looked at the dirty shack. Three days to earn fifty silver. In this economy, that was a fortune. But he had the skills of a Scribe and a will of iron.
The work had begun.