Chapter 3: Who are you

Before the High Seat of Ferenwyld, Kaz stood in the great chamber like a smear of ink on a marble page hat in hand, coat hanging from his narrow shoulders, eyes fixed not on the guards or the crowd, but on the noble seated above.

He tilted his head back. Not defiant, never defiant, but not afraid either.

And then he began to speak.

“I remember the river.”

“It was always grey. Not silver. Not blue. Just grey, like a memory gone stale. I was born beside it. In the Brindle Ward, down where the fog settles and no one comes unless they’re looking for something they’ve already lost.”

“My mother worked the looms, until the cough took her voice, and then her hands, and then… everything else.

My father?” He paused, letting the word hover.

“He wasn’t mine to begin with. He was hers, once, and I think he stayed because he loved the way she folded letters, not the way she spoke.”

“He left before the thaw. Took his boots and a coin with my name scratched into it. Said he’d send word from the other side of the bridge. That bridge washed out three years ago. No word ever came.”

“I remember the bread lines. I remember the priest who sold soup for secrets. I remember lying about my age to get into the workhouse and lying about my name to get out.”

“They say boys like me vanish. That the city eats us. But the city never swallowed me. I watched it. I listened. I learned it.”

“I watched the men who make the laws forget their own. I saw merchants measure life in weights of grain. I heard the laughter of children born lucky enough to never notice where the shadows fall.”

“And I thought, why not me? Why not the boy with nothing? Why not the orphan with a tongue too clever and fingers too fast?”

“I learned how to smile so people wouldn’t ask. I learned how to run before they thought to chase. I learned that every lie, well-told, could be more useful than the truth ever was.”

“And then, one day, I stopped running.”

“Because I realized something.”

He looked up, and for a moment, it was no longer a boy standing there but a presence, sharp, sure, and impossible to dismiss.

“Everyone in this world plays a part. Most don’t even choose it. They wake up one day and find themselves cast as beggars or barons or bystanders, reciting lines someone else wrote.”

“But I won’t be a footnote. I won’t be a background figure in someone else’s story.”

“I will be the tale they whisper in courtrooms and gutters alike. I will be the trick, the twist, the name that turns the page.”

“That is who I am, my lord.”

Kaz straightened his spine.

“Not a thief. Not a liar. But a story you’ll never forget.”

A quiet descended after Kaz’s final word. The kind of silence that follows thunder, the moment before you realize the house is still standing.

The nobleman atop the dais steepled his fingers, the ring on his right hand catching the light like a tiny sun trapped in gold.

His face was pale and composed, carved in patience and politics, but his eyes... his eyes flickered, quick and alive.

“You speak well,” the noble said, voice like parchment pressed smooth. “Too well, some might say. Polished words on a raw frame. Tell me, boy, how many of those words are yours, and how many did you borrow?”

Kaz tilted his head, as if pondering a philosophical matter.

“I find words lying about all over the city, my lord. Most people throw them around like kitchen scraps. I just gather what they leave behind.”

The noble let out a soft hm.

“A collector of scraps, then. Are you also a collector of truths? Or do you prefer the kind of story that changes depending on the listener?”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Kaz gave a modest shrug.

“Truth is a fine coat, my lord. Keeps you warm, fits well. But it doesn’t always suit the weather. Sometimes, you need something... flashier.”

The noble smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“And what weather are you dressing for now?”

Kaz’s grin returned, sly and slippery.

“Whatever forecast your lordship prefers. Rain? I’ll be thunder. Sunlight? I’ll be the shadow it forgets.”

“A charming answer,” said the noble. “Though charm, I’ve found, is often the coin of beggars and scoundrels.”

“And yet,” Kaz replied lightly, “both beggars and scoundrels are remarkably good at surviving. Nobles, on the other hand... have rather unfortunate luck with stairs, poisons, and weddings.”

That earned him a slow blink from the noble. Then, a chuckle, soft and dry as a file on stone.

“You’re bold,” said the noble. “Too bold for ten. Too clever, by half.”

Kaz looked up at him like a cat might look at a chandelier , interested, but pretending not to be.

“If it pleases your lordship, I was told cleverness was a virtue in court. Though perhaps I was misinformed. The fellow who told me had a tendency to exaggerate. Claimed he once drank soup from a crown.”

The noble leaned forward now, just enough for the light to catch the edge of his expression.

“Cleverness is a virtue, yes. But there’s a difference between a clever tongue and a useful one. Between a boy with a story and a boy with... potential.”

Kaz bowed his head, but not low. Never too low.

“If your lordship is asking whether I bite only when cornered. But I fetch, too, if the whistle’s pitched right.”

A murmur went through the court, half laughter, half disbelief.

“And if I asked you,” the noble said slowly, “to fetch something rare. Say loyalty? What would you bring me?”

Kaz didn’t miss a beat.

“The story of a boy, plucked from fog and lies, who became something more than anyone expected. A good story, told often enough, tends to become true.”

Silence again.

Then the noble sat back, regarding the boy like a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved.

“Very well, storyteller. I’ll grant you this there’s something in you. Whether it’s gold or rust, I’ll find out.”

Kaz smiled, all teeth and ambition.

“I’d expect nothing less, my lord.”

And in the echo of the chamber, something shifted.

Not a decision.

But the beginning of a wager.

One made not with coin but with stories.

And Kaz, of course, had plenty to spend.

A silence took hold of the court right then , not the sort of silence that carries weight or reverence, but the kind that happens when a roomful of important people collectively forget how conversations are supposed to work.

It was the kind of silence usually followed by a kerfuffle.

“I... I suppose we’ll need to verify his background,” said one of the advisors at last, a man so thin he looked like someone had tried to wish a broom into a person and only got halfway.

He cleared his throat, which sounded vaguely like someone stepping on a packet of crisps.

Kaz turned to him with a bright smile and the expression of a child who absolutely knew where your wallet had gone but wanted you to feel good about figuring it out yourself.

“Oh, background! Yes, it’s a bit smudged, I’m afraid. I spilled soup on it. But if you hold it up to the light, you’ll find at least two tragic backstories, one medium-sized vendetta, and a legally binding prophecy involving an accidental goose.”

“...Goose?” asked another advisor warily, as if he’d been personally wronged by poultry in the past.

“Accidental,” Kaz said gravely. “Important distinction.”

There was a polite coughing fit from the corner. It belonged to Lady Merivelle, the nobleman’s wife, who had until now maintained the dignified silence of someone preparing to disown the entire building.

But now, one hand covered her mouth and her eyes sparkled in the universal language of trying not to laugh in church.

The nobleman turned slightly in his seat, not quite looking at her.

“You find this amusing?”

She blinked. “I find it inevitable.”

“Very diplomatic,” Kaz said approvingly. “I once tried diplomacy. It didn’t take. Turned out the other party preferred shouting and crossbows.”

One of the junior clerks looked up from his notes, utterly lost.

“Did... did you win?”

“No,” said Kaz, “but I got to keep the crossbow.”

The court was wobbling now, like a tower made of jelly and constitutional responsibility.

The nobleman raised a single brow, the kind that could crush rebellions.

“And what do you want, Kaz?”

Kaz blinked, as if surprised the question hadn’t already been asked.

“Oh, the usual. A place to sleep, regular meals, dramatic lighting. Perhaps a tragic pet of ambiguous origin. And, ideally, a mentor figure with a secret past who dies at the end of Act Two.”

The nobleman gave him a long look.

It was the kind of look usually reserved for unexpected chess moves or desserts that are on fire.

A greying advisor leaned in now, muttering to his colleagues.

“He’s either a genius or a lunatic.”

“I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive,” said another, eyeing Kaz like one might eye a talking badger wearing a monocle and claiming to be your uncle.

Kaz, naturally, had heard every word.

He leaned forward on his toes, beaming like a lighthouse with secrets.

“I promise I’m quite mad, sirs. But it’s the productive kind. I channel it into literacy and light larceny.”