Osric followed Florena inside with the two children close at his side.
They walked down the narrow corridor toward the door at the far end. The orphanage smelled the same as it always had—old wood, boiled grain, faint soap. Familiar in a way that made his shoulders tighten rather than relax.
Florena knocked.
"Come in," a firm voice answered from behind the door.
Florena opened it and stepped aside.
Osric saw her.
Greta.
Seventy-seven years old now. Smaller than she used to be, her hair fully white, her back slightly bent—but her eyes were still sharp, still alive. She sat behind her desk in the small office that doubled as her bedroom, papers neatly stacked despite the clutter of the room itself.
Greta had always been serious. Always strict.
And always kind.
She had taken in countless children from the slums over the years. Children no one else wanted. Children with nothing but hunger and fear.
When she looked up and saw Osric, her eyes widened.
She stood slowly, studying him from head to toe—the bloodstained coat, the bandages, the exhaustion in his posture. Then her gaze shifted to the two children clinging to him, and finally to Florena's worried expression.
Greta walked toward them.
Florena opened her mouth to speak.
Greta raised her hand—
—and smacked Osric on the head.
"Ouch," Osric said reflexively.
He didn't protest.
He deserved it.
"Why didn't you keep in touch with us, you stupid, ungrateful brat!" Greta snapped.
She knew why.
That didn't make it hurt less.
Greta exhaled sharply and collected herself, her expression settling into something calmer but no less serious.
"So," she said. "Why have you shown up after six years, covered in blood, holding two children?"
Florena said nothing. She quietly moved to a cabinet, pulling out ointment and clean bandages.
Osric nodded toward the couch by the wall.
"Let me lay Sera down first."
He gently set the sleeping girl onto the couch and turned to the boy.
"Sit next to your sister while I talk to them."
"Okay," the boy said quietly.
Tarin sat down and carefully rested Sera's head in his lap.
Osric took a seat across from Greta and began explaining everything—what happened at the farm, how the children survived, and how he had become an adventurer.
Greta listened without interrupting, her face grave.
Florena, on the other hand, couldn't hold back her tears. She wiped her eyes repeatedly, her hands trembling as she prepared bandages.
When Osric finished, silence settled over the room.
Greta spoke first.
"That is truly unfortunate," she said. "And I think becoming an adventurer was a stupid decision."
Osric didn't react.
"But," Greta continued, "you did the right thing saving those children."
He nodded.
"Things are tight here," Greta said after a moment. "But you can leave them with us. I will make space."
Relief washed through Osric—quiet but deep.
He hadn't expected anything less from the woman who had once picked him up off the streets.
Florena had been like a second mother to him.
Greta was more than that.
She had been his teacher. His protector. His last safety.
She was the one who had taught him how to survive. The one who noticed his sharp mind even when soldiers dismissed him as useless. He wasn't a genius—but he had always been sharper than most of the children around him.
And that was why the guilt burned so badly.
He hadn't returned in six years.
He couldn't.
The orphanage held too many memories—of beatings from other children, neglect from most caretakers, judgment from soldiers who saw him as talentless. Only Florena had been consistently kind.
As a teenager, Osric had even resented Greta.
For not stopping the cruelty.
For not removing the worst caretakers.
Only later did he understand.
Backmill was the only orphanage in Lowbrook.
It wasn't large. It wasn't wealthy.
Greta couldn't care for dozens of children alone. And in Lowbrook, there weren't many people willing—or capable—of doing this work for so little.
Of the five caretakers under Greta:
Florena was kind.
Two did their jobs but didn't care deeply.
And two were cruel women who mistreated children they disliked.
Greta couldn't afford to fire them.
Understanding came too late.
They talked for a long time.
About everything Osric had been through.
About what had happened since he left.
Tarin fell asleep at some point, still seated beside his sister.
Greta and Florena were stunned by Osric's story.
He told them almost everything.
Except the System.
Florena broke down completely when he spoke about Ruben and the others.
"I can't believe those kids could be so cruel," she said through tears. "I knew they were troublemakers. I knew they bullied you—but still…"
Greta snorted softly.
"I'm not surprised," she said. "I always knew they were bad. Especially Ruben and Philip. That's why I kicked them out the moment they turned sixteen."
She glanced at Osric.
"I would've let you stay until eighteen. But you left the moment you could."
Osric lowered his gaze.
"I'm sorry, Mother Greta," he said quietly. "I had too much hate back then. I didn't want you to see me like that."
He clenched his fist.
"But I won't live like that anymore. Once I'm strong enough, I'll help you. I promise."
Florena hugged him tightly.
Greta smiled—a rare thing.
"I'm proud of you, kid," she said. "Just don't die."
When it was time to leave, Osric gently woke the children.
Sera immediately began crying, clinging to him.
"Don't go," she sobbed.
Tarin tried to stay strong, but tears filled his eyes.
"Can't we come with you?" he asked. "I can work. I won't even ask to be paid."
Osric shook his head.
"I don't have the time or money to take care of you properly," he said. "I wouldn't leave you here if I didn't trust them."
To the children, Osric was a hero.
To himself, he was just someone who had done what he could.
They hugged him tightly before letting go.
Osric turned away and left.
As he walked through the yard, bandaged and exhausted, he felt eyes on him—children watching, caretakers whispering.
Then he saw them.
The two caretakers who had tormented him in the past.
Their hateful looks shifted to fear as Osric met their gaze.
His hand tightened on the sheath of his sword.
'Someday', he promised himself.
'I will come back.'