Mornings were for labor. Boys to the woodshed. Girls to the laundry. Orphans had no rights to argue otherwise.

Akari hated the woodshed. The hatchet was too big for him, the logs too heavy. His fingers blistered quickly and bled often.

So Corin taught him tricks.

“Split it at the knot,” he’d whisper. “See that grain? Like a weakness in armor.”

Sometimes Corin did the chopping for him and took the beatings later without protest. Akari would patch his hands with pine sap and wrap them in scavenged cloth.

One day, Mirae saw a matron smack Caeli with a reed cane for skipping during washline duty. The woman didn’t walk straight for a week after Mirae found her alone.

No one ratted.

The next day, Rael marched into the head office with ink-stained palms and a forged note requesting “additional warmth” for the girls’ quarters.

She didn’t get it.

But that night, someone—probably Corin—set fire to the matron’s slippers.

They all agreed not to ask questions.