Winter was always cruel in Valkathra, but that day, it was especially bitter. The sky stretched gray and endless above us, the air sharp enough to sting my lungs. Snow covered the courtyard in an untouched blanket of white, until we ruined it with our game.

Rylan led, of course. He always did. Meliora stood beside him, whispering strategies, her hands tucked neatly into her fur lined sleeves like the perfect lady she was expected to be. Kaelen, too young to lead but too eager to be left out, followed them like a shadow.

And me? I was never meant to lead. Never meant to decide anything.

But I tried anyway.

I built my own wall of snow instead of adding to Rylan’s. I shaped it carefully, patting it firm.

"Cessalie, stop," Rylan snapped.

I didn’t.

Meliora sighed. "You’re ruining the game."

"No, I’m not," I shot back. "I’m making my own. It’s better."

Rylan still noticed. His jaw tensed.

"Cessalie." His voice was sharp, impatient. "You don’t get to make the rules."

I ignored him.

And then I won.

It was a stupid thing. A ball of snow thrown too hard, striking his right in the center. His fort of snow was destroyed.

He hadn’t expected me to win. I wasn’t supposed to win.

Before I could react, before I could run, his hand lashed out.

Something sharp bit into my skin. I barely saw it, just the glint of a broken shard of ice clutched in his fingers. The pain hit a second later, sharp and burning, tearing across my cheek.

I hit the ground hard, the cold seeping into my bones, but all I felt was the sting. Hot, wet, seeping down my face.

The world blurred.

Snow. Blood. The taste of iron in my mouth.

Rylan let out a slow breath, shaking his hand like I was the one who made him do it.

"You shouldn’t have done that," he muttered.

Meliora sighed, stepping forward. "You made him mad."

My cheek throbbed, my breath coming fast, too fast. I pressed my hand to my face and it came away red. My blood.

Kaelen fidgeted beside me, but he didn’t say anything. No one did.

Then the maids arrived.

I expected them to rush to me, to take my face in their hands, to ask if I was alright, to do something.

But they didn’t.

They went straight to Rylan.

"Oh, young master," one of them fretted, brushing at his coat. "Please don’t be angry. It wasn’t worth your temper."

Another took his hand, the same hand that had struck me, the one streaked with my blood.

"Your hands must be cold," she murmured. "Come inside. Let’s warm them."

No one even looked at me.

The cold stung at my wound, but the pain in my chest was worse. Why is no one saying anything?

Mother arrived next.

She took one look at me, blood staining my dress, dripping onto the snow, and sighed.

"Cessalie." Her voice was clipped, impatient. "What have you done now?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Meliora answered for me. "She was being difficult."

"Disrespectful," Rylan muttered.

Mother’s gaze hardened. "You always bring trouble upon yourself."

That was all.

No scolding for Rylan. No punishment. Not even a question about why I was bleeding.

Father was told later. He didn’t even look up from his papers when he spoke.

"She needs discipline," he said. "A daughter should know her place."

That night, the maids cleaned the wound in silence. The sting of the stitches barely registered anymore.

The pain faded. But the scar stayed. A faint crescent moon carved into my left cheek. A mark that would never fully disappear.

That was the day I understood, I was the only legitimate child. But I was worth the least.

I exhaled slowly, eyes flickering to the mirror. The scar was still there. Unlike the others from my childhood, it never faded. A reminder of what happens when I step out of line.

Valkathra belonged to men. Every kingdom did. They ruled, we obeyed. There was no other way. I learned that lesson early, the day Rylan struck me for the first time. After that, everything changed. Fear, resentment, hatred, each one swallowed whatever love I had left for my family. I never looked at him the same way again. I never looked at him at all.

Fingers curled into fists. A deep breath, then another. I pushed myself to my feet and stepped outside.

The air was hot, the sky a pale, endless blue. And there she was, my mother, waiting.

I wanted to walk past her, pretend I didn't see her. But I couldn’t. In this family, in this prison, she had no one but me.

And yet, I hated her. Because she was the one who taught me to endure. To stay silent. To bow. She bore it too, her own scars hidden beneath layers of powder and silk. But no amount of makeup could erase what had been done to her. Or to me.

I loathed the resemblance between us. The same turquoise eyes that mirrored hers, always betraying that quiet, lingering sadness. My hair, a striking coral inherited from my father's red, was a constant reminder of a legacy I wanted no part of. I never wished to look like them.

Even her hair had lost its luster. When I was a child, it gleamed like the pale gold of early dawn, touched with hints of silver that caught the light just right. Now, it was faded, muted like an aging portrait left too long in the sun.

I couldn’t even hold her gaze for long. My eyes flickered away, but I stepped closer anyway. "Good morning, Mother."

She nodded, offering a small, tired smile. "Cece, your father expects you in the dining room today."

I frowned. Why me? I never joined them for meals. That was Rylan’s place. He was the one who discussed duchy affairs with Father. The rest of them, his mistresses, sat at the table like silent insults to my mother’s existence, their children nothing more than decorative statues.

I was the only legitimate daughter, the only one born of his marriage. In Valkathra, only the royal family was permitted to take multiple wives as no child born of royal blood should be illegitimate or bastard. Nobles and commoners weren’t granted that right, but my father didn’t care. He had three mistresses. One before he married my mother, two after.

"Cece, what are you thinking?" Mother’s hand closed around my arm.

I flinched, instinctively pulling back. She noticed and withdrew her hand, masking the hurt in her eyes. "Your father doesn’t tolerate indiscipline. Be on time."

I nodded, though in her world, indiscipline just meant me refusing to stay quiet about my father’s bullshit.

Without saying anything more, I stepped ahead. She followed, her steps soft behind mine.

We reached the heavy grand double doors. The guards on either side moved in sync, pulling them open without a word. I walked in after her.

Of course, he wasn’t here yet. How poetic. I was the one who had to be "on time," yet the man enforcing it couldn’t bother to show up himself.

Mother took her usual seat along the long side of the table, right next to the head, Father’s throne, basically. That spot had always been hers. The first chair on his right, angled just enough to feel like privilege but still a few inches away from actual power.

And beside her, like polished, poisonous statues arranged for display, sat the other two mistresses. Perfectly aligned on that same long side, all three of them dressed in silent competition, their smiles stiff and surgically placed.

Anwen didn’t even look up. Tall, rigid, elegant in a way that felt cold. Her dark hair, deep black with silver streaks running through the waves, was pulled into a low twist at the nape of her neck, so precise it looked sculpted. Those sharp jade green eyes stayed fixed on nothing, like the room was beneath her notice. She was the only woman in this house taller than Father, and somehow that made her presence louder, even in silence. She sipped her wine like she was bored of existing. Like this dinner was just another performance she’d long stopped clapping for.

Amara, though...Amara lived to talk. She tilted her head, platinum blonde curls falling just right over her shoulder like she practiced the move in front of a mirror. "Oh? She decided to join us today?" Her voice was honey laced spite, all sugar and venom. "We almost thought you’d forgotten where the dining room was."

Her hazel eyes raked over me, the smirk on her perfectly painted lips sharp enough to slice. Always too pretty for her own good, always ready to bite. A vixen, through and through, and no secret she couldn’t stand me.

I didn’t bother replying. She wasn’t worth the effort this early.

I pulled out a chair without waiting for a servant, the screech of it dragging against the marble a little too loud in the stiff silence. Amara’s gaze snapped to it like a hawk locking onto prey, her smirk deepening.

I sat down, trying to seem unfazed, but the moment I lifted my eyes, my breath caught.

Directly across from me sat Rylan, the duchy’s golden boy. Twenty-five, my older half-brother, and Father’s pride when it came to managing Ferendia. He never smiled. Not once in my memory. His face was all sharp edges and calm authority, like he was carved out of responsibility itself.

He was taller than even Anwen. Lean, athletic frame, dark auburn hair that always looked like it never moved out of place, and jade green eyes that were already locked on me. Watching. Judging.

I always managed to get under his skin somehow, walking out of line, saying the wrong things, not knowing when to shut up. But after that incident, we barely spoke. A few cold exchanges here and there, nothing more.

I hate admitting it, even to myself, but… he scared me. Every time I saw him, the scar on my cheek burned like it remembered.

"What happened, Cece?"

The voice came from beside him. Meliora.

My older sister. Beautiful, poised, and so insufferably perfect it made me nauseous. Her golden hair fell in soft waves, and her hazel eyes sparkled like she’d practiced that look in the mirror. A mirror she probably still kissed goodnight.

She was her mother’s mirror image, and just like Amara, she knew it. Knew she was pretty, knew how to use it, and knew exactly how to dig her manicured nails into your worst insecurities.

As stunning as she was, she was twice as awful.

I forced a smile, barely swallowing the bile that threatened to rise. "There’s nothing you should worry about, sister."

My other siblings weren’t there. Kaelen, Isla, and Evelyn. Too young, too irrelevant, at least in Father's eyes.

Kaelen was eighteen, the only boy after Rylan, which basically gave him a free pass to do whatever the hell he wanted. Isla was fifteen and Evelyn barely ten. Pretty little things with big eyes and bigger silences, tucked away from the table like decoration pieces that hadn’t been unwrapped yet.

I adjusted my posture, sitting up straighter, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. Their eyes always came with knives.

A servant walked by and poured wine into my goblet. I didn’t touch it.

Rylan was still staring, arms folded, his expression unreadable, except for that one twitch in his jaw. That was his tell. He was annoyed. Probably already writing a report on how I’d messed something up without even opening my mouth yet.

Meliora leaned slightly toward him, whispering something behind her hand.

Whatever.

The doors creaked open again, and every posture straightened like strings being pulled.

Footsteps echoed in sharp rhythm across the marble floor. I didn’t have to look. I already knew the weight behind them.

Duke Cyrion Draevin had arrived.

He passed behind me without a word, the air shifting just slightly in his wake. He smelled like the same godawful cologne he’d worn for years, strong, musky, suffocating. Like everything else about him.

He took his seat at the head of the table, finally ending the silent play we’d all been pretending wasn’t happening.

His eyes scanned the room once. Landed on me.

"You’re late," he said.

I wasn’t. But I didn’t say anything.

He didn’t wait for a response anyway. Just looked down at the documents laid beside his plate, picked one up, and started reading like none of us mattered. Not even the meal.

Mother sat still, her hands folded tightly in her lap, jaw set like stone. She didn’t look at him. She never did.

I clenched my hands under the table, nails digging into my palm, just to keep myself grounded. Just to remind myself I still existed.

He didn’t spare anyone a glance. Just started speaking.

"Rylan," he said, without looking up from the parchment, "the tariffs on the eastern grain merchants...did you get the new figures from Daemir?"

"Yes, this morning," Rylan replied, already sliding a sealed envelope across the table. "They’re higher than last quarter. They’re getting bold."

"They won’t stay bold if we pull half their ships for inspection," Father muttered, then made a small note with his quill. "Send a message to Councilor Vane. Make it sound diplomatic, but make sure the threat bleeds through."

Rylan nodded once. Efficient. Precise. Like this was just another morning ritual.

The rest of the table was silent. Of course it was.

No one interrupted when Father spoke business, not the mistresses, not Mother, definitely not children. They just sat there like expensive furniture. That’s how it always was. The conversations they had were flowers, festivals, what dress would suit the next party and they were not meant to disrupt the "real" matters.

I focused on eating. Quietly. My knife and fork moved slowly. If I pretended hard enough, maybe I could fade into the background.

But then, just as I started to chew the first bite of food I could actually swallow, his voice cut through the air again.

"Cessalie."

I froze.

The meat stuck to the back of my throat like it had turned to sand. I swallowed hard and slowly raised my head. His eyes were already on me, the kind of stare that didn’t ask, didn’t suggest. It just expected.

"Yes, Father?" My voice came out calm, but my fingers curled tighter around the fork.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, long enough for the tension to crawl up my spine and sit on my shoulders.

"You’ve turned nineteen."

There was no warmth in it. Just a fact. Like announcing a crop yield. Like I was part of the inventory.

I didn’t respond. I knew better.

He set the parchment down finally and leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.

"I was beginning to think no man would be willing to take you."

There it was.

No one at the table so much as blinked. Not even Mother. She just kept her eyes fixed on her plate like she didn't hear a thing.

"You’ve been difficult," he continued, as if he were discussing an animal he was trying to sell. "Disobedient. Unpredictable. But—"

He paused, almost like the next part was hard to process for him.

"There is one."

My jaw tightened. I didn’t say a word.

"A proposal has been made," he said. "He’s from the northern duchy. Davian Aurelthorn of Alderwyn."

I blinked. Once.

"He wants to marry you."

Wants? That word didn’t sit right. Nobody "wanted" me unless they wanted something from me.

"He’s noble. Wealthy. More importantly, he’s willing."

He said it like it was a miracle. Like I should fall on my knees with gratitude that someone out there was willing to deal with me.

I didn’t move. I didn’t flinch. But inside, my ribs felt like they were turning inwards, closing in on themselves.

And across the table, Meliora’s smile was practically glowing.

I didn’t nod. I didn’t even blink this time.

Instead, I set the fork down on the edge of my plate and looked him straight in the eye.

"Meliora is twenty-two."

That shut the table up.

Everyone went still. Even Anwen stopped swirling her wine.

"She’s beautiful. She’s obedient. She’s exactly what a man like Davian Aurelthorn would want, isn’t she?" I asked, voice calm. Too calm. "She’s everything I’m not, right? So why not send her?"

Meliora’s chair scraped sharply against the floor as she sat up straighter. "I don’t want to marry him."

I turned my head slowly to her, lips curling. "And you think I do?"

"You shouldn’t dare speak to Father like that," she hissed across the table, that carefully constructed poise cracking at the seams. "He’s doing what’s best for you, for all of us."

I tilted my head. "He’s selling me off like cattle. At least be honest about it."

"You ungrateful—!" Meliora started, but—

That’s when he moved.

Rylan.

The sound of his chair dragging back cut through the room like a blade. He stood up slowly, his towering frame shadowing over the table. His hands were braced on the surface, and his jade-green eyes pinned me like I was something feral that needed taming.

My body reacted before my brain did. I flinched.

I never flinch. But around Rylan, I never feel in control of my spine.

His voice was low, dangerous, almost a growl. "You will not cause a scene at this table."

His gaze didn’t shift from me, not once.

Everyone else went dead silent.

I swallowed, fingers curling, but I didn’t lower my head.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms so hard they left crescents in my skin.

"I will not marry him," I said again, louder this time.

Father exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his fork down with an audible clink. He was losing patience.

"You have Meliora. She's older, she's charming, she's everything a perfect wife should be. Why me? Why force me into this when you already have the perfect daughter?"

Meliora scoffed, arms crossed over her chest. "Perfect daughter? You really think you know anything about this family?"

I ignored her. I kept my eyes on him. My father. The man who decided my fate with the same ease he decided what wine to drink with dinner.

"You are not useful to me, Cessalie," he finally said, voice calm, uncaring, unfazed. His brown eyes burned with authority. "You have no magic. No skills. You are best wedded off."

My breath caught in my throat.

Yes. Right.

Meliora and Rylan both had magic. They were valuable. They could shape the world around them with a flick of their fingers. And me?

I was nothing.

Nothing but a pawn to be placed where he saw fit.

My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears, but I didn't back down. "That is not a reason to throw me away like I’m—like I’m worthless." My voice wavered slightly at the end, betraying me.

Father leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as if I were the burden he was forced to carry. "You are worthless, Cessalie."

The words hit me like a slap.

Meliora had a place in this family higher than even father’s own wife, because she was born right. With power. And I wasn’t.

That was the difference between us.

My chest tightened, the burn of anger crawling up my throat. I wanted to scream, to throw my goblet across the room, to do something reckless. But that would only prove his point, wouldn't it? That I was just an unruly daughter who needed to be put in her place.

I forced my voice to stay steady. "I am your legitimate daughter."

"And?" His stare was cold, cutting through me like a blade. "What use do I have for a legitimate daughter who cannot do anything?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

He had already decided. In his eyes, I was nothing but wasted breath.

My nails dug deeper into my palms, and I gritted my teeth. "Then why not marry off Isla? She doesn’t have magic either."

"Because she is fourteen," he said. "Do you hear yourself? You sound desperate."

I was desperate. Desperate to get out of this, desperate to make him listen.

I shoved back from the table, standing up so fast the chair screeched against the floor. "You can't do this to me—"

Rylan moved. I flinched.

He pushed back his chair. I barely had time to react before he started walking. Not towards Father. Not towards Meliora.

Towards me.

My stomach twisted.

Rylan never wasted movement. He didn’t make a show of his anger. If he was standing, if he was walking towards someone, it meant only one thing.

Punishment.

My breath came faster, but I did not sit back down. I refused. Even as he circled the table, coming closer, even as my hands trembled slightly where they rested at my sides.

I held my ground.

But my body remembered. It always remembered.

The scar on my cheek tingled, phantom pain from a wound long healed.

Every step he took made it worse.

"You think I’m just going to smile and nod while you marry me off to some stranger like I’m livestock?" I snapped, voice sharp, the kind that made silence crawl up everyone’s spine. My hands were shaking now, but I didn’t care. "At least pretend like I matter, Rylan. You’re always playing the heir, the perfect son, but you don’t get to decide what I do with my life—"

"You’re being reckless," he said coldly, still walking, closing the space between us slowly like a predator. "As always."

"I’m being honest," I shot back. "You all sit here acting like loyalty is earned with obedience. Maybe you like being father’s puppet, but I won’t."

He stopped right in front of me, towering. His height cast a shadow over me, and I hated that it made me step back.

"You should watch your mouth, Cessalie," he said, voice low. Not angry. Worse, controlled. "You think throwing tantrums in front of father makes you brave?"

"I think speaking up for myself makes me human," I spat. "But maybe you forgot what that feels like. Being father’s lapdog must’ve rotted it out of you."

There was a flicker in his eyes. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

I went too far.

"You’re out of control," he said, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. "And until you learn how to behave like a Draevin, you don’t deserve a seat at this table."

He looked to Father. "She should be locked in her chambers until she’s ready to give her answer. A proper one."

"You don’t get to decide that—" I started, but Father raised a hand.

"I agree," he said, not even looking at me. "It’s time she learned discipline."

Meliora smiled. I wanted to claw that smug expression off her face.

"I’m not a prisoner," I barked.

"You are what I say you are," Father replied without emotion. "Until you remember your place, you will remain behind locked doors. No visitors. No exceptions."

"You can’t—" My voice cracked.

"I already have."

And just like that, it was done. Decided. Like I didn’t exist. Like my voice meant nothing in a room full of power I could never match.

I was still standing, shoulders shaking, heart in my throat. But no one looked at me anymore. I was invisible.

One of the guards at the door stepped forward.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. My pride wouldn’t let me cry, not in front of them. Not in front of him.

But inside, I was already screaming.

The moment the maids approached me, something twisted in my chest. I took a step back, shaking my head.

"No," I whispered, more to myself than to them.

They grabbed my arms anyway.

"No—" I yanked one hand free, but the other was held too tight. Then the guard stepped in behind me, and all the fight in my body turned to trembling.

"I’m not going! I’m not agreeing to this stupid marriage. Let go of me!"

They didn’t.

One maid clutched my wrist like she was restraining a criminal. The other pulled at my arm, and the guard placed a hand on my back, guiding me toward the doors like I was filth being removed from the room.

"This isn’t fair!" I shouted, trying to twist away. "You never let me do anything I wanted! I just wanted to read books, not rebel! But you said I read too much for a girl—"

No one stopped them.

"You didn’t let me pick up a sword because girls shouldn’t know how to protect themselves! You said I was being difficult, when all I wanted was to be something!"

The hallway echoed with my voice as they dragged me out of the dining room. I kept fighting, kept trying to plant my feet, but the floor slipped beneath me and they kept moving.

"I don’t want to be a wife," I cried, "I don’t want to belong to anyone. I belong to myself!"

Still, they didn’t listen. No one ever did. My father didn’t even glance in my direction. Rylan sat back down.

The doors slammed shut behind me.

And I… was alone.

Again.

I was thrown inside like I was some kind of creature they needed to cage.

The door slammed shut behind me with a thick clang, the lock turning before I even hit the ground properly.

I stumbled forward and caught myself, then spun around and started pounding on the heavy wood.

"Let me out!" My fists hit the door again and again, the sting of impact crawling up my arms. "You can’t keep me in here! You can’t!"

But no one responded. Not even the maids outside. Not even a single voice.

"I didn’t do anything wrong!" I screamed, slamming my palm against the wood so hard it burned. "I’m not a criminal—I just–just–I don’t want to marry a stranger!"

I beat the door again, then again, until my knuckles ached.

"I didn’t ask to be born here," I whispered, eyes burning. "I didn’t ask for any of this."

The silence after that was louder than my voice.

I slumped against the door, breathing hard, heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape too.

It wasn’t about marriage. Not really. It was the fact that I was always the problem, always the disappointment.

Because I didn’t have magic.

Because I didn’t sit still like a proper girl.

Because I dared to want more than being someone’s beautiful little puppet.

I pressed my forehead against the cold wood, hands still trembling.

"I just wanted a choice," I whispered. "Why is that too much?"

It wasn’t long before footsteps came outside the door, heavier than a maid’s.

I stood up fast, wiping my eyes even though I wasn’t crying anymore.

I knew those footsteps.

The door unlocked with a click, and swung open slowly. Two guards stepped inside first, not meeting my gaze. One of them looked... regretful, maybe. The other didn’t.

Behind them came Father.

He didn’t speak right away. He never did. Just stared at me, eyes sharp and unreadable. That silence, it always made my skin crawl more than his words ever could.

"I gave you every chance, Cessalie," he said calmly. "Every chance to act with dignity. And yet, you screamed at your brother. At me. At this family."

I opened my mouth, but he raised a finger.

"Not another word."

He turned to the guards. "Hold her."

I tried to run. I really tried. But one grabbed my wrist and twisted it behind my back, while the other caught my waist as I thrashed. I kicked, screamed, cursed at them, but they didn’t care. They were used to this.

Just like me.

Father walked to the side of the room and pulled the leather strap off the hook.

The same one I’d seen too many times.

"I had hoped you would grow past this childish rebellion," he said as he approached. "But clearly, we still have lessons to teach."

I thrashed harder. "No—no, please, don’t—Father—!"

The strap came down fast, sharp and unforgiving. Across my back, then again across my arm when I tried to shield myself.

I screamed.

Not just from the pain, but from the humiliation. From the helplessness.

"Maybe next time," he said, striking again, "you’ll remember your place before shouting like a market whore."

I bit down on my scream, swallowing it until it turned into a choked sob.

It ended as quickly as it began. He handed the strap back to one of the guards without a word. His expression never changed.

He turned and left. Rylan passed him in the doorway. He didn’t stop. Didn’t glance back.

But he looked at me once.

Just once.

Blankly. Coldly.

And then he walked away.

I crumpled on the floor the second the guards let go, my body shaking, my breath broken.

I wasn’t crying.

The hallway was silent as they dragged me out of the room. One guard held me upright while the other walked just behind, in case I collapsed.

My back was burning. Every step made the wounds throb deeper, a reminder of how loud I’d been. How stupid.

When we reached the bathing chamber, the warm, perfumed air hit my skin like a mockery. Too soft. Too gentle. For someone who wasn’t me.

They didn’t even bother to look away as I was stripped down, not that I had shame left in me. They’d seen worse. I’d felt worse.

I sat on the cold stone bench, naked and still, while the maid, Rena, maybe, knelt behind me with a bowl of healing salve and linen.

I didn’t flinch when the cold cloth touched the broken skin. I didn’t hiss when the salve seeped into the lashes. I didn’t cry.

I couldn’t.

My tears had dried out long ago. Somewhere between the second punishment and the hundredth silence. Somewhere between learning how to speak and being taught never to raise my voice.

The bath steamed next to me, untouched.

They wanted me to soak. To clean off the blood. To look like I wasn't punished at all.

I just sat there. Eyes blank. Arms over my knees. A hollow, scorched thing dressed up as a daughter.

Rena’s hands were gentle. That was worse somehow. It made my chest tighten in ways I didn’t want to feel. It made me feel like a girl again, just for a moment, and that was dangerous.

Because girls cried, and I didn’t.

They could break my back. Strip me bare. Lock me up. But they couldn’t make me cry.

Rena finished tending to the last wound, her hands hesitant as she smoothed the bandage over a deep lash near my shoulder blade. I didn’t thank her. She didn’t expect it. We both knew the script.

She stood up quietly, grabbed the stained cloths, and stepped away.

I was still sitting there. Naked. Dried blood crusting over skin that wasn’t even fully mine anymore. Just something Father owned.

Steam curled around the chamber, soft and ghostly, but I didn’t move to get into the bath. I hated the way warm water made the pain sting sharper before it dulled. I hated how it made me feel clean when nothing inside me was.

The door creaked.

I didn’t lift my head, already knowing it wasn’t him. Father never checked. He punished and forgot. He left the cleaning to the servants.

The boots were too light for a guard. Too heavy for a maid.

Rylan.

I could feel his presence like a blade at my throat.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t say anything.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch him standing there at the edge of the chamber. His eyes landed on the angry red marks across my back, the ones he didn’t put there but never stopped either.

"Come to make sure I learned my lesson?" My voice cracked, raw and dry, but not from sadness. From rage.

He just turned and walked away.

Coward.

I stared at the empty space he left behind, my heart thudding like a scream I refused to let out. And then finally, I got up and stepped into the bath.

The water was too hot. It stung every open wound. But I didn’t wince.

I just sat there, knees pulled up to my chest, staring into nothing, while the heat wrapped around me like a lie.

This is my life.

Not because I chose it.

Because they decided I was only useful when silent. Pretty. Married off to someone who’d treat me like an investment.

I rested my chin on my knee.

Let’s see how long they can keep me locked in.

After the bath, i was sent back to my chambers. They locked the door behind me like they always did. A soft click.

That’s how they handled me. Punish. Patch up. Lock away. Not to keep me safe.

To hide me. To control me. To give the bruises time to fade before the guests showed up again.

I sat on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in nothing but the long robe Rena had thrown over me before they marched me back here. My skin itched where the bandages pressed too tight, but I didn’t move to fix them.

What was the point?

I looked around the room. Every wall the same shade of dull beige. Every shelf lined with the same damn books I’d already read a hundred times. Some of them I could quote word for word now.

I used to love them.

Now they felt like cages made of paper and ink.

Days passed. I couldn’t tell how many.

They brought food in. Left it on the tray near the door. Sometimes Rena came, sometimes someone else. None of them talked to me. They just slid the tray in and left before I could say anything.

Not that I tried.

I didn’t have the energy anymore.

There was only a window in the room. My room had a bed, a dresser, a book shelf and wardrobe.

I spent most of the time lying on the bed, books open beside me, unread.

My eyes would skim the same paragraph over and over and retain nothing.

Sleep came and went. I’d wake up not knowing if it was morning or night. I’d eat half of what they gave me. Some days, not even that.

My body hurt in a dull, constant way. Not just from the wounds. From the stillness. The emptiness. My mind felt fogged. Like I was disappearing inch by inch, and no one in the house even noticed.

No, not true.

They noticed but they didn't care.