I sat at the big dining table, my little legs swinging beneath the heavy wood, barely able to reach the floor. The smell of roasted meat filled the air, but my stomach twisted in knots. My father’s laughter boomed around me, drowning out the voices of his wives, but I couldn’t join in. Something felt wrong.

“Father,” I said, my voice shaky but firm, “why can’t women rule? Why is it always you?”

The room fell silent. I could feel their eyes boring into me. My father’s smile disappeared, replaced by a dark glare. “Because men are superior, Cessalie. That’s how it is,” he snapped, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But women do all the work!” I protested, my heart racing. “They take care of everything!”

In an instant, he shot a look at my mother, who was sitting quietly at the table. She rose from her seat and came toward me, her expression unreadable. I trembled as she grabbed my arm, her grip like iron.

“Enough!” she hissed, dragging me out of the dining room. I looked back at my siblings—Rylan was pale with fear, Meliora’s eyes were wide, and little Kaelen just stared, confused.

Once outside, she spun me around and slapped me across the face with a force that sent me stumbling back. My cheek burned, and tears sprang to my eyes. “You will know your place!” she snarled, her voice low and fierce.

“Please, stop!” I begged, but my words only seemed to make her angrier. She slapped me again, harder this time, and I cried out in shock and pain.

“Stay in your limits!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the empty halls. Each slap felt like a knife cutting into me, tearing at my spirit. I pressed my hands against my burning cheeks, wishing I could make the pain go away, wishing I could disappear.

But all I could do was stand there, trembling and broken, feeling the weight of her hatred crushing me. I hated her for this. I hated him for making her this way. All I wanted was to be seen, to be heard, but in that moment, I felt more invisible than ever, trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t escape.

...****************...

I opened my eyes and gazed into the mirror, watching as the maid delicately applied blush to the very cheek where my mother had struck me for the first time.

“Lady Cessalie, you’re ready to go,” she said, her eyes lingering on my cheeks for a brief moment before she stepped back.

I turned my face toward the mirror, scrutinizing the reflection. “Thank you. The scar needs to be covered,” I replied, my voice steady despite the memories swirling in my mind.

My mother had always worn her wedding ring backward, with the stone towards her palm. Its cold, unyielding surface left its mark with each harsh slap—a cruel reminder that the bruises would fade, but the bleeding scar would never disappear. It was a testament to the love I once craved but never received, etched into my skin like a permanent reminder of her fury.

As soon as I left my room, I was met with my mother, elegantly dressed, her soft expression an unchanging feature that offered me no comfort. It was a mask of vulnerability and oppression that only fueled my resentment. I hated her for the way she accepted her fate, never raising her voice or fighting for her rights as my father's legitimate wife.

In Valkathra, a man cannot take more than one wife unless he divorces or his spouse passes away. Yet my father, a man of indulgence and deceit, had three mistresses. The very thought twisted something inside me, an anger that burned fiercely for all that he took from her without a second thought.

I loathed the resemblance between us, those same real eyes inherited from her that always betrayed her sadness. My hair, the coral hue I got from my father, was a constant reminder of a legacy I wished to escape. I never wanted to look like them, to carry their burdens and shame.

“Cece? Are you ready?” My mother’s gentle voice pulled me from my thoughts, her smile bright but hollow.

I nodded, keeping my eyes forward, and walked past her, feeling her presence linger behind me like a shadow.

So naive, her blind optimism is only a reminder of the cage she had built around herself.

“Cece, your father told me to pass you a message,” she said, quickening her pace to walk beside me.

I didn’t stop. “What is it, Mother?” My voice was flat, stripped of the warmth she might have hoped to hear.

“He wants you to be present in the dining hall today.” Her tone was light, but I could sense the underlying tension, the hope that this would mean something—something more than another display of my father’s arrogance.

I paused. Froze. I didn’t look at her.

Slap. Laughter. Mother.

That memory haunted me, a shadow that loomed over every meal I was forced to share with my family. Ever since that incident, I’d avoided dinner with them entirely. I couldn’t stand the sight of them sitting there, too afraid to speak, as if their silence could shield them from the reality of our lives.

Why? Because they're women? That’s why they can’t stop the violence?

My jaw clenched at the thought. “Mother, I refuse politely,” I stated, my voice icy as I tried to move past her.

But she grabbed my wrist tightly, panic in her eyes. “Cece, no! Your father said if you do not attend, he… will punish me.”

Fucking bastard! He knows exactly what gets under my skin. He knows how to manipulate me.

Finally, I turned to her. She looked nervous, her hands trembling slightly as she sought to regain composure. “What is the matter?” I asked, softer now, though I fought to suppress the irritation boiling beneath the surface.

She shook her head, her eyes darting away, as if the truth was a fragile thing she couldn't bear to speak aloud. “I’m not allowed to discuss it before he does. Please understand.”

“I understand,” I replied, rolling my eyes. The bitterness was palpable on my tongue. No matter how much he abuses her, she’s loyal to him till the end. It’s disgusting.

I could feel the weight of her fear, but it only deepened my resentment.

Why should she protect him? Why should she continue to endure the torment he inflicted upon us both?

My mother’s loyalty was like a chain, binding her to a man who thrived on power and cruelty.

“Cece, please,” she urged, her voice trembling. “It’s for the best—”

“For the best?” I interrupted, incredulity flaring within me. “This is about survival, not about what’s ‘best’ for you! How can you call it that when he treats you like this?”

Her gaze dropped, and I could see the weight of her acceptance crushing her spirit. I released a heavy sigh, torn between my anger and the sympathy I felt for her plight.

“Just… just think about it, okay?” she pleaded, her grip loosening but her fear still evident.

I wanted to scream at her, to shake her awake from the stupor she lived in, but all I could manage was a curt nod. I hated this cycle. I hated how our lives were dictated by a man whose whims were as unpredictable as the wind.

“Fine. I’ll go,” I muttered, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

“Thank you,” she breathed, relief washing over her face.

...----------------...

I was just about to enter the dining hall when I noticed my older brother approaching from the opposite direction. Rylan Evander Draevin stood tall, his athletic build accentuating his presence. His green eyes were a blend of our father’s dark intensity and his mother’s elegance, while his auburn hair mirrored hers in its vibrant hue.

As he got closer, his expression shifted from serious to a smirk, the corners of his lips lifting with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

He stopped in front of me, tall and dominant, but I refused to be intimidated by the noble aura he exuded. “Cece, what brought you near the dining hall, huh?” he asked, casually stuffing his hands into his pockets, as if the conversation were light-hearted.

I returned his smirk, feeling a spark of defiance. “Father wanted me here, brother.”

He hates it when Father’s attention shifts to me. As the rebellious and stubborn child, I was always the target of Father’s discipline, leaving Rylan to wallow in neglect—and I enjoyed it.

“Why would he want you here? You never shut your mouth,” he shot back, his smirk returning, though it lacked its usual superiority.

I stepped into the hall, and he followed closely behind, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor. “I’ll shut my mouth the day women start taking their stand,” I replied, my voice steady, even as I felt the weight of the atmosphere in the dining hall press against me.

Rylan scoffed, shaking his head as if my words were nothing but folly. “You really think that’s going to happen? You’re just making things harder for yourself, you know.”

“Harder?” I echoed, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Maybe it’s time someone made things harder for them. The status quo has been suffocating for far too long.”

He fell silent for a moment, and I could see the wheels turning in his mind. Rylan had always been the pragmatic one, the one who chose to play the game rather than challenge it. “You’re going to get yourself hurt, Cece,” he finally said, his voice low and serious.

I met his gaze, unflinching. “I’d rather be hurt than live in fear. At least I’ll be fighting for something.”

“Just… be careful,” he replied, the concern creeping into his tone betraying his tough exterior.

I nodded curtly, dismissing his worry. The dining hall loomed ahead, filled with the usual pomp and circumstance. My heart raced with anxiety.

On the dining table sat Rylan's mother, Anwen Lyra, my father’s first mistress. She had been his true love, but due to my father’s arranged marriage to my mother, they could never wed, leaving Rylan to bear the stigma of being illegitimate. Anwen’s raven-black hair framed her sharp features, her lime-green eyes exuding an elegance that outshone the others, and her tall frame, even taller than my father’s, dominated the room.

Beside her sat his other mistress—Amara Lythienne, with her platinum blonde hair and calculating hazel eyes.

Across from them sat their children, each one of them a reminder of the fractures in this twisted family.

Meliora Estelle Draevin, my older half-sister, her lustrous blonde hair falling perfectly, her hazel eyes warm and inviting, but I knew better than to trust that gaze. She always masked her true self with a veneer of kindness. Sitting next to her, Evalise Iliana Draevin, her little shadow, with her strawberry-blonde hair and brown eyes, ever the eager spy for her sister. She’d follow Meliora into hell if it suited her.

And finally, Kaelen Thorne Draevin, the bastard who had recently turned 18. His uninterested hazel eyes scanned the room, no doubt trying to make sense of the incessant gossip exchanged between the mistresses. His light red hair was ruffled, a sign of his casual indifference, but I knew better. He had ambition too, hiding beneath that mask of aloofness.

Ugh! I hate seeing their faces.

Every time I sat at this table, the tension was suffocating. The air thick with silent judgments and the weight of unspoken rivalries. I despised them all—each one was a reminder of the corruption and brokenness of this family, of the lies and betrayals that held us together.

And here I was, forced to sit among them, playing the dutiful daughter in a house full of pretenders.

...----------------...

Amara’s eyes landed on me the moment I stepped into the room, and I could see the irritation creeping onto her face. She always had a way of making it known just how little she thought of me. I took my seat calmly, feeling her stare but refusing to give her the satisfaction of reacting.

"Cessalie," she began, her voice clipped. "I wasn't expecting you here. What brings you to this table?"

I smiled, smooth and unbothered. "Well, Lady Amara, as the legitimate daughter of the Duke, this house is mine as much as anyone else's. I don’t need a reason to be in my own home."

Her eyes flashed, but she kept her composure. "Of course, but I just thought you had more pressing duties elsewhere, perhaps something more… important than this."

I tilted my head slightly, feigning a thoughtful expression. "Oh, there are always duties, but none as important as ensuring my presence in my rightful home. After all, what kind of daughter would I be if I didn’t keep an eye on things?" My voice was light, sweet even, but the weight of my words hung between us.

Meliora’s jaw tightened across from me, her hands clenching in her lap. I knew my words stung, reminding her of the difference between us—she, the eldest daughter but still illegitimate, and me, the one with the true claim. She would have said something, but she knew better than to challenge me directly. Instead, she sat there, her fury simmering beneath the surface, glaring at her plate.

Rylan, however, didn’t bother. He never got involved in these petty spats as long as they didn’t concern his mother, Anwen. And speaking of Anwen, she remained completely uninterested, raising her wine glass and taking a slow, deliberate sip. She had long since stopped caring about these dynamics—too lost in her own world to bother with such trivial arguments.

Amara wasn’t done though. "Your presence is… noted," she said, her voice a little sharper now. "But there are places in this house that don’t require your watchful eye. Surely, we are capable of managing ourselves."

I couldn’t help but chuckle softly at that. "I’m sure you are, but it's always good to have someone with authority nearby. Just in case." I let my words hang for a moment, my smile unwavering as I looked her directly in the eye.

Her expression soured, but she didn’t press further. She knew she couldn’t win this game with me. I was my father's only legitimate heir. I had every right to be here, and she knew it.

And that is enough for now.

"What is happening?" a heavy, cold voice came from behind me, and I could feel the familiar chill crawling up my spine. I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room had shifted, filled with an undeniable authority.

Everyone stood up immediately, myself included, though I didn’t meet his eyes. I didn’t need to. The weight of his presence was enough.

My father.

With his light red hair, now streaked with white at the temples, and those piercing, earthy brown eyes that never softened—not for me, not for any of his children, not even for his wives. To him, we were all pieces on the chessboard of power. Control was his only love.

Amara was the first to break the silence. "Your Grace—" she began, her voice tinged with respect.

But my father’s attention was already on me. "Cessalie," he said, his tone cool as he looked directly at me. "How are you?" He moved toward his chair, wiping his hands with a tissue after sitting.

I straightened my shoulders and looked him directly in the eye. "I am perfectly healthy, Your Grace," I replied, my voice clear, proud, and perhaps even a little arrogant. I wasn’t like the others who shrank under his gaze. I refused to.

No one among his children or wives dare to meet his eyes, but I am not like them.

He gestured for everyone to sit, still focused on me as he spoke. "'Your Grace'? I'm your father, Cessalie. You can call me that when we’re among family." His tone was softer, but only slightly. He was testing me.

I smiled politely, unbothered. "But I prefer addressing you by your position, Your Grace," I said, my voice smooth and controlled, keeping my polite smile in place.

The flicker of something in his eyes told me he noticed the slight challenge in my tone, but he let it pass. That was how our game worked. He thrived on control, and I thrived on making sure he knew I was the only one who could stand against it, even if only subtly.

“There’s no need for all this formality. We shouldn’t pretend to be loving when we’re not, right?”

I nodded, my expression betraying none of the turmoil beneath. With a small smile gracing my lips, I looked down at the empty plate in front of me, yet to be filled with food by the servant. It seemed he wanted everyone’s attention diverted to him; even the youngest at the table, the 15-year-old, straightened her back. She, too, understood the unspoken rules of this house.

Then he continued, “This also concerns Cessalie. She has turned 20 and isn’t involved in any housework either.” I looked at him, puzzled.

What does he mean I’m not involved in housework?

“I apologize, Your Grace, but I do have responsibilities in this house,” I replied, my tone steady. “I handle many matters no one else dares to touch. There are countless household affairs and numerous faults to fix. I manage them without bothering anyone. If you’re worried that I’m useless, I assure you that’s not the case.”

He shook his head, a cold chuckle escaping his lips—one that indicated his displeasure with my defiance. He never tolerated anyone arguing with him. “Cessalie,” he said, his voice low, “I’m not claiming you’re useless, but you haven’t been particularly useful either. I think it’s time for you to change that.”

Confused, I frowned, unable to grasp what he meant. I leaned forward, placing my hands firmly on the table. “What do you mean then?”

He leaned back, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’re 20 now; it’s a fine age for a girl to marry and start a family. Surely, you desire a home filled with love, respect, and equality, don’t you?”

His gaze was piercing, and I felt the weight of his words pressing down on me. He knows I detest the rules of this family. He knows I despise the members and the absence of genuine love and connection among us. But more than that, I had no intention of marrying. I refuse to end up like my mother, trapped in a life devoid of choice, unable to stand for herself.

“No,” I whispered, my heart racing. “I don’t want that.”

“You don’t have a choice, Cessalie,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding.

I gulped, the words wrapping around my throat like a noose. I struggled to find a response, but the truth was undeniable: no matter how much work I put into this house, I wielded no real power. All the authority rested with my older siblings, Rylan and Meliora. I was merely a pawn in their game.

“You will marry Duke Davian,” he continued, his gaze unflinching. “He inherited his title some time ago and is actively seeking a compatible marriage partner. Frankly, I can’t think of anyone more fitting than you.”

A wave of despair washed over me. I don’t have any power in this house. I am nothing more than a bargaining chip in their plans.

“Duke Davian?” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. The thought of being wed to someone I didn’t know, let alone loved, sent a chill down my spine. “What if I refuse?”

He leaned closer, his tone dropping to a menacing whisper. “Refusing isn’t an option, Cessalie. You will do as you’re told, just like everyone else in this family. Your desires don’t matter here; the family’s legacy does. You should be honored to be considered.”

Honored? The word felt like a dagger in my heart. Honored to be sold off like cattle? Honored to fulfill a role dictated by the whims of my family?

“I have dreams too,” I whispered, my heart heavy. “I don’t want to be married off to a stranger. I want something more than this.”

“You can pursue your dreams and desires after marriage, certainly,” he replied, his voice unwavering.

I clenched my jaw, unable to keep my frustration at bay. “But how does marrying a stranger of your grade make me useful to this family, your grace?” The last two words dripped with contempt, reflecting the bitterness I felt toward this arrangement.

He matched my tone, his eyes narrowing. “Because this will strengthen our ties with Duke Davian. He’s interested in you, and his role in the royal court is significant. Good relations with him could secure our position there, ensuring our family’s future.”

I couldn’t help but scoff. “Duke Davian is 26 years old. Don’t you think the more compatible partner for him would be my older sister, Meliora?” I shot a glance at Meliora, whose face flushed with anger. She had no intention of marrying anyone; she wanted to remain by our father’s side, the favored daughter, enjoying the privileges that came with it.

Yet, she remained silent, her hands balled into fists on the table as she glared at me. In this house, speaking out against my father was a dangerous game, and she knew it all too well.

My father shook his head, dismissing my suggestion. “No, no, Meliora has too much on her plate. She can perform magic, so she’s invaluable to our family. Unlike us, you know.” His words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Right, magic—this is all about magic.

My father couldn’t wield magic, nor could my mother. That left me with no access to the power that flowed through Rylan and Amara's children, the only ones in this household who possessed it. Rylan and Meliora held all the power, while I was left feeling like a mere shadow.

Magic. it always comes down to magic.

...----------------...

As soon as I reached my room, the floodgates opened. I vomited everything I had eaten, the bitterness rising in my throat like my anger. I stumbled back, collapsing against the cool stone wall, my heart racing. The taste of bile mingled with the remnants of my meal, a bitter reminder of the disgust I felt for my father’s plans.

What does he think of me? Just a pawn in his game?

The thought twisted my gut even more. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, a rush of anger and frustration coursing through me.

“I won’t let him control me,” I spat into the empty room, my voice sharp and defiant. The walls seemed to absorb my words, but I didn’t care. I was done being compliant, done pretending that this was how my life was meant to unfold. I didn’t want to marry anyone.

I paced the floor, my mind racing with visions of a future I refused to accept. I don’t want to be someone’s wife whose only purpose is to bear children and suffer in silence while her husband takes all the credit for our beautiful offspring. The very idea sickened me.

I could see it clearly: a life spent in service to another’s ambitions, my own desires smothered beneath the weight of expectation. The image of my mother’s resignation flashed through my mind, her sacrifices suffocating her spirit, and I refused to follow in her footsteps.

Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through my chamber door, followed by a familiar, sharp voice.

"Open the door."

Meliora.

I sighed, my patience already wearing thin from the conversation with Father. Nonetheless, I walked over and opened the door. She stood there, her face twisted in fury, eyes blazing with anger.

"How dare you bring my name into that trashy marriage proposal, Cessalie?" she hissed, stepping into my room as if she owned it.

I crossed my arms, unimpressed. "Oh please, Meliora. I didn’t bring you into anything. I’m not the one trying to throw someone else under the bus for the sake of appearances."

Her eyes narrowed, her fury barely contained. "Don't you dare turn this on me. You're just as pathetic, whining about the idea of marriage when it's a privilege to even be considered by Duke Davian."

I raised an eyebrow. "A privilege? Meliora, the only thing you’ve ever cared about is staying in Father’s good graces so you can continue basking in the luxury of being his favorite." I took a step closer, my voice low but sharp. "You’ve never lifted a finger to help this family or fought for anything in your life. You just stand there, smiling, playing the perfect daughter while you leech off his wealth and power."

Her nostrils flared. "And what, you think you’re better than me?" she spat, venom dripping from her voice.

"At least I don't pretend to be something I'm not." I met her glare with one of my own. "You don’t do anything useful around here, Meliora. You live in luxury just because you can do some shitty lame magic. You don’t take responsibility for any of the house’s affairs, you don’t care about anyone but yourself. So why don’t you just marry Duke Davian yourself, if you’re so eager to secure our family's position?" I stepped back, smirking. "It’d give you even more status, more wealth to flaunt. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?"

Her lips trembled with rage, but she stayed silent.

"But no," I continued, leaning against the doorframe, "you won’t do it because you’re terrified of leaving. You love playing the obedient daughter, playing Father’s favorite. It’s the only thing you know how to do."

"You’re just bitter," she sneered. "Bitter because Father trusts me and Rylan more than you. You’re nothing more than a tool to him."

I chuckled darkly, shaking my head. "Oh, I know exactly what I am to him. But at least I’m not selling my soul to be his puppet. I refuse to marry a stranger for power, for titles, for a name that means nothing to me. You might be comfortable with that kind of life, but I won’t be like you."

Meliora took a step closer, her face inches from mine. "You’re going to regret this. Father isn’t someone you can defy without consequences."

"Let him try," I replied coldly, unflinching. "I’d rather face whatever he throws at me than live my life shackled to a man I don’t love for the sake of this family's never-ending hunger for power."

Her eyes flashed with fury, but she had nothing left to say. She turned on her heel, storming out of my room with a huff, slamming the door behind her.

As her footsteps faded, I exhaled slowly, my hands trembling slightly.

She can hate me all she wants. But I won’t let them control my fate.

I was just about to close the door when a hand pressed firmly against it, stopping me.

I glanced up, and there she was—Lenora Theris. Cryion’s third mistress, the apple of his eye these days. a few weeks pregnant, already a mother to 10-year-old Elliora, and somehow still the most beautiful of all his mistresses, even in her mid-thirties.

Lenora and her daughter were the only two unproblematic souls in this entire wretched household. She never joined the family dinners or any banquets, always staying away from the drama. Probably because Amara despised her, convinced that she was Cryion’s true love.

Pathetic.

She smiled softly at me, her light auburn hair tied up in a messy bun, pale blue eyes holding that familiar, pitying kindness.

I hate it when people look at me like that. Like they feel sorry for me.

"What are you doing here, Lady Lenora?" I asked, stepping out of my room, not bothering to hide my irritation.

Her voice was as gentle as ever. "I heard from His Grace about the marriage proposal... He sent me to talk to you. He thought you wouldn’t listen to your mother, or the other ladies."

I scoffed, crossing my arms. "So, you're here to convince me to marry a stranger then?"

She shook her head gently, stepping closer. "I don’t want to convince you," she said, her voice softer than usual. "I just want to talk." Adjusting her robe around her shoulders, she hesitated before adding, "...Please."

For the sake of her being the only one who doesn’t stir trouble, I sighed inwardly and stepped aside. She entered the room quietly, her presence like a ghost in this house full of schemes. With a glance over her shoulder, she pushed the door shut behind us.

"What is it—"

Before I could finish, my words caught in my throat. My eyes widened as she let her robe fall to the floor, revealing her bare shoulders covered in deep blue and black bruises. The sight froze me in place, disbelief flooding through me.

I stepped closer, my hand reaching out, barely brushing the edge of a large dark mark on her arm. "Lady Lenora... what happened?"

She looked down at the bruise, her expression calm, too calm. "Probably a bit of motivation for you... not to get married," she said, her voice almost detached, as if she’d rehearsed this moment in her mind over and over.

"What?" I blinked in disbelief, my voice faltering. "I don’t understand."

Lenora sighed, her expression weary as she repeated, "It’s that... marriage is a curse, Cessalie." Her voice was filled with a bitterness that I had never heard from her before.

"I know," I replied sharply, "but that’s not what I asked. What the hell is wrong with your arms? Who did this to you?"

She let out a small, pained chuckle, though there was no humor behind it. "Your father did this to me. Nothing new. Why are you so shocked?"

"No!" I shook my head, refusing to believe it. "Those marks are fresh. He did this to you... but you're pregnant. He wouldn’t—"

"He did." Her voice was quiet, almost detached. "He enjoys it. Sadistic. Watching others in pain gives him pleasure."

My chest tightened, my thoughts spinning.

How could he?

Just when I thought Cyrion Draevin couldn’t sink any lower, he found a new depth of cruelty. Abusing a pregnant woman. His own mistress. The woman he supposedly favored.

"How could he?" I demanded, my voice rising in fury.

Lenora’s eyes filled with resignation as she gulped, "He doesn’t care, Cessalie. About me, about the child I’m carrying... none of it matters to him. And moreover..." Her voice wavered, and she hesitated before continuing, "He threatened that if I give birth to another girl... he’ll kill Elliora and the newborn together."

I froze. My stomach twisted into knots.

How is this man my father? Abusing a pregnant woman was horrific enough, but to threaten the lives of his own daughters—what kind of monster is this?

Lenora’s eyes pleaded with me as she continued, "I’m only worried about my daughter. He will marry her off to some man in the next ten years... and I don’t want her to suffer the way I’m suffering... the way you’re suffering."

"What... what can I do about it?"

"Cessalie," she said, stepping closer, "in this house, you’re the only one who fights back against your father. You’re the only one who challenges him. The only one who stands up for what’s right." Her voice was steady, filled with a desperate hope.

...----------------...