Born in Chains, Bound by Fire

"She took her first breath in a world that did not want her."

Charles Thomson stood outside the chamber door, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and the flickering candle wax melting in the sconces along the dimly lit hall. From inside, he heard the sharp cries of a newborn his daughter.

His daughter.

The word tasted bitter in his mouth.

A child should be a blessing, an heir, a legacy carried forward. But for Charles, this birth was a curse written in flesh and blood. He did not hate the child he did not even know her but he hated what she had taken from him.

The letter in his hands crumpled as he tightened his grip. His father’s decree was short and cruel:

"Your choices have cost you, Charles. The name Thomson is one of honor, and you have stained it with scandal. Your inheritance will be reduced. You are no longer my heir in full."

A lifetime of expectation unraveled in a single page. He could already hear the whispers of the aristocracy, see the sneers of the men who once shook his hand in camaraderie. Charles Thomson, the fallen son. The man who let love cost him everything.

His father had given him a choice long ago: marry a woman of noble blood, secure the family's future, and inherit the fortune meant for him. But Charles had chosen Rosa instead beautiful, passionate Rosa, who carried his child before the church had sanctified their union. And for that, he would never be forgiven.

"Charles?"

His wife's voice was weak, barely above a whisper. The door creaked open, revealing Rosa lying in the bed, pale and exhausted, her dark hair damp against her forehead. In her arms, wrapped in soft linen, was the child.

For a moment, his resolve wavered.

She was small so small. Her tiny fingers curled against Rosa’s chest, her face serene despite the world that had already rejected her. There was no malice in her, no knowledge of the weight she carried.

Charles took a slow step forward. He should have felt something. Love? Pride? Instead, all he felt was anger at the injustice of it all.

"Look at her," Rosa murmured, tilting the baby toward him. "She’s beautiful, Charles."

Beautiful.

Perhaps.

But beauty did not change the fact that because of her, the doors of the aristocracy had slammed shut in his face. His father had made sure of that.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face, before whispering the only thing that came to his mind.

"She should not have been born like this."

A flicker of hurt crossed Rosa’s face, but she did not argue. What was there to say?

Maria Rosa Thomson had entered the world as a burden. And Charles, no matter how hard he tried, could not bring himself to embrace the fire she would become.

"But fire does not ask to be lit, It simply burns"

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