Maria's PoV
When I was fifteen, it started like any other day.
I woke before dawn to prepare Calla's chambers. Laid out her clothes—the blue dress with silver embroidery, the one that made her eyes look brighter. Drew her bath to the exact temperature she preferred. Arranged her breakfast tray with precision earned through three years of practice.
All while avoiding the Countess's eyes.
She prowled the manor like a wolf searching for weakness.
Any mistake—any tiny imperfection—and I'd pay for it. A slap if I was lucky. Hours locked in the cellar if I wasn't.
But that day, I made no mistakes. Everything was perfect.
I thought it would be a good day.
***
Afternoon found me in the courtyard, carrying linens to be washed. The soldiers were training below—practicing formations, sparring with dulled blades, running drills until sweat soaked through their uniforms.
Among them was Garrett.
Even after three months, he stood out. Not because he was the largest—though he was built like a bear, all thick muscle and solid frame. But because he moved differently than the others.
Precise. Economical. No wasted motion.
From far away he looked like a bear ...
When he swung his practice axe, it looked effortless. Like the weapon was an extension of his arm rather than something he wielded.
The other soldiers gave him space without consciously meaning to. Instinct recognizing something dangerous even when it wore friendly colors.
I watched for a moment before continuing my work. Servants who lingered too long drew attention.
And attention was the last thing I wanted.
***
The scream came from the gate.
High-pitched. Panicked. A horse's whinny mixed with human shouting.
I dropped the linens and ran toward the sound—along with dozens of others. Servants, soldiers, even nobles emerging from the manor to see what the commotion was.
A horse thundered through the open gates, foam flecking its mouth, eyes rolling white with terror.
A soldier clung to its back, barely keeping his seat. Another soldier was draped across the saddle in front of him—body limp, head lolling.
My half-brother, Carius.
The legitimate son. The heir. The precious child who could do no wrong in our father's eyes.
At first, I thought he was drunk. Not unusual—Carius spent most afternoons in taverns, drinking and gambling and generally being useless. The soldier behind him was probably escorting him home after another binge.
But then I saw the blood.
The soldier's uniform was drenched in it. Red soaking through grey fabric, dripping onto the cobblestones, painting the horse's flanks crimson.
And Carius—
His head was wrong. Misshapen. A massive wound split his scalp, bone visible through torn skin. Blood matted his hair, ran down his face, pooled in the soldier's lap.
The horse stopped. The soldier dismounted with frantic movements, already shouting. "GET THE PHYSICIAN! NOW!"
Servants scattered like startled birds.
I stood frozen, watching blood drip steadily onto stone. Each drop seemed impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
Then the manor doors burst open.
Count Haroth emerged at a run—dignity forgotten, robes flapping, face twisted with something between fear and rage.
"Carius!" His voice cracked. "My son! My boy!"
He reached the horse, grabbing at his son's limp body. The soldier who'd brought him tried to help, but the Count shoved him aside violently.
"What happened?!" Count Haroth cradled Carius like a child, blood staining his expensive robes. "Who did this? WHO?!"
The soldier—David, I recognized him now—stammered. "My lord, there was—a girl in the tavern—your son, he—"
"Speak clearly, damn you!"
David swallowed hard. His face was grey. Hands shaking. "Your son... he harassed a young girl. She was new to the area, didn't know..." He trailed off.
"Didn't know what?" The Count's voice dropped to something deadly quiet.
"Didn't know the laws of the land, my lord. Didn't know she couldn't... she grabbed a bottle. Smashed it against his head." David's eyes were haunted. "She was scared. Just scared."
Silence crashed down.
Count Haroth stared at his son's broken head. At the blood covering his hands. At the heir who wouldn't wake up.
Something in his expression shifted. Cracked. Reformed into something terrible.
"Where is she?" His voice was barely human. "Where is this girl?"
"Soldiers are holding her at the tavern, my lord. Along with the owner and—"
"Burn them."
The words fell like an executioner's blade.
David's face went white. "My lord?"
"BURN THEM!" Count Haroth's roar echoed across the courtyard. Spittle flew from his lips. His eyes were wild, unfocused, seeing nothing but his wounded son. "Burn the tavern! Burn everyone inside! I want ashes! I want screaming! I want—"
His voice broke into something like a sob.
"I want my son to wake up."
David looked at the other soldiers. They looked back. For one moment, I thought someone might object. Might point out that burning innocent people alive was—
But no.
One by one, they saluted. Turned. Mounted their horses and rode toward town.
To carry out murder dressed as justice.
***
I stood among the crowd of servants and soldiers, unable to move. Unable to breathe.
Calla was beside me—I hadn't noticed her approach. Her face was pale, hands pressed to her mouth.
"Father," she whispered. "He can't—they're innocent—"
But he could. And they weren't. Not in his eyes.
His son had been hurt. That was the only crime that mattered.
Among the soldiers still gathered, one stood apart from the others.
Garrett.
He watched Count Haroth cradle his bleeding son. Watched soldiers ride toward town to commit atrocity.
His expression was stone. But I was close enough to hear when he spoke—voice pitched low, meant for no one.
"Scum. He'll pay for this."
My breath caught.
I glanced at him quickly, then away. Pretending I hadn't heard. Pretending I was as shocked as everyone else and nothing more.
But I'd heard. And I'd seen his eyes.
Rebellion. Clear and burning.
Burning in rage.
But little did I knew this fire was going to burn everything I thought was invincible....