That morning held no sun for Liora.
Light did pass through the stone windows of Salverin Manor, but to her, everything felt dim, heavy, and distant. Her body still trembled with the leftover cold from the night before. The remains of fear clinging to her tiny bones made every movement feel like dragging invisible chains.
The small muscles in her back and legs felt tight—like bowstrings pulled too many times, stretched close to breaking. She tried to rise from her thin mat—more like a worn rag than a bed—but her body refused. Her legs shook. Her hands trembled.
Yet the first thought that formed was:
"I have to get up… if I'm late… they'll be angry."
She didn't know who had taught her that reflex first. Perhaps a kitchen maid who once still held a shred of humanity. Or maybe it was simply the world, silently informing her that there was no room for weakness in this house.
Her breath hitched as she stood. Her knees bent weakly. Time seemed to cling to her skin, slowing her steps. But she forced herself forward, pulling in each breath as if she were dragging needles from her flesh.
When she opened the door to her room—a small space that used to be a broom closet—the cold corridor wind greeted her, slicing at her skin like thin glass.
A new day had begun, yet it already felt like punishment.
---
She entered the kitchen as usual. The servants were already there, whispering and giving her sharp glances as she walked in. They didn't need to say anything; their eyes were enough:
"The family stain has arrived."
Liora immediately picked up the worn rag that served as her daily "responsibility." Her body still swayed, but she pushed through it.
She wiped the tables, lifted buckets, moved small glass bottles filled with the kitchen's preparations usually reserved for the manor's noble meals.
Her vision began to blur as she reached the high glass shelf. She reached for a small bottle filled with red liquid—an expensive concoction for the evening banquet.
Servants usually never let Liora touch it, but this morning they were busy, and no one watched her.
Or perhaps… they intentionally let it happen.
Her tired little hands trembled. She tried to hold the bottle with both hands… but her fingers lost their strength.
The bottle slipped. Fell.
CRAAAK.
Shattered.
Red liquid spread across the marble like spilled blood.
For a moment, the world stopped.
The kitchen servants turned. Their breaths hitched. On their faces flickered something between shock and a small, satisfied joy—as though they had long been waiting for Liora to make this mistake.
One of the maids quickly shouted, loud and sharp:
"Stop everything! Call Duke Salverin!"
The blood drained from Liora's body.
She wanted to speak, to apologize—but her voice died in her throat. She couldn't even cry. Fear, hardened over time, froze every human reaction she had.
When the heavy footsteps echoed from the corridor, Liora felt her heart drop. Each step sounded like the door of hell being slowly opened.
---
Duke Salverin Arrives
Duke Reinhart Salverin, the head of the family—a man with eyes cold as black steel—entered the kitchen.
He looked at the shattered glass. Then at Liora.
His expression changed immediately: no shock, no disappointment.
Only a deep-seated hatred he had carried for this child. A hatred never spoken aloud but always visible: he never wanted Liora to be born.
He never wanted Liora to exist.
"You…" His voice was low, trembling not with emotion, but with contempt.
"A lowly servant, just like your mother. You can't even handle a simple task."
Liora lowered her head, her body trembling harder.
"F-Forgive me…" Her voice was tiny, almost nonexistent.
"I… didn't mean to…"
"Didn't mean to?" The Duke stepped closer.
"Nothing in this house happens by accident."
His fingers gripped her chin harshly, forcing the child to look up. His short nails pressed into her small cheeks, sending sharp pain through her skin.
"Listen well, Liora," he said, each word slapping her soul.
"Even your breathing is already a mistake."
Liora's body weakened. She wanted to pull away. But his grip was so tight—like he wanted to carve the fear into her bones.
Then the slap came.
Not enough to break anything—but strong enough to knock a six-year-old child to the hard floor, leaving her cheek burning and her head spinning.
The kitchen servants lowered their heads, pretending to be busy, pretending not to see. But Liora knew they enjoyed this moment.
The Duke looked at them.
"Clean this mess," he said flatly.
"And take the child to the lower room."
The servants stiffened. Even they rarely entered that room.
"That is an order."
And Liora's world collapsed right then.
---
They dragged her down the stone hallway toward the basement. The air grew colder, damper. The light faded until it felt like they were walking into the jaws of a shadow.
The old wooden door—thick, rough, its iron edges rusting—creaked open.
The room was dark. No windows. Only cold stone that smelled of moisture and age.
The servants shoved Liora inside. Her small steps stumbled; she nearly fell.
"This is your punishment," one servant said in a low voice, almost pleased.
"The Duke said no food. No water. Until morning."
The door closed.
BRAK.
The sound echoed.
Silence swallowed everything.
Darkness consumed the rest.
Liora stood frozen, hugging herself. Her breath shook, broken. Her body trembled again—but this time it wasn't just the cold that hurt.
It was abandonment.
For a moment, she wondered if this was what dying felt like.
No sound.
No light.
No one.
Only herself.
And the dark room that felt ready to devour her.
---
Minutes passed without measure. The room felt like it had no time. As if night lived inside the walls, not outside. As if the world had forgotten that a small child was locked within it.
Liora first tried to sleep, resting her head against the cold stone. But every time she closed her eyes, she felt a deeper darkness—one that lurked behind her eyelids.
Like something breathing with her.
She cried.
Quietly.
Without sound.
Because she knew: no one was coming.
Her tears soaked her knees, forming a small damp circle on her ragged dress. The fabric clung damp and cold against her skin.
Her stomach twisted. Hunger from the morning grew into sharp, stabbing pain. Her throat was so dry it felt like burning.
Sometimes she thought she heard something in the darkness—but she couldn't tell if it was real or just the imagination of a terrified child:
Soft whispers…
Faint footsteps…
Another breath…
She covered her ears tightly, curling into herself.
"I… don't want… the dark…" she whispered, her voice breaking.
"I'm scared…"
In that darkness, she remembered the Duke's words:
"Even your breathing is already a mistake."
It cut deeper than the slap.
Deeper than hunger.
Deeper than cold.
Because for the first time in her six years of life, a child thought:
"Maybe it really would be better if I didn't exist…"
And that was the cruelest wound of all.
---
Toward the End of the Night
Liora didn't know how long she had been there. The outside world had likely eaten dinner, gone to bed, drifted into dreams.
While she lay on the stone floor, shivering and exhausted, as though her tiny life was flickering out.
She prayed for morning to come quickly.
But also… feared that morning.
Because morning meant facing them again.
Facing the Duke's cold gaze.
Kael's insults.
Lucien's empty stare.
The servants who looked at her like trash.
And in that dark room, Liora began to understand something:
The world wasn't waiting for her to grow.
The world was trying to break her before she even had a chance.
In her despair, her body finally collapsed onto the floor, lying curled as she closed her eyes.
Darkness welcomed her.
Like cold arms pulling her close.
Like something that had been watching her for a long time.
But for the first time—
that darkness felt… familiar.
As if the world wanted to extinguish her.
Or…
Awaken her into something they would never be able to destroy.
--