Rafe had learned many things in his years working for Cassian Calder, but one lesson had been etched deeper than most during the months that followed the accident: there were rules in Blackthorn Estate that did not exist anywhere else in the world, and all of them revolved around a blind girl who refused to be fragile.
The blindness lasted six months.
Not a day less.
Not a moment softened by false hope or premature optimism.
From the beginning, the doctors had spoken carefully, explaining neural trauma, swelling, and recovery windows in the same measured tones they reserved for patients whose futures could not be promised.
Cassian had listened without interruption.
No questions. Just stillness.
Rafe had learned by then that when Cassian went quiet like that, decisions were already being made—cleanly, irrevocably, beyond negotiation.
The doctors finished their explanations to the sound of their own breathing, and when silence settled, Cassian had given a single instruction.
She would recover at Blackthorn Estate.
That decision altered the course of everything that followed.
The mansion sat beyond the city, secluded by design rather than accident, its grounds sprawling and meticulously controlled, its security layered so deeply that most people who worked there never fully understood how much of the outside world had been deliberately kept away. It was not merely a residence, but a stronghold disguised as refinement, built for privacy, silence, and absolute control.
And for six months, it became her entire world.
At first, she barely moved without assistance.
Someone was always half a step behind her. A hand hovering near her elbow. A voice offering direction she hadn't asked for. The estate was too vast, too unfamiliar, its ceilings too high and its corridors too long for a body still learning how to exist without sight.
So she adapted.
She adjusted.
Before she memorized the layout, she memorized the sound.
Blackthorn Estate had a voice if you listened closely enough. Marble answered with a sharp, clean echo. Wood absorbed and returned her steps in a low, steady thud. Stone corridors carried sound forward like a tunnel, stretching it thin and distant. Even the air shifted from room to room—cooler near the west wing where the glass faced the sea, warmer in the library where heavy curtains muted everything into softness.
She walked slowly at first. Then deliberately.
Counting.
Sixteen steps from her bedroom to the first turn. Twelve more to the staircase. Three steps down before the banister curved. She traced distances in her head, building invisible blueprints out of rhythm and breath.
Therapy sessions began quietly. Carefully.
Specialists were flown in under strict confidentiality agreements—mobility trainers, neurological rehabilitation experts, sensory adaptation consultants. They arrived polished and professional, speaking to her in softened tones that bordered on condescension.
Every single one of them underestimated her.
They mistook blindness for fragility.
Rafe watched it happen over and over again.
He stood near the windows, arms folded, silent as the specialists outlined simplified exercises and cautious timelines. "We'll take this slowly," they would say. "No pressure." "We don't want to overwhelm her."
Then Mira would execute the drill perfectly on the third attempt.
By the second week, she was navigating half the east wing without assistance.
By the third, she no longer reached for walls unless she chose to.
Her progress unsettled them—not because it was miraculous, but because it was methodical. She didn't rely on touch alone. She relied on pattern. On logic. On discipline sharpened by something far older than this injury.
She mapped the estate in layers.
Step count. Ceiling height. Air pressure shifts near open spaces. The faint hum of the security system hidden behind the north corridor panels. The way her voice returned to her half a second faster in narrow passageways.
She noted the slight draft that warned of open balconies. The change in scent near the kitchens. The hollow resonance that meant vaulted ceilings above.
Blackthorn Estate ceased to be a place she merely occupied; it became something she mastered, something that unfolded beneath her awareness until its walls, corridors, and staircases felt less like architecture and more like extensions of her own body.
Within a month, she could stand at the center of the grand hall and turn her head slightly, identifying orientation by echo alone. She could reach the library in darkness faster than most sighted guests could manage in daylight.
The specialists stopped using gentle voices.
They began using words like "exceptional." "Unusual." "Advanced adaptation."
Rafe never corrected them, nor did he indulge their praise. He stood at the far end of the central corridor one evening and watched in silence as she walked its entire length without assistance, her posture straight and unyielding, her steps measured and exact.
There was no rush in her movement, no cautious hesitation disguised as confidence. Her pace was controlled, deliberate, a quiet declaration that she belonged exactly where she stood.
Blind, yes.
Helpless, never.
By the time she dismissed the final mobility specialist, Blackthorn Estate no longer felt like a cage designed for her recovery.