The morning mist had long dissipated from the forest floor as Miesha retraced her steps to the riverbank. The air was still, but her senses were sharp—every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves felt louder than usual.
She moved quickly, eyes scanning for signs of Kaydence's presence.
Bloodstains. Broken branches. Footprints.
She erased them all.
With practiced hands, she scattered leaves over the blood, brushed away the prints, and bent the reeds back into place. The tree he had leaned against was wiped clean, its bark smoothed with damp moss.
Then she began to forage.
Feverroot. Violetleaf. Duskberry. She moved with purpose, gathering enough herbs to match the time she'd been gone. It had to look routine. Predictable. Unremarkable.
Lord Varrick noticed everything.
As she worked, she paused at the base of a willow tree and drew her dagger. With careful strokes, she etched a message into the trunk—broken, cryptic, but clear to those who knew the code.
Injured. Safe. Will return. Await reply.
She pressed her palm to the bark for a moment, then turned away.
The bushel of herbs was full, her satchel heavy with scent and secrecy. She didn't take the hidden path back to the estate. Not today.
She walked through town.
Head high. Pace steady.
Villagers glanced her way—some with pity, some with quiet reverence. A few guards nodded subtly, acknowledging her return. No one spoke. No one asked.
She was the Emberwyn girl.
And she had learned how to move through fire without burning.
The sun had risen fully by the time Miesha reached the outer gates of Duskmere. Her satchel was heavy with herbs, her steps steady, her expression calm.
Two soldiers stood watch at the entrance—one older, with a scar across his brow, the other younger, eyes sharp but kind. They straightened as she approached.
The younger one stepped forward. "You've been out longer than usual, Lady Emberwyn."
Miesha gave a small nod. "The frost made the roots harder to find."
He glanced at her satchel, then extended a hand. "Allow me."
She hesitated for half a breath, then handed it over. "Thank you."
He slung the satchel over his shoulder with ease, careful not to jostle the contents.
As they walked through the gate together, the town stirred around them—not with suspicion, but warmth.
A merchant stepped out from his stall, holding a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Lady Emberwyn," he called gently. "For you. Fresh bread. My boy's fever broke last week. Slime poisoning. You saved him."
Miesha accepted the bundle with quiet gratitude. "I'm glad he's well."
Moments later, a child ran up to her, clutching a large parcel of meat wrapped in waxed cloth. "From my grandmother," she said shyly. "She said you healed her bones. She can walk again."
Miesha knelt to accept the gift, brushing the child's hair back with a soft smile. "Tell her I'm thinking of her."
The soldier beside her watched the exchange, his expression thoughtful.
"You know," he said quietly, "you're more than a healer. You're your mother's legacy walking."
Miesha looked up at him, surprised.
He nodded. "Alyra would be proud."
She didn't speak—her throat too tight with emotion. But she gave him a small, grateful smile.
The soldier beside her spoke again, voice low. "There's been talk. About movement near the river. You didn't see anything unusual, did you?"
"No, a normal day of collecting herbs as usual."
They reached the estate gates, the iron archway looming above them like a silent sentinel. The soldier handed Miesha her satchel with quiet reverence.
"Stay warm, Lady Emberwyn."
She nodded, but before she could step through, he spoke again—lower this time, his voice edged with concern.
"Are you sure you didn't notice anything unusual near the river?"
Miesha kept her expression neutral. "No. Just frost and roots."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "There's been movement. The clash between demon clans has grown worse over the years. Rumor says their war might spill into human lands soon."
Miesha's grip tightened on the satchel.
The soldier continued, "A demon squadron was hit in a night raid. Brutal. Scattered. There's talk that their Commanding General went missing."
Her heart skipped, but she didn't let it show.
"I see," she said softly.
He gave a final nod, stepping back. "If anything changes… you know where to find me."
Miesha turned and walked through the gates, her pace steady, her breath calm.
The scent of roasted root vegetables and damp stone greeted Miesha as she stepped into the kitchen of the west wing. The hearth was still warm from the morning's meal, and the clatter of pans echoed faintly from deeper within the servants' quarters.
She moved quietly, settling her satchel of herbs into the corner of the pantry—tucked behind sacks of grain and bundles of dried thyme. Her fingers lingered on the satchel's strap for a moment longer than necessary.
Her mind was a storm.
The wounded demon. The soldier's warning. The missing general. The war pressing closer.
She straightened her shoulders and began the slow walk back toward the east wing, her pace casual, her expression composed. She passed the linen hall, the storage alcove, the narrow stairwell that led to the upper chambers.
Just before reaching the hallway that led to her corridor, a voice rang out behind her.
"Meisha!"
She stopped, turning toward the sound.
A young maid hurried down the hall, apron dusted with flour, cheeks flushed from the heat of the ovens.
"Sunya," Miesha said, her voice calm. "What is it?"
Sunya slowed, catching her breath. Her eyes flicked around the corridor, then settled on Miesha with a mix of urgency and concern.
Sunya stood breathless, her apron twisted in her hands, eyes wide with worry.
"Lord Varrick has requested you," she said, voice tight.
Miesha's heart didn't skip—it hardened.
The worry vanished, replaced by a familiar, simmering annoyance.
"The one day I manage to haggle out of him to get to myself," she muttered, rolling her eyes with a deep sigh, "to endure this life of hell… he finds something to want to complain about."
She turned to Sunya, her tone clipped. "What does he want?"
Sunya fidgeted. "Um… well…"
"Out with it, Sunya."
The maid flinched, then lowered her head. "Apparently he's been requesting your presence for a while and… and he's quite upset."
Miesha exhaled sharply, the sound more tired than angry.
She stepped closer, placing her right hand gently on Sunya's shoulder. Her left hand tilted the girl's chin, guiding her gaze upward.
"Sunya," she said softly, "I've been enduring his abuse for the past fifteen years. I can take it."
Her eyes held steady, full of quiet fire and sincerity.
"Where is Lord Varrick?"
Sunya swallowed. "In his study."
Miesha nodded once, releasing her grip. She turned, her steps measured, her expression unreadable.
The corridor stretched before her like a gauntlet.
And she walked it without fear.
Miesha stood at the threshold of Lord Varrick's study, the heavy oak door creaking as she stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the pale light filtering through the stained glass window behind his desk. Scrolls and documents were piled high, ink-stained and half-read. Varrick sat hunched over them, quill scratching furiously.
Meisha walked in and stopped just before Lord Varrick's desk, her posture firm, her eyes steady. He hadn't looked up from his documents, but his voice was already laced with venom.
"Where in the hell have you been?"
"Doing what I always do on my day off. Foraging," she replied, her tone flat with annoyance.
He set his quill down, finally raising his gaze. "You were gone longer than usual. Any reasons as to why?"
She didn't blink. "No other reason than it gives me peace of mind and keeps me in remembrance of my mother, and if I recall you kicked me out this morning."
That name—her mother—hung in the air like a blade.
Varrick's jaw twitched. He didn't press further. Instead, he leaned back and shifted the conversation.
"Well, your foraging day in the Nykon forest is going to have to be cut short by a couple of hours."
"Why!?" Miesha snapped, her voice rising for the first time.
Varrick slammed his hand on the desk, the sound echoing like a gunshot. He stood, circling around until he was face to face with her.
"There's a power struggle between demon clans," he said, voice low and seething. "Their war may spill over onto our lands."
Meisha's pride showed through her body language, irritating Lord Varrick more.
"You think you're clever," he said, voice low. "You think you can walk this estate with your head high, pretending you're not shackled. But you are, Miesha. You always have been, and you always will be."
She didn't flinch. "You mistake endurance for submission."
Varrick's smile was thin. "I mistake nothing. I've watched you for years. You wear your mother's face, but not her grace. She knew how to bend without breaking."
Miesha's jaw tightened. "She bent for no one. Least of all you."
That stopped him.
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Careful."
But Miesha was past careful.
"You've spent fifteen years trying to mold me into something she never was. Something she never wanted to be."
Varrick's voice dropped to a hiss. "She could have had everything. I offered her a life of power, of reverence. She chose a farmer. A nobody."
Miesha's breath came sharp, her voice rising, fists clenched at her sides.
Her breath came sharp.
Then, without warning, the words spilled out—fierce, unfiltered, final.
"I come to understand more and more over the YEARS; AS TO WHY MOTHER CHOSE MY FATHER OVER YOU!!"
The words sliced through the room like a blade.
Varrick's face twisted. His pride shattered.
He struck her.
The ring on his hand tore her lip as she fell to the floor, the impact sharp and sudden. Blood dripped onto the stone.
She didn't cry out.
She didn't move.
She just looked up at him—eyes burning, unflinching.
Varrick stared down, breathing hard. Then he leaned in, enclosing the space between them.
His hand reached for her throat.
She gasped, struggling against his grip, but he didn't tighten—just held her, firm enough to restrain, not enough to choke.
"Your mother could have lived the life of a goddess," he hissed. "I would have given her the world if she'd asked for it. But she refused my hand to be the wife of a farmer. Who—by the way—loved her as much as I did. He wouldn't have handed over his precious daughter, which is his wife's legacy. To me so willingly."
His words were poison.
And they finally broke through.
Tears streamed down Miesha's face, silent and hot.
"I hate you, Varrick," she whispered, voice trembling.
He leaned closer. "You can hate me all you want. But you will remain in my grasp until my last breath… or yours."
Then he released her.
Meisha remained where she had fallen, blood trailing from her lip, her breath still ragged from the chokehold. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the scratch of Varrick's quill as he resumed signing documents—his fury now folded into cold control.
She stayed in his line of sight, standing just before the door.
A flicker of something passed over his face. Not remorse. Not guilt. But a shadow of sympathy.
"If a day of foraging is that important to you," he said, voice low, "then be back before nightfall. There's a rumor that Demon King Burruk's second in command is missing."
Meisha straightened, pressing a handkerchief from her apron against her bleeding lip. Her movements were slow, deliberate. She gave a small nod—just enough to acknowledge his sudden shift in tone.
"Thank you, Lord Varrick, for your change of heart."
She turned to leave.
But curiosity stopped her.
She paused at the door, her hand resting on the frame.
"Before I dismiss… may I know the name of this second in command you think I may run into?"
Varrick leaned back, sighing. "A General Kaydence, I believe."
Miesha didn't react.
Not a blink. Not a breath.
Varrick continued, watching her closely.
"So, if you see or hear anything strange, alert the guards immediately."
"Will do."
She left the study with quiet urgency, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Behind her, Varrick watched the door close.
A sudden wave of heat sparked beneath Miesha's skin the moment she stepped beyond the threshold of Varrick's study.
She staggered slightly, one hand flying to her chest.
"What is this strange feeling again?" she muttered, fingers curling as if trying to grasp something just beneath her ribs.
The warmth wasn't comforting—it was searing. A slow burn that radiated from her sternum outward, like her blood had turned to embers.
"Damn it," she hissed. "This always happens when I leave his study."
She pressed her back against the cold stone wall, trying to steady her breath.
It wasn't new.
Every time she exited that room, her body felt as if it were engulfed in flames. Not visible. Not literal. But real.
And always—always—there was the voice.
Faint. Distant. Echoing through her bones.
"Here. I'm over here."
She clenched her jaw, refusing to follow it.
She never did.
The pain was too great. The heat too unbearable. Whatever called to her, it came with agony—and she had learned to ignore it.
She pushed off the wall, her steps slow but determined as she made her way through the east wing. The corridors were quiet, the servants elsewhere, the estate holding its breath.
By the time she reached the basement door, the heat had dulled to a simmer.
But the voice lingered.
"Please come find me when you are ready."
She didn't answer.
Before entering, placed neatly in front of her door: the bread and meat she'd received earlier in town, wrapped in cloth and twine. But beside it sat something new—a bottle of deep red wine, glinting in the low light.
A folded note rested against it.
She knelt, fingers brushing the parchment as she unfolded it.
Thank you for the herbs given to my wife and I to conceive a child. This wine is for you.
Miesha stared at the words, her breath catching for a moment.
She smiled.
Not the kind born of amusement, but of quiet affirmation. Of being seen. Of being remembered.
She gathered the gifts into one arm, balancing the bottle against her hip. Then she opened the door, stepped inside, and descended into the basement.
And for a moment, the world above faded.
The door closed behind her with a muted thud, sealing away the world above.
Meisha remained silent as she descended the narrow staircase into the basement, the gifts cradled in one arm, the note still echoing in her mind.
Thank you for the herbs given to my wife and I to conceive a child. This wine is for you.
She exhaled slowly, the words settling deep in her chest.
"I have to keep going," she whispered to herself, voice barely audible over the creak of the steps.
The air grew cooler as she reached the bottom, the stone walls embracing her in their familiar hush. Her thoughts were still tangled—Varrick's cruelty, the voice that haunted her after each visit to his study, the name he'd spoken.
"Kaydence."
She stepped onto the basement floor, her gaze lowered, her mind still elsewhere.
She didn't notice him at first.
Kaydence sat upright on the edge of the bed, one arm braced against his knee, watching her quietly. His eyes followed her movements, noting the blood at her lip, the stiffness in her posture, the way she clutched the wine and bread like armor.
He didn't speak.
Not yet.
He waited.
And Meisha, still lost in thought, hadn't yet realized she was no longer alone.