-Inside the Carriage; En route to Granzholm; 10:39 AM-
Rattle
Rattle
Rattle
The ancient carriage shuddered over cobblestones slick with mist, its scarlet lacquer dulled by the pale breath of dawn. Muffled hoofbeats echoed through the awakening hills as the ornate gilt crest of the Dorothea family flashed, fleeting, against dew-jeweled hedgerows.
Within, the air was sweetly warmed by the close press of silk dresses and woolen cloaks. In her mother's gentle lap, Vivian—called Nyx for the night-black cascade of her hair—slept, breath undisturbed by the trembling world outside. The velvet ribbon in her curls shone faintly in the lambent sun, a small promise of grace in a world not always gentle.
The carriage's amber-lit interior was filled with low voices—her mother, Margravine Elise, breaking the stillness with hopeful pride.
"Dearest, today shall mark Vivian's first audience within the Royal Palace of Granzholm. Surely, her grace will make the Emperor himself marvel!"
Across from her, Count Edouard Cernava's countenance bore lines sculpted by care yet gentled by affection. He nodded, eyes tracing the delicate cradle of his daughter's chin where it met her mother's sleeve.
"One's first entrance to such grandeur should be met with joy. May her impression shine through every chamber, and may the Emperor be so fortunate as to witness her light."
A sudden lurch—the carriage's iron-bound wheels struck an ill-placed stone, sending a shiver along the frame.
"Oh heavens!" Elise's slender hand—pale against the damask lining—arose to her cheek. "What an unjust path. If only the roads to our beloved county weren't so wantonly neglected! It is near impossible to travel with comfort."
Edouard managed a soft chuckle, brow furrowing as he caught the fleeting green of tangled undergrowth through the glass.
"I shall put our men to the task upon our return, my love. No child of ours shall endure peril on her journey home."
"But, Edouard—how, with our coffers so barren?" Elise's tone was lowered, eyes downcast, her thumb unconsciously caressing Vivian's sleeping brow.
He masked his worry with a practiced smile. "Gold is seldom half as powerful as hope. In time, we will see to it."
Outside, the chill wind snaked unseen fingers beneath the carriage, carrying the scent of pine sap and rain-soaked earth. The forest on either side stood both sentinel and threat, ancient and indifferent.
Ka-thunk!
Once more, the carriage jolted—this time, Vivian briefly fluttered her lashes, her dreams flickering with shadowy shapes and distant laughter. She heard, through the veil of sleep, her mother's whispered prayer—a hush barely louder than the muffled clatter of wheels.
"Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis..." Elise murmured, hand protectively grasping her daughter's fine-boned shoulder.
The coachman's call cracked through the morning air.
"My lords, forgive the fitful ride, the stones here have always been a menace! I beg your patience."
Edouard's response was calm, but tightly drawn. "Do take heed—'tis our only child within."
When the tragedy struck, it was with unholy suddenness—the left wheel found the jagged remains of a landslip, and the whole carriage lurched at a sickening angle. The world spun.
Crack!
Snap!
The wooden axle groaned, shattering as the momentum pitched them sideways—the glass window burst with a sound like a thousand bells shattering, and the crimson-lined carriage was wrenched from the road.
For an agonizing moment, they hovered above the abyss—Vivian's senses sharpened.
Vivian—jostled awake by the carriage's wild plunge, lifted weightless from her mother's lap as the world turned upside down.
SCREEEEE— The wheels shrieked on stone, wood splintered; her parents' voices, full of dread and helplessness, were swallowed by the torrent of noise.
As the carriage spun through the open air, Vivian's mouth stretched in a soundless, primal scream—her terror ripped from her as wind and glass howled past. Panic crushed the breath from her chest. Her fingers clawed instinctively for her mother, but her tiny frame was thrown against wood and velvet as they plummeted.
The heady scent of crushed violets from her mother's gown, the metallic tang of fear, her father's desperate cry—
"Elise! Hold her—!"
THUNDER.
They plunged.
All around, shrieks rose,—but Vivian did not scream. Her small fists clenched in the silks, her world a torrent of movement and color and muffled agony. The forest raced up at them, and through it all, her mother's voice, high and fervent—
"Ave Maria, gratia plena—deus—"
SMASH.
CRASH!
The impact shattered time itself. Wood splintered, glass rained like icy stars; the iron chassis shrieked as it caved. Darkness snatched them from the morning, the breath of pines now exchanged for the thick, splintered hush of death below.
Through twisted limbs and leaking lantern light, the only movement was a single strand of black hair, falling across pale, blood-streaked skin. Elise's hand, still entwined in her daughter's, slackened, her lips frozen mid-prayer. Edouard's last exhale misted the foxglove at his cheek, his eyes wide in shock and love's unfinished promise.
Vivian landed in a nightmarish tumble—the pain immediate and blinding. Jagged wood jutted at her legs, lantern light flickered crimson in the dust-choked dark. She gasped, reaching up with shaking hands—
A sudden, searing pain lanced her throat.
Her fingers—slick and trembling—closed around a shard of broken glass half-embedded in her neck. A hot, shocking wetness poured down her collar. Panic flared anew. Her thoughts raced:
Mother—help me, please—
She turned in the darkness, sobbing, her breath erupting in short, desperate gasps. Red streaked her small hands; her whole body felt heavy, pressed beneath broken timber and the crushing weight of fear. She looked for her mother's outline through the swirling dust—Elise lay crumpled but breathing, her hand already stretching toward her child, voice weak with prayer.
Vivian opened her mouth, desperate to shout, "Mama! Mama, it hurts, help me!"
But from her ravaged throat came nothing—no call, just an awful, dragging ache. Her tears fell in silent rivulets as she tried, again and again, to force sound from her lips.
Please, please, take it out, Mama! Please!
Her fingers grazed the jagged shard buried directly in her throat, a cruel blade that silenced her scream before it could escape. Her voice strangled deep within her chest, the wound greedily stealing every desperate cry. Each attempt to call out twisted into a ragged gasp, swallowed by the darkness that pressed in around her. She was trapped in a silent nightmare, where pain was loudest but speech was forever lost.Her cheeks—wet with rivers of tears—were hot and flushed as she struggled to reach her mother.
But Elise, fading fast, mouthed silent prayers, her gaze locked on Vivian with desperate love, unable to rise or bridge the distance between them.
A low groan cut through the gloom—the coachman, battered and bloodied, lay tangled amidst splintered timber and shattered glass. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat, yet duty gripped him tighter than pain. Mustering the last of his strength, he clawed his way upright, rain-matted hair falling into wild eyes. Gritting his teeth, he heaved broken boards and twisted iron from the carriage's crushed belly, splinters biting deep into his palms.
Inside, carnage reigned: the Count lay slumped, his throat pierced by shards that glittered red in the faint daylight, their cruel geometry mapping out the veins once rich with noble blood. Beside him, the Margravine lay still, her silk bodice torn, her once-lively eyes wide and glassy in prayerful repose—two shadows of a legacy extinguished amid ruin.
But there—beneath the fractured arch of an overturned lantern—Vivian. Barely breathing, she pressed fragile fingers to her mangled neck, every shallow gasp carving pain across her small chest. Blood crept across her collar, pooling at the edges of her torn dress, each drop a silent plea for mercy.
The coachman moved with desperate vigor, his body protesting every motion. He knelt by Vivian's side, whispering shaky comfort she could not hear.
"Hold on, little one. Hold tight—your world does not end here."
He enfolded her in his trembling arms, cradling her as gently as the pain in his limbs permitted. Her eyelids fluttered, half-shut against agony; the sunlight above fractured in her vision, turning to golden specks.
A strange weightlessness seized her—a sensation as though she glided from the wreckage, untethered, adrift in the space between life and shadow.
Ah. Light. Am I dying? No…Am I moving? My body is heavy…but I am not moving myself. Whose arms are these? Where am I going? I want Mama. I want Papa. Please…help me.
Leaves rustled and boots crunched hurriedly as the coachman hobbled, breath ragged, down the muddy forest path toward the distant, smoke-wreathed rooftops of a small village.
-In a nearby village, within the local Clinic; 5.21 PM-
As dusk brushed the fields with bruised purple, the coachman burst into the crude stone-walled clinic, a battered bundle of noble silk in his arms. Vivian's world became a swirl of fire-lit lanterns, voices, and the tang of spirits.
He knelt on the worn wooden floor, pleading with hoarse urgency:
"I'm telling you!!! She is Count Cernava's only daughter!!! You must save her! Her parents are dead, but surely you will be paid through the county!!"
An elderly physician with deep-set eyes regarded the coachman with cold skepticism.
"Cease this absurdity at once! Are you unaware of the crippling debt burdening the County of Cernava? The man is notorious for amassing debts from every influential house across the entire Empire!"
The coachman's voice trembled, straining against hopelessness.
"Please—do not listen to rumors! Their debts will be paid, and whether or not, this child's life must not be measured against gold."
But the doctor's words bristled with callous pragmatism.
"Look, man, I honestly don't care. I really don't. It's best if the child passes away, because if she survives, she'll only be burdened with debts her father failed to repay. Death is better than living a life full of such misery. Besides," the doctor shrugged, "considering her condition, they probably won't even be able to afford the admission fee, let alone the cost of her treatment. Clearly, she's only minutes away from leaving this world." The doctor concluded, his tone matter-of-fact.
He was cut off abruptly as a swift figure swept into the room. Her boots stamped sharply across the floor, the dusky green of her riding tunic catching candlelight. With irrefutable grace, she sent the doctor reeling to the ground with a booted kick.
Behind her stood a timid junior doctor, eyes wide as saucers.
She regarded the scene with a measured gaze, her words crisp, aristocratic:
"I will not tolerate such cowardice. Render aid to the child immediately, or explain yourself before the Archducal Court."
The junior doctor stammered, "O-of course, My Lady. At once." He bent down, his hands trembling as he accepted Vivian from the coachman's arms. Dripping blood and semi-conscious, the girl's tiny body convulsed in pain.
Vivian's throat burned, every inhale a brand against torn flesh; her mouth moved soundlessly, lips shaping prayers she could not utter. Hot tears streamed across her cheeks. The cold press of metal, the rough scrape of stone under her back, the shadowy faces hovering, all swirled around her—was this death's chamber, or the hope of rescue?
Why is it so cold? Why can't I scream for them? Mama… Papa… Is that you waiting for me beyond the light? Where do I go now? Where do I belong? Please… save me.
Vivian drifted through pain and confusion as hands lifted her; her eyes, heavy and lidded, glimpsed the swordswoman—her armor glinting with nobility, her voice booming command, her presence a beacon in the fog. The world shrank to the damp taste of blood and the tremors in her bones.
-Within the local Clinic; Emergency Room, 9.21 PM-
A thin band of candlelight flickered through Vivian's eyelids as consciousness returned—a wavering gold warmth, scented with herbs and faint smoke. Her limbs felt heavy, insubstantial, her body a vessel for dull aches and distant thunder.Voices drifted in and out, blurred first, then slowly sharpening.
"…Fortunate, truly. Had the glass pierced a vein, or gone but a hair deeper, she'd have left this world by now. Instead—by some mercy—it found only flesh and… her vocal cords." The young doctor's tone was hushed, sympathetic, as he gently wound a fine linen bandage around the girl's pale throat. "The wound was grievous, Madame; she will never speak as others do again."
Boots tapped softly across the wooden floor. The swordswoman—her presence quiet, commanding—nodded with a thoughtful hum. "Thank you, Doctor. I am indebted for your swift work. Her care will be rewarded in full." She pressed a silk-wrapped purse into the doctor's palm, its weight promising more than village coin.
Nearby, the coachman, with fresh bandages on his head and leg, shuffled forward. He bent into a deep, grateful bow—his voice thick with awe and relief. "Madame…My eternal thanks. Without your intervention, she would not have seen the dawn. May every house you protect prosper with your kindness and valor."
The woman regarded him warmly. "You have served honorably in a dark hour. Tell me, are you bound to the County of Cernava, or are you a servant of some greater concern?"
He straightened, voice deferential. "No, Madame. I hail from the Imperial Carriagemen's Guild—merely assigned to the Count's estate last fortnight. My home is elsewhere."
A faint smile crossed her lips. "Very well. Here—your due." She produced another pouch, the coins within clinking softly as she handed it to him. The coachman's eyes grew wide; he stammered his gratitude, bowing once more.
"Do you require escort or transport?" the swordswoman inquired.
He nodded. "With your leave, Madame, I have found another from my lodge—he and I shall return to the capital by eventide."
She gestured graciously. "Go then, with my blessing. You have done all you could. Fate may yet be kind again."
With a last reverent nod, the coachman turned to go, casting one final look toward the pallet where Vivian lay. He paused—startled. Her eyelids fluttered open, glazed and half-conscious, and her lips moved in silent supplication.
The doctor stilled, eyes going soft. The swordswoman followed the coachman's gaze, approaching Vivian's side.
Mama…? Papa…? Can you see me? Why does it hurt so much?
Her body—so cold, so limp—felt as if it had slipped beyond skin and bone. She yearned for their embrace; the warmth of a mother's arms, her father's gentle smile, but nothing came but stillness and the taste of salt from endless tears.
To be Continued...