The dawn light filtered through the grimy windows of Ravencrest Manor as Nyx dragged the heavy wooden bucket across the marble floors, leaving a trail of soapy water in her wake. Her knees were already raw from hours of scrubbing, her small hands chapped and reddened from the harsh lye soap, but she moved with the precision of someone who had learned that efficiency meant survival.
At seven years old, she had grown thin and wiry, her dark hair perpetually pulled back in a severe braid that her father insisted upon—anything to avoid the resemblance to her mother's flowing locks that once danced in the wind. Her dress, a faded gray thing that had once belonged to a scullery maid, hung loose on her small frame, the hem darkened with water and grime.
The morning chores were always the same: the entrance hall first, then the drawing rooms, the dining hall, the library, and finally the long corridor that housed the family portraits. It was there, as she knelt before a particularly stubborn stain on the polished stone, that her gaze inevitably drifted upward.
The portrait dominated the wall like a beacon of forgotten Valor.
Lady Elara Ravencrest stood immortalized in oils and gold leaf, but this was not the gentle mother of Nyx's imagination, nor the delicate duchess who had died in childbirth. This Elara was magnificent and terrible, clad in battle-worn armor that gleamed silver in the painted sunlight. Her golden hair flowed like a banner behind her, and her violet eyes—those same eyes Nyx had inherited—blazed with the fire of a warrior born.
Beneath the portrait, engraved in flowing script on a brass nameplate, were the words that made Nyx's heart race every time she read them: "Lady Elara Ravencrest - The Valkyrie of the Battlefield."
Nyx had memorized every detail of the painting over countless stolen glances. The way her mother's gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of her sword. The proud set of her shoulders. The small scar above her left eyebrow that spoke of battles won and enemies conquered. This was no delicate flower who had withered in childbirth—this was a legend, a force of nature who had commanded armies and struck fear into the hearts of her enemies.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" Nyx whispered to the empty hallway, her voice barely audible above the drip of water from her scrub brush. "She was strong."
For just a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would have been like to know this woman, to learn at her feet, to perhaps inherit even a fraction of that magnificent strength—
"What did I tell you about looking at that painting?"
The voice cut through her reverie like a blade. Duke Aldric stood at the far end of the corridor, his tall frame backlit by the morning sun streaming through the windows. Even from a distance, she could see the fury radiating from him like heat from a forge.
Nyx scrambled to her feet, the scrub brush clattering to the floor. "Father, I was just—"
"Silence."
His footsteps echoed like thunder as he approached, each measured stride bringing him closer to his cowering daughter. When he reached her, he towered above her small frame, his steel-gray eyes burning with a familiar rage.
"I told you never to look upon her portrait," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are not worthy to gaze upon her image. You, who stole her from this world, who took her light and left only darkness in your wake."
"But Father, I only wanted to—"
The slap came swift and brutal, his open palm connecting with her cheek with a crack that echoed through the corridor. The force of it sent her stumbling backward, her shoulder colliding painfully with the stone wall.
But Nyx did not cry out. She did not even flinch.
The numbness had settled into her bones months ago, a blessed absence of feeling that made the pain bearable. She had learned that tears only made him angrier, that pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. So she simply straightened, touched her fingers to her burning cheek, and waited for his next command.
"You defile her memory by existing in the same space," Aldric continued, his voice dripping with disgust. "Don't let me catch you looking at her again, or the punishment will be far worse than a simple slap."
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Nyx alone with the portrait and the taste of blood in her mouth where she had bitten her tongue.
She waited until his footsteps faded completely before she dared to move. Then, slowly, she bent to retrieve her scrub brush and returned to her knees beside the bucket of now-cold water. But as she worked, her eyes drifted once more to the painting above her.
"I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to save you."
The Valkyrie's painted eyes seemed to gaze down at her with infinite compassion, and for just a moment, Nyx could almost imagine she heard her mother's voice on the wind: Be strong, my little star. Your time will come.
The morning dragged on as Nyx finished her assigned floors, each room blending into the next in an endless cycle of scrubbing and rinsing and wringing out rags. Her movements were methodical, practiced, the routine so deeply ingrained that she could perform it while lost in thought.
By the time she reached the barracks—the last stop on her daily circuit—the sun had climbed high enough to cast long shadows across the training yards. This part of the manor had always fascinated her, though she was rarely allowed to linger. Here, the Duke's guards trained and lived, and the air still held the faint scent of sword oil and leather that spoke of a world beyond scrub brushes and servitude.
As she pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the dimly lit interior, Nyx couldn't help but wonder what secrets these walls might hold—and whether somewhere among them lay the key to understanding the Knight her mother had been, and the strength she might yet find within herself.