Chapter one
The wind on the blackthorn farm whispered through an overgrown barley, carrying the scent of rain and rich, dark earth. It whispered emptiness.
Knees numb from the samp ground, Layla remained before two simple stark stones. One for her mother Elara, whose laughter once wove through this land like sunlight. One for her father, Kellen, who strong hands coaxed life from the soil until his own stopped.
A lone crow cawed from the fence posted a harsh sound in the profound silence. That sound once sent her father charging from the barn, arms waving with a mock-ferocious shout, making her and her mother double over with laughter. Now, the memory laid a fresh ache atop the crushing weight in her chest.
The farmhouse door creaked open. My lady Lucia's soft, hesitant voice called from the doorway, her apron smudged flour. You'll catch your death out here. Livia prepared tea.
Layla didn't turn. Her emerald eyes, usually bright enough to rival spring leaves, felt dry and hollow. She traced the rough-hewn letter on her mother's gravestone- Beloved wife, gentle heart.
I'll come in shortly she replied, her voice a hoarse thread of sound, carried away on the whispering wind.
Lucia hesitated before retreating, the door closing with a soft final click. The last of the Blackthorn. The weight of that name, of this land, formed a mantle she felt too young and too broken to wear.
A crunch of wheels on the gravel drive- a sound so foreign it jolted her from her stupor. A carriage. No one came here anymore.
Pushing stiffly to her feet, she turned. A sleek black coach, emblazoned with an unfamiliar crest- a sharp beaked raven on a field of silver - stood utterly out of place amidst the dust and chickens.
A man in stiff, city livery stepped down, his nose wrinkling. He held a scroll sealed with black wax.
Lucia and Livia emerged from the house, standing protectively side-by-side on the porch, their identical faces wary.
A message for Lady Layla Blackthorn the man announced, his time doubting anyone of worth live here,
Layla walked forward, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She took the scroll. The wax creaked under her thumb, a sound like a bone snapping. She unrolled the parchment, the script inside formal and sharp.
By the order of General Henry Blackthorn, you must report to the capital. As the sole remaining issue of my late brother's.. unfortunate union, a place awaits you in my household. Make haste. We expect your presence by the week's end.
The words felt cold, impersonal. They spoke of obligation, not warmth. Of a burden, not a rescued niece. Yet, beneath the icy phrasing, lay a lifeline. A family. A place to go.
Tears, absent for weeks, pricked hotly at her eyes. She looked from the cold-faced driver to the worried twins to the graves of her parents, to the fields hers alone to manage.
The sealed letter lay on the worn kitchen table between them, a stark black raven against the pale, expensive parchment. It held the weight of the world Layla never knew.
Silas broke the silence, his voice a low grumble. General Henry Blackthorn. He said the name was like a curse. Your father wanted nothing from that man. Nothing from that city
Livia reached out, her finger tracing the elaborate seal without touching it. But it's family. An invitation… not a demand. It sounds kind
' sounds can deceive Lucia countered, her arms crossed. She looked from the letter to Layla's face.
What does your heart say, my lady? Behind the fear. What does it want?
Layla lifted her gaze from the letter, her emerald eyes finding the window, the familiar view of the barley fields waving in the breeze. She saw the empty chair where her father used to sit, the shelf where her mother kept her recipe books.
I want to stop feeling like a prize heifer at a market she said, her voice quiet but firm. The memory of the miller's son's clumsy proposal is fresh in her mind. I want a different air to breathe
A new thought sparked, a practical anchor in the sea of uncertainty. Father's shop. The Blackthorn hearth' in the city. He loved that little place. We should check on it.
See how it ferries she looked at her three companions, the idea taking root. This is a business trip. We represent the farm. We ensure his legacy stands strong
A slow smile spread across Livia's face. A change of scenery. A real adventure
And far away from the miller's son Lucia added, a pragmatic glint in her eye. The prospect of managing a real business appealed to her orderly nature.
Silas studied Layla's face. He saw the grief, nut beneath it, a flicker of her father- a stubborn pride, a determination to meet a challenge head-on. He gave a single, sharp nod. aye. My Lord would want his daughter to see the city shop and where he grew up. I'll ready the carriage. We'll see this 'family' of yours for ourselves
The decision, once made, filled the farmhouse with a new, purposeful energy. The apprehension remained, but it now mixed with a thread of excitement.
The next morning, they worked together. Lucia and Livia packed Layla's trunk, their chatter now focused on practicalities. Your good wool dress for meeting the General Lucia stated, folding it with care.
And your mother's shawl Livia said, laying the delicate fabric atop the gown. For courage
Layla gathered her father's ledgers for the farm and the shop, her fingers tracing his precise, strong handwriting. She was not a supplicant going to beg for scraps. She's a steward, going to review her domain.
Silas prepared the carriage, checking every strap and wheel with the meticulous care of a man who knew the road held dangers. He harnessed the two sturdy farm horses, speaking to them in low, reassuring tones.
Standing on the porch for a final moment, Layla looked back at the home she was leaving. The fields stood golden under the sun, the house solid and quiet.
We will be back she whispered, a promise to the ghosts within. This is not a goodbye
She turned and climbed into the carriage. Lucia and Livia settled on either side of her, a fortress of friendship. Silas took his place on the driver's perch, his shoulders set.