# Chapter - 89
**Maria's POV**
The days after Carius's injury bled together like watercolors in rain.
Each one darker than the last.
My half-brother never woke. He lay in his chambers, breathing but not living, while physicians rotated shifts and whispered that there was nothing more they could do. The damage was too severe. The best they could hope for was that he'd pass peacefully.
Count Haroth refused to accept it.
He executed the physician who suggested ending treatment. Hanged him in the courtyard as an example. Brought in new doctors, each one promising miracles they couldn't deliver.
The cruelty that had always lived beneath his noble veneer began to surface like rot breaking through painted wood.
Servants who made mistakes disappeared. Some returned with missing fingers. Others didn't return at all.
The Countess was losing her grip on sanity.
She spent hours sitting beside Carius's bed, holding his limp hand, speaking to him as if he could hear. Sometimes she'd scream at him to wake up. Sometimes she'd weep. Sometimes she'd just stare at nothing with eyes that had gone somewhere else entirely.
And Calla—
Sweet, kind Calla—was to be married.
An arrangement finalized years ago, now coming due. A count from the eastern territories, wealthy and influential. The wedding was set for three months hence.
She would leave. Go to her new husband's estate. Begin her own life far from this house of grief and madness.
Part of me was happy for her. She deserved escape.
Part of me was terrified.
Without Calla, who would protect me from the Countess's rage?
***
Garrett had been demoted.
From soldier to stable keeper. Punishment for "failing" to protect Carius—even though everyone knew he'd lied to shield David.
He didn't complain. Just moved his few belongings to the quarters above the stables and took up his new duties with the same silent efficiency he brought to everything.
But I tended his wounds regularly.
The beating from Count Haroth had been severe. Cuts that needed cleaning. Bruises that spread across his back in purple-black maps. A cracked rib that made breathing difficult.
I'd go to the stables in the evening, carrying medical supplies, and find him sitting on a stool while I worked.
He never spoke. Just endured the sting of antiseptic and the pressure of bandaging with that same stoic expression.
"You should rest more," I'd say, knowing he wouldn't listen.
He never did.
***
At night, when the manor slept, Garrett practiced.
I discovered it by accident.
My room in the servants' quarters had a small window that overlooked the practice yard. Usually I kept the shutters closed—looking out at the manor grounds just reminded me of my captivity.
But one night, unable to sleep, I'd opened them for air.
And saw him.
Garrett, alone in the moonlit yard, moving through forms with his practice axe. His movements were fluid despite the injuries, each strike precise and controlled. He worked in complete silence, just the whisper of blade through air and the soft thud of his boots on packed earth.
He practiced for hours. Long after any reasonable person would have stopped. Training with an intensity that spoke of something beyond simple dedication.
Preparation.
For what, I didn't know. But watching him—watching someone refuse to be broken by this place—gave me something I hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
***
I practiced too.
Late at night, after everyone slept, I'd take out Calla's grimoire and work on enchantments. Small things. A sewing needle that never dulled. A candle that burned twice as long. Boots that repelled water.
Skills that would be useless to a maid. But I practiced anyway, because they were mine. The one part of me that hadn't been beaten into submission.
One night, I was reading by my window when I saw Garrett in the yard again. He'd finished his forms and was sharpening his axe—drawing a whetstone along the blade with slow, methodical strokes.
An idea formed.
***
The next day, I snuck into the stables.
Garrett was out working—mucking stalls, feeding horses, doing the tasks that had once been beneath him. His axe hung on the wall of his quarters, waiting.
I approached it carefully.
Touched the blade with fingers that trembled slightly.
Then I closed my eyes and channeled my mana the way the grimoire had taught. Feeling the metal's nature, finding the places where magic could sink in and transform.
The enchantment took hold gradually. Heat spreading through the steel. Molecular bonds tightening, strengthening. The edge sharpening beyond what any whetstone could achieve.
When I finished, the axe looked the same. But it wasn't.
It would cut deeper. Stay sharp longer. Strike with heat that would cauterize as it wounded.
I left before anyone could discover me.
***
The next night, I watched from my window as Garrett practiced.
He noticed the change immediately.
I saw it in the way he paused mid-form, examining the blade. Testing its weight. Running his thumb along the edge—carefully, but with clear surprise at how sharp it had become.
He went through his forms again. This time, when the blade cut through the practice dummy, it went deeper than before. Cleaner.
Garrett stopped. Stared at his axe for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
Just barely. Just a slight curve at the corner of his mouth that was gone almost before it appeared.
But I'd seen it.
And something warm bloomed in my chest. Something that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with connection.
Someone had noticed my work. Someone had appreciated it without knowing who to thank.
It was enough.
***
Life continued its cruel rhythm.
I woke before dawn. Prepared Calla's chambers. Helped her dress. Attended her through the day. All while avoiding the Countess's increasingly erratic attention and the Count's descent into monstrous behavior.
One afternoon, I was cleaning Calla's bedroom while she attended lessons elsewhere. On my knees, scrubbing the floor with harsh soap that made my hands crack and bleed.
The door opened.
Count Haroth entered.
I froze, cloth still in hand, suddenly very aware that I was alone with him. That I was kneeling. That my servant's dress—worn and patched—was loose at the neckline.
His eyes tracked down. Stopped.
I saw the shift in his expression. Something predatory surfacing behind noble features.
"Maria," he said. His voice had changed. Gone soft. Almost... warm. "My daughter."
I blinked, not understanding. He'd never called me that. Never acknowledged me as anything but a servant.
"Stand up, sweetheart. You shouldn't be on your knees like that."
Sweetheart.
He'd never used endearments. Never shown me kindness.
But now he was smiling. Gesturing for me to rise. Speaking to me like—like a father might speak to a beloved child.
"I've been thinking," he continued as I stood shakily. "You've served Calla well. Perhaps too well for a simple maid." His hand reached out, patting my shoulder with what seemed like genuine affection. "You're my blood too. My daughter. You deserve better treatment."
Joy exploded through my chest—so sudden and powerful it made me dizzy.
He was accepting me. Finally. After fifteen years of being called bastard and beaten and treated like property—
My father was finally seeing me as his daughter.
***
I told Calla that evening while helping her prepare for bed.
The words tumbled out in a rush—how Father had spoken to me, called me daughter, said I deserved better. How maybe things were finally changing.
Calla's brush stilled halfway through her hair.
"Maria," she said carefully. "Perhaps you should... avoid his chambers for a while."
"What? Why?" I couldn't understand. "He's finally acknowledging me. Finally treating me like—"
"Please." Calla turned to face me. Something flickered in her eyes—concern, or maybe something else. "Just trust me. Stay away from him."
"But—"
"Promise me."
Her intensity was strange. Unsettling. But she was my sister. My protector.
"I promise," I said.
***
A week passed.
I avoided Count Haroth as Calla had asked, even though I didn't understand why. When our paths crossed, he'd look disappointed. Call after me. But I'd make excuses and hurry away.
Then one evening, a servant found me in the laundry.
"The Count has summoned you to his chambers."
My heart leaped. "He has?"
"Immediately."
I dropped the linens I'd been folding and hurried through the manor. My mind raced with possibilities. Maybe he wanted to formally acknowledge me. Maybe he'd decided to give me real duties instead of menial labor.
Maybe he actually cared.
I knocked on his chamber door. His voice called me in.
The room was dimly lit—just a few candles, shadows pooling in corners. He sat in a chair near the fireplace, head in his hands, the picture of grief.
"Maria," he said without looking up. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course, Father." The word felt strange on my tongue but good. Right.
"I've been... struggling." His voice cracked. "