The night was drawing to a close, and the sky was turning a pale gray that heralded the dawn. The air was cold and damp, laced with the scent of wet earth and medicinal herbs that lingered in the small tent where Bastian lay motionless.
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the worn fabric walls, while the village patriarch—a man with calloused hands and gray-streaked hair—finished washing his hands in a shallow basin.
"They didn't touch any organs," the old man murmured, drying his hands on a coarse cloth as he looked at the boy with a mix of relief and unease. "I'm no doctor, but I've seen enough wounds to know this boy is lucky… or something else. I've never seen anyone heal this fast."
Azalea, the village seer, sat by the fire, her weary eyes fixed on Bastian's pale face. Her hunched posture and the faint tremor in her hands betrayed the sorrow she carried. She heard the patriarch's words but didn't respond right away. In her mind, images of Clara, her own granddaughter, tangled with those of Melody, Bastian's sister—both torn from their lives by slave hunters.
"Azalea, watch over the boy," the old man instructed, adjusting the shawl draped over his shoulders. "He's better on the outside, but inside… he's shattered. I fear he might do something reckless."
Azalea nodded slowly, though her thoughts wandered. She remembered the visions she'd had of Melody: a young woman with a fierce spirit and an uncertain fate. She had seen a future full of promise for her—but now, everything seemed to be dimming. Still, something in her heart insisted that the girl was meant for something greater, something even the hunters couldn't take from her.
Suddenly, Bastian's eyes flew open, and he gasped as if surfacing from an icy river. His breath came fast and shallow. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his side stopped him cold. It pierced through every fiber of his body. His leg throbbed too, and a wave of dizziness forced him back down. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to steady himself, but the memories came like lightning in a storm: Melody's scream, the flash of blades under the moonlight, the sound of her footsteps fading as he collapsed, helpless.
"Oh, thank the stars you're awake, boy!" Azalea exclaimed, approaching with a steaming cup in her hands. Her voice was soft, but strained. "You lost a lot of blood. Aira and I struggled to stop the bleeding. How do you feel?"
Bastian blinked several times, trying to focus on the seer's lined face. His voice was barely a whisper:
"Sore… and dizzy, Azalea. I have to find my sister." His voice cracked, and warm tears slid down his cheeks. "I never should've brought her with me."
Azalea's chest tightened at the sight of his tears. Gently, she took his trembling hand in hers.
"I understand. My Clara was taken too. All I can do is pray to the gods—and to the stars—that our girls return to us."
Bastian couldn't stay still. Rage and despair churned inside him like a volcano on the verge of eruption. With a guttural cry, he tried to rise again, ignoring the pain that tore through him. But the dizziness struck once more, and he collapsed, a scream of agony escaping his lips. His breath came in ragged bursts, the pain devouring him.
Azalea moved quickly, steadying him and guiding him back to the cushions that served as his bed. His body burned with fever, and the seer frowned as she felt the heat radiating from his forehead.
"Bastian, my son, lean on me. Lie back," she whispered urgently, settling him with care. "You're weak, burning up. You can't even carry your own soul like this, stubborn boy."
As she tucked him in with a threadbare blanket, Azalea closed her eyes for a moment, whispering a silent prayer that the fever wasn't a sign of infection. She knew time was running out—not just for Bastian, but for the girls who had been taken. And though despair pressed heavily on her chest, something deep within told her this story was far from over.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
Everything was utterly silent. The air was thick, almost tangible, as if the very space were charged with invisible pressure.
Melody could barely see; the darkness was so dense it seemed to devour even the faintest trace of light. Her body felt heavy and sore, every muscle protesting as if abandoned on the cold ground for hours. With monumental effort, she stood, her legs trembling, her balance fragile. Her head spun, and a constant buzzing echoed in her ears—a distant remnant of the night before.
Images flooded her mind mercilessly: the screams, the shadows moving under the moonlight, her brother's desperate face before she lost sight of him. A chill ran down her spine. Was he okay? Had he been hurt? Her heart pounded, a storm of fear and hope swirling within.
Suddenly, a female voice broke the silence—faint, familiar, and strangely resonant, as if coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Someone please help me, please!"
Melody recognized the voice instantly. It was Clara. Without hesitation, she pushed forward, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to topple her. But after only a few steps, a sharp tug on her right ankle sent her crashing face-first to the ground. The thud echoed in the stillness, and a moan escaped her lips as her hands searched for the object holding her back: a cold, heavy metal shackle connected to a rusty chain.
"Clara, it's me, Melody. Are you okay? I'm coming for you," she called out, her voice trembling but resolute.
She began to move slowly, dragging the chain behind her, feeling her way with outstretched hands. The darkness was so complete she couldn't even see her own palm.
"Mel, are you okay? I heard noises… Did something happen?" Clara's voice was laced with concern.
"Don't worry, Clara, I'm fine. Those beasts chained my ankle. Can you see anything? Where am I? I can't see a thing—not even my hand. Can you see anything, Clarita?" Melody asked, her tone anxious, searching for any hint of light.
"Just a few specks of light in the distance, Mel. It must be past noon. I'll try to reach you—keep talking so I can follow your voice."
"You talk too. Maybe we're close. We can be together."
Determined, both girls began to move, guided by each other's voices. Melody advanced carefully, feeling with her feet and hands, but in her urgency to reach Clara, she forgot the chain. She stumbled again, falling hard. She cursed under her breath, fists clenched, fighting back tears of frustration.
"Mel? Are you okay? Did you fall?" Clara asked, alarmed.
"No, it's nothing. Just tripped. The chain tangled me," Melody replied, trying to sound calm.
"Oh, Mel, I have a chain too. Be careful," Clara said gently but firmly.
Finally, after what felt like hours, they found each other. Melody reached out with trembling hands, searching Clara's body for injuries. She needed to know her friend was safe—but also needed something familiar to hold onto in this nightmare. Clara gently stopped her, taking her hands.
"Calm down, little one. I'm fine. What about you? Tell me the truth—did they hurt you, Mel?"
The question shattered the fragile control Melody had held. Tears poured freely, hot and desperate, as the memories of the previous night surged back. She feared for Bastian's life, for her own fate, for everything beyond her grasp.
Rage, helplessness, sorrow, and anguish churned inside her like a storm.
Clara hugged her tightly, crying too, but trying to soothe her.
"Bastian's fine, Mel. He's strong. Gypsies are like that—tight-knit, like one big family. Grandfather Aira knows things. That old man knows what he's doing. You'll see, that rascal Bastian will be okay, my friend. Now we should focus on how to escape this place."
Melody nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. He was right—they couldn't give up. But before they could devise a plan, the sound of heavy footsteps and mocking laughter filled the air.
"Oh, Riven! Did you hear our girls? They're already thinking of leaving. Haven't you enjoyed your stay, little ones?" sneered Langrys, the leader of the slave hunters, his shrill laugh echoing off the basement walls.
"Such rude girls! Don't you think, Jacod? If they knew where they were, they wouldn't act so bold," added another man, approaching with a cruel smile.
Melody's blood boiled. One of the men seized her roughly, pinning her down as she struggled to break free. His grip was so brutal she could barely breathe. Helplessness and fury surged through her. With one final effort, she sank her teeth into the man's hand. He cried out and let go—but only for a moment. Melody gasped, drawing in air as if her life depended on it.
"Damn brat! A few lashes will teach you!" Riven roared, raising a whip, hatred burning in his eyes.
Before the blow could land, a calm yet ominous voice cut through the tension.
"Master Eriol awaits the young lady on the third floor. If it's not too much trouble, could you assist me with her? She's a bit proud, and I'd prefer no further delays," said the elderly butler.
"As you say, old man," Langrys growled, casting a final warning glance at Melody. "Riven, Jacod—take the little vixen and follow him. Keep her quiet. She's caused enough trouble."
The men obeyed, gripping Melody tightly as they dragged her upstairs. As they ascended, the basement's darkness gave way to dim light filtering through narrow windows. The mansion was vast—a labyrinth of endless corridors lined with antique furniture and opulent tapestries.
Melody tried to memorize the path, but everything blurred in her mind.
At last, they reached a room on the third floor. The butler opened the door with a ceremonious gesture, revealing a space that starkly contrasted the dungeon below. It was lavish: a grand four-poster bed, polished wood furniture, blue velvet curtains, and towering windows overlooking a lush garden.
"From now on, if you behave, this will be your room, young lady. You now belong to the Duke of Azaír. He paid for you. You are his slave, and your duty is to serve and please your master. Otherwise, things will go very badly for you. In a few moments, the maids will arrive. Prepare yourself—my master is waiting."
The butler closed the door behind him, leaving the young gypsy girl alone in that opulent yet suffocating space. She collapsed onto the bed, curling into a ball as tears welled once more. Her life no longer belonged to her. She thought of her family, her brother, Clara. What would become of them? What would become of her?
Fear and uncertainty wrapped around her like a heavy shroud, stealing her breath and extinguishing every flicker of hope.
⋯ ❈ ⋯
The dull thud of Sebastian's shoes echoed across the polished marble floor as he made his way toward Duke Eriol's office. The room was bathed in the warm glow of a silver chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows across the dark wood-paneled walls. The air smelled of old leather and wine—an aroma that seemed to seep into every corner of the austere space. At the center, Eriol sat behind an imposing carved pine desk, his long, elegant fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty crystal glass.
"Master Eriol, the girl is already in one of the rooms you requested," Sebastian announced in a measured tone, bowing slightly in a gesture of respect. "I've sent two maids to assist her."
The duke set the glass down with a soft clink, the crimson liquid swirling slowly inside. He rested his arms on the desk, fingers interlaced, his gaze fixed on his servant with piercing intensity. His icy gray eyes gleamed with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
"Wonderful news, dear Sebastian," the duke said, his voice soft but heavy with implication. "Tell me… what's your impression of her?"
Sebastian hesitated, recalling the young woman's defiant expression as he'd escorted her upstairs. Her proud posture and unflinching gaze had left an impression—perhaps even unsettled him, though he would never admit it aloud.
"Frightened, sir," he replied at last, choosing his words with care. "But also… resolute. She doesn't strike me as someone who yields easily."
A sly smile curved the duke's lips, transforming his face into something almost feline. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him, and crossed his legs with practiced elegance.
"Perfect, my friend. Quite thrilling, in fact," he murmured, savoring each word. "I don't want her to fear me—but she must understand that disobedience has consequences. If she behaves… she'll be rewarded."
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackling of flames in the nearby fireplace. Sebastian lowered his gaze, uneasy under the duke's intensity. He knew Eriol had a particular way of treating those he considered "his own," and something in his tone suggested this young woman would receive special attention.
"Your Excellency," Sebastian began, cautiously breaking the silence, "you were absolutely right—she's identical to Duchess Rosella."
At the mention of the name, the duke's expression shifted instantly. His smile vanished, replaced by a cold, distant stare. His eyes darkened, like storm clouds gathering, and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Yes, Sebastian," he replied, his voice sharp and nearly a whisper, "but this woman won't be a treacherous wolf like Rosella. She swore loyalty to me—while rolling around with a pitiful soldier, a man not even fit to polish my boots."
Sebastian bowed his head lower, avoiding the duke's gaze. He knew this was a delicate subject, one that stirred a restrained fury in Eriol. Rosella's betrayal had wounded not only his pride, but something deeper—though he'd never admit it aloud.
"I understand, Your Excellency," Sebastian murmured, his voice barely audible.
The duke rose with calculated grace and walked to the window. He stared out at the garden beyond the glass, his gaze drifting between past and present. The golden light of sunset bathed his face, softening the lines of bitterness time had carved into it.
"I loved her, Sebastian," he confessed at last, his voice heavy with a sorrow he rarely revealed. "But that betrayal… I couldn't forgive. I'd rather see her dead than let her birth the bastard she carried."
Sebastian shivered at the words. He knew the duke was dangerous—capable of extremes when betrayed. But he also knew that beneath the façade of control and power lay a wound that had never healed.
"My lord," Sebastian ventured, "have you never wondered why that girl looks so much like the duchess?"
The duke remained silent for a long time, eyes fixed on the horizon. The question stirred something in him, though he didn't show it. He'd noticed the resemblance from the moment he saw her: the same dark hair, the same large, expressive eyes, the same golden skin that shimmered in the light. But he'd never considered looking deeper. To him, the coincidence was simply an opportunity.
"It does spark some curiosity," he admitted at last, thoughtfully. "But it's irrelevant, Sebastian. What matters is that I have another chance… to reclaim my Rosella."
The final words lingered in the room, thick with nostalgia and obsession. Sebastian said no more, knowing further comment might provoke the duke. He remained silent, watching as Eriol returned to his desk, lifted the wine glass, and took a long, deliberate sip.