Grief was supposed to be loud—at least that was what people said. Wailing, sobbing, screaming. But Lucy's grief was a silent collapse, a quiet implosion of everything she had ever held together. The world didn't shatter around her; it simply dimmed, one breath at a time, until she could no longer tell if the heaviness on her chest came from her father's death or from all the years of hurt that had preceded it.
For three days after the call from the Forest Bureau, Lucy barely moved. She lay curled on her bed while the house whispered memories she didn't want to hear. Her father's voice seemed to echo in the wood of the walls, in the wind brushing the curtains, in the scent of pine still faint on his coat hanging by the door. Edma kept vigil beside her, wiping her forehead, brushing her hair, humming lullabies from a distant homeland—a fragile anchor keeping Lucy from falling into the abyss inside her.
But grief has a way of reshaping perception. On the fourth morning, after a night of restless half-sleep, Lucy opened her eyes and realized something terrifying:
She was alone in this world now.
Her mother was a storm.
Her father was gone.
And she was standing in the ruins.
Her eyes burned, her throat ached. Her body trembled with the ghost of her father's last promise. "I'll be back soon, Lucy. We'll talk. We'll fix things."
The forest swallowed him before he could keep it.
Edma stroked her granddaughter's hand. "My sweet child, breathe. Just breathe. Grief is a river—you don't drown if you let it flow."
Lucy tried.
But the river inside her was thick like tar.
It was that same afternoon—when the sun was at its weakest, hiding behind layers of gray—that Helena returned to the house.
They heard her car before they saw her shadow sweep across the windows. Edma tensed immediately. "Stay upstairs," she whispered. "You're not ready for this."
But Lucy forced herself to stand. Every movement felt like wading through mud. Still, she descended the stairs, driven not by strength but by a numb obligation—some fragile instinct to face the storm rather than hide from it.
Helena entered without knocking. She looked like she had stepped out of another life entirely—expensive coat, immaculate hair, diamond earrings that glinted even in the dimness of their home. She paused in the doorway, eyes sweeping the room with a faint curl of distaste.
"Lucy," she said, her voice clipped. "We need to talk."
Edma stepped forward immediately. "Helena, now is not—"
"I wasn't talking to you," Helena snapped.
Lucy felt something inside her tighten, but she held her ground. "What do you want?"
Her mother regarded her with an expression that was neither sympathy nor concern. "I heard about your father."
Lucy flinched. The way Helena said your father, as though the man she once married was a distant acquaintance, made her chest throb.
"I assumed," Helena continued, "that this means you'll need… stability. A proper future."
Edma stiffened. "Helena, don't."
Helena raised her chin. "Lucy, I want you to move in with me."
"No," Lucy whispered. Her pulse hammered in her ears.
"You didn't let me finish." Helena's tone sharpened. "Victor and I have discussed this. We believe it is best if you… settle down. With Samuel."
Lucy's breath stopped.
It wasn't shock.
It was revulsion.
"No," she said immediately. "Absolutely not."
Helena's eyes narrowed. "Don't be childish."
"I'm nineteen, not nine." Her voice shook, but she didn't back down. "I know who Samuel is. I know what he is."
Helena's lips tightened. "He is Victor's son. A respectable young man with prospects."
"He's a predator," Lucy whispered.
The room fell still.
Helena's expression hardened, turning sharp as broken glass. "You will do as I say."
"No."
"Lucy—"
"No." Her voice rose, cracking under the strain of grief and fear. "You can't make me marry him. You can't make me leave with you."
Helena's face transformed—anger twisting her features, bringing a flash of something venomous into her eyes.
Edma stepped between them. "Helena, listen to her. She's mourning her father. Have some mercy."
But Helena shoved her mother aside—not violently, but with enough force to shock Lucy.
"You've filled her head with stories and excuses all her life," Helena growled. "You've turned her against me."
Edma stumbled but caught herself on the wall. "I turned her against nothing. Your choices did that."
Helena's jaw clenched. "She will come with me."
"I won't," Lucy said again, quieter this time—but firm, unwavering.
Something snapped.
Helena's hand flew before Lucy could react. The slap wasn't brutal, not enough to knock her down, but the shock of it was far worse than the sting. Lucy's cheek burned, her ears rang, the world tilting as if the floor had shifted beneath her.
"HELENA!" Edma cried out, grabbing her daughter's wrist.
Lucy staggered back, breath trembling. For a heartbeat, she expected guilt in her mother's face. Regret. Anything.
There was nothing.
"If you don't come willingly," Helena hissed, "you'll be dragged."
A shadow moved near the door.
Samuel stepped inside.
He didn't smile—but the glint in his eyes made Lucy's stomach twist. He approached with slow, deliberate footsteps.
"No," Lucy whispered. She moved backward instinctively.
Samuel reached out, grabbing her arm—not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that she couldn't break free easily.
"Let go!" Lucy yanked, panic rising, throat tightening.
Helena seized Lucy's other arm. "Stop resisting. You're coming with us."
Edma rushed forward. "Leave her alone!" She hit at Samuel's arm, but he shoved her back reflexively.
The shove wasn't monstrous, but Edma's age turned it dangerous. She stumbled hard, falling to the floor, her head hitting against the wooden cabinet with a sickening thud.
"Grandma!" Lucy cried out, trying to reach her, but Samuel held her in place.
Samuel's grip tightened as Lucy struggled. "Stop fighting, Lucy. It'll be easier."
"Let me go!" she screamed, half sobbing. "Let her go—please—"
Helena tried to pull her toward the doorway. Lucy resisted with every ounce of strength, her knees buckling, legs shaking.
"Lucy," Helena barked, "stop acting like a child!"
"I'm not your possession!"
The struggle grew chaotic—hands grabbing, Lucy yanking away, Edma groaning softly on the floor. Lucy's vision blurred, heart pounding, breath turning ragged and sharp.
Samuel grabbed her shoulders to force her forward—but she twisted, trying to escape.
The movement caused her foot to slip on a loose rug.
The world spun.
Her head struck the corner of the counter.
A sharp flash of pain—then everything faded.
Voices dripped through the dark.
Distant. Muffled.
A storm approaching behind walls of cotton.
Lucy forced her eyes open—but the world was blurry, tilted sideways. Shapes moved in front of her. Her mother's voice—sharp, frantic. Samuel cursing under his breath. Edma's weak moan.
And then—
Another voice.
Deep. Cold. Controlled.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
It wasn't Samuel.
It wasn't her mother.
The room fell silent.
Lucy blinked, pushing through fog until a silhouette sharpened near the doorway—a tall figure in dark military uniform, broad shoulders squared, boots heavy against the wooden floor.
His presence felt like thunder.
Merlin.
She had heard of him—son of Captain Damien, her father's closest friend from the military. A man with a reputation for discipline, ferocity, and loyalty. Last she knew, he had been stationed far from Wenesó. But here he stood, like a shadow carved from the storm outside.
Helena straightened, eyes flashing. "Who are you to walk into my home—"
"This isn't your home," Merlin said, his voice low and edged with danger. He stepped forward. "It's Robert Desmond's. And the only people he trusted here were Edma and Lucy."
Samuel moved instinctively, trying to put himself between Merlin and Helena. "Stay out of this."
Merlin's eyes flicked to him. "Touch her again," he said softly, "and you'll regret it."
Samuel puffed his chest in false confidence. "You think you can threaten me?"
"No." Merlin stepped forward. "I'm promising you."
Samuel swung—sloppy, untrained, fueled by arrogance rather than skill.
Merlin moved like a blade.
He blocked the blow with ease, grabbed Samuel's arm, turned, and pinned him to the wall in one fluid, controlled motion. No unnecessary force. No theatrics. Just efficient precision.
Samuel gasped, struggling. "Let—go—"
Merlin tightened his grip—not enough to injure, but enough to make the message clear. "You don't get to put your hands on her."
Helena rushed forward to intervene. "Stop! You can't treat him like—"
Merlin's gaze snapped to her. "And you." His voice darkened. "Hitting your grieving daughter? Forcing her into marriage? That's your idea of motherhood?"
Helena's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Merlin released Samuel with a shove that sent him stumbling back. "Get out."
"This isn't over—" Helena began.
"Yes," Merlin said, stepping closer, towering over both of them. "It is. Leave. Now."
There was no room for argument.
Samuel grabbed Helena's arm, muttering curses under his breath as they retreated out the door. Helena cast one last look at Lucy—an unreadable mix of fury and something else beneath it—but she said nothing.
The door slammed behind them.
For the first time in days, the house was silent—but not the suffocating silence Lucy had always known. This one felt like breath after drowning.
Merlin turned immediately to Edma, helping her gently to her feet. "Are you hurt?"
"A bruise," she muttered, wincing, "but I'll live."
Then he knelt beside Lucy.
She blinked up at him, her head throbbing, vision still hazy.
His face was stern, handsome in a cold, soldierly way, but his eyes—dark and steady—held something she hadn't seen in a long time.
Concern.
Real, human concern.
"You're safe now," he said quietly.
Lucy's lips trembled. For the first time since her father's death, she felt something warm stir in her chest—fragile, faint, but real.
Hope.
Merlin adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, helping her sit upright slowly. "I promised your father I'd watch over you if anything happened to him."
Her breath hitched.
He continued, softer now: "I'm sorry I had to keep that promise so soon."
Lucy closed her eyes, tears slipping free—not of despair this time, but of something loosening inside her.
The house felt different now.
The air felt different.
The future—still dark, still uncertain—felt like it might contain a path forward after all.
And as Merlin stayed beside her, steady as a mountain, Lucy realized something she had never dared believe:
The darkness had taken her father.
It had tried to take her too.
But something had finally stepped into the storm with her.
Not to rescue her entire life—
just to keep her from drowning in it.
And that was enough.
For now.