Chapter 1: The Ashmere Maid
Elowen Ashmere learned early that silence was safer than truth.
The stone floor beneath her knees was cold, unforgiving, and familiar like the family that owned her name but never claimed her. Dawn's pale light spilled through the tall arched windows of House Ashmere's west hall, illuminating dust motes and the faint smear of blood she hadn't yet scrubbed away.
Her blood.
She dipped the cloth into the bucket again, the water already tinged pink, and pressed it to the stone. Her wrists burned. Her back screamed. But Elowen did not stop.
She never stopped.
"Did you miss a spot?"
The voice came sharp and sweet, like a blade dipped in honey.
Elowen stiffened but did not look up. "No, Lady Maribel," she replied softly. "I was just "
A polished shoe stepped into her field of vision. White silk hem. Gold embroidery. Everything Elowen would never touch unless she was cleaning it.
Maribel Ashmere, her half-sister, crouched just enough to look her in the eye. Their resemblance was faint but undeniable same dark lashes, same ash-brown hair. One had been born to a noble wife. The other to a servant who died in childbirth.
One was cherished.
One was tolerated.
"You were just being slow," Maribel said lightly. "Again."
Elowen lowered her gaze. "Yes, my lady."
The word lady tasted bitter. Maribel was only two years older than her, yet the gulf between them was vast and merciless.
Maribel rose, smoothing her skirts. "Father expects guests tonight. Make sure the hall shines. And if I find even a speck of dirt "
"I'll clean it again," Elowen said quickly.
Maribel smiled. "Good girl."
She walked away, heels clicking against stone, leaving Elowen alone with the echo of humiliation and the ache in her ribs where she'd been struck the night before. Elowen waited until the sound faded before allowing herself a shallow breath.
Good girl.
She had been called worse.
Elowen scrubbed harder.
House Ashmere was a minor noble house, but it clung to appearances with desperate hands. Every tapestry, every chandelier, every goblet had to gleam, even if it meant bleeding hands and sleepless nights.
Especially if it meant bleeding hands.
By the time the bells rang for midday, Elowen's arms trembled. She stood slowly, dizzy, and carried the bucket toward the servants' corridor. Her reflection flashed briefly in a mirror mounted along the wall thin frame, pale skin, hair hastily braided to keep it out of her face. Her eyes looked too large for her face, shadowed by exhaustion.
She looked like what she was.
A maid.
No worse.
A maid who shared the family name but none of its protection.
She passed other servants, their eyes sliding away from her. Pity was dangerous here. Kindness even more so. Those who spoke to her too warmly often found themselves reassigned… or dismissed.
Or beaten.
In the kitchens, the heat pressed down on her like a suffocating blanket. She set the bucket aside and reached for another task before she could be noticed. Idle hands invited punishment.
"Elowen."
She froze.
The steward's voice was low, disapproving. Master Hale was a narrow man with sharp eyes and a ledger always tucked beneath his arm.
"Yes, sir?"
"Lord Ashmere wishes to see you," he said.
Her stomach dropped.
"Now," he added.
Elowen nodded and wiped her hands on her apron, though it did little to hide the faint tremble in her fingers. She followed the steward through the main corridors, each step heavier than the last.
Lord Ashmere's study smelled of ink and wine. The man himself sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes cold. Lady Ashmere stood beside him, her expression distant, as though Elowen were a stain she tolerated only because removing it would require effort.
"Elowen," Lord Ashmere said, as if tasting the word. "Come closer."
She did.
"You are nineteen," he continued. "Old enough."
Elowen said nothing. She had learned that speaking invited trouble.
"We have received an offer," Lady Ashmere said coolly.
Lord Ashmere's lips curled. "A generous one."
Elowen's pulse quickened. "An offer… sir?"
"A marriage," he said.
Her breath caught.
Marriage.
The word meant escape for some. For others, it meant a different kind of cage.
"To whom?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Lord Ashmere's gaze sharpened. "Do not forget yourself."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He leaned back. "The offer comes from Blackspire."
The name hit her like a blow.
Blackspire.
Even servants whispered that name with fear. A fortress on the borderlands. A dominion ruled by a man rumored to be more monster than lord.
The Warlord of Blackspire.
Void touched. Blood soaked. Ruthless beyond reason.
Men said he erased armies. Women said he took no wife because none survived him.
Elowen's hands clenched in her apron. "Why… why me?"
Lady Ashmere smiled thinly. "Because you are expendable."
The words were delivered without heat. Without cruelty. As if stating a simple fact.
"They want a bride," Lord Ashmere continued. "And we want gold. Protection. Influence." His eyes flicked over her. "You will suffice."
Elowen's heart pounded so loudly she was sure they could hear it.
"I d do don't " Her voice broke. "I don't know him."
"You will learn," Lady Ashmere said.
"And if I refuse?" Elowen asked, though she already knew the answer.
Lord Ashmere stood.
The room seemed to shrink.
"You are not refusing anything," he said quietly. "You owe this house for your existence."
Her nails dug into her palms.
"You will leave in three days," he continued. "Try not to embarrass us."
Dismissed.
Elowen turned on shaking legs and walked out of the study, the world blurring at the edges. She did not cry. She had cried once, years ago, and learned how useless it was.
Three days.
Three days until she belonged to a man rumored to be a beast.
That night, Elowen lay awake on her narrow cot in the servants' quarters, staring at the ceiling. Every creak of the manor sounded too loud. Every breath felt stolen.
Marriage.
She pressed a hand to her chest, where something tight and aching twisted painfully.
She had never dreamed of love. Love was for women who were chosen.
But she had dreamed of safety.
Of kindness.
Of a place where she did not flinch at footsteps.
She closed her eyes.
Blackspire waited.
And somewhere beyond fear and rumor, a warlord who had no idea what he was about to receive.