Keita slipped in through the front door as quietly as he could, easing it shut behind him with practiced care. The wooden hinges still gave a faint groan, no matter how gently he handled them. He held his breath, listening.
Nothing.
He brushed the dirt from his sleeves, rubbing the fabric as though erasing what had happened outside. But like the ever–watchful eyes of a hawk, his mother was already aware of his presence.
He took one step forward.
Smack.
His head snapped lightly to the side, more from shock than force.
"Is my cooking not good enough for you?" Her voice hissed, anger simmering beneath her breath.
"What's the point of feeding you," she continued, " if you waste food wandering out like a stray, dirtying yourself in the streets?"
Her words cut as sharply as the slap on his cheek. His face flamed red.
He dared not speak nor meet her gaze. Words would only invite more punishment.
"Shower. Now."
Her eyes flicked briefly at his sleeves, his shoes, the faint smear of dirt on his collar.
"Before you drag filth across my floors."
She turned away leaving him at the doorstep, retreating deeper into the house. This time, her anger stopped at a slap. He counted that as luck.
Keita remained where he stood, with his hand clenching his cheek.
"Usually, it would go further until it felt like my bones might crack."
A part of him wondered if she held back because he already looked hurt. The thought scared him more than the pain.
"Surely not… ha... ha" he thought weakly, forcing a laugh he didn't feel.
She was still his mother. No mother, he told himself, would truly want to kill their child. Even if they could.
Keita showered with what little hot water remained. Tossing his dirty clothes to the side, he was grateful his clothes weren't stained in a way that would demand explanations he couldn't give. He scrubbed himself until his arms ached, as though ridding himself of the shame he felt rather than the dirt smeared all over him.
Still as if things could get any worse, only cold food awaited him.
…
Crunch… munch…
Cold food was still food. He ate quietly, grateful for warmth in any form… even if it wasn't from her.
After eating he cleaned up in silence and retreated to his room. At this hour, mother would be drinking in the room next door. Empty bottles of wine at her feet, grief fermenting into something more dangerous. She would frequently spend her days like this since father passed.
They said it was an accident.
A carriage, a cliff, and a fall too deep to search.
As if faith itself dragged him there, but no one could confirm it.
He never came back–not even in the form of a body to bury.
Through the walls, grief spilled across the house, thick and suffocating.
"Why me?"
"My family was so perfect"
"What must I do now?"
She sobbed away on the floor. Keita lay still on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He knew better than to leave his room during moments like this.
Once, he had.
The sound of glass shattering against the wall still echoes louder in his memory than her words. She didn't have to speak. He already knew every word that would follow.
"A curse came out of the womb with me."
"The cord wrapped around my neck, hugging me as if we're inseparable," he thought.
He hugged himself to sleep, drowning out her grief, letting the pillow press silence over the world.
…
Across the village, the castle glowed faintly under moonlight–cold stone embraced by colder shadows. A small figure stood out like a silver lining against the dark shades of the castle walls.
The two guards spared no glance, eyes trained at the distance, as the baron's daughter stumbles into the castle.
"Looks like I win." one said, tossing a coin into the air.
"Tch… drinks on me then" laughed the other.
To them, her return was nothing more than a wager won–not a child coming home bruised in spirit.
"Milord the young miss has returned. Shall I have her report to your lordship?"
The voice of a man poised with grace bowed. The Vassal of Baron Melrick, Alistair Belmont, a war veteran known for his accolades in the last Great War of The Valoria Empire.
"Let her be Alistair, now is not the time."
"Baron Fenwick will be arriving tomorrow for marriage talks. Just focus on ensuring that everything goes well."
Said Baron Melrick, spiraling a glass of wine in his hand with meticulous care.
The young miss was led to the royal bath by maids in silence. Unacknowledged by the servants. They frequently gossip about her even in her presence. Whispers travelled down the halls, thin and sharp.
"Look… it's the daughter of the prostitute."
"There goes the silver stain of the household… muddy as always."
The maids in the back scoffed at her. She was used to it.
"Her mother was once a noblewoman, you know."
As they said, her mother, Aurelia Lancaster, recognized as The Rose of the Lower Quarter, is a prostitute that was once a noblewoman.
"Her former family was treated as war spoils, stripped of their viscount title and sold as slaves."
"She became the last remaining member of the family as they were hunted down for their unique talent [Blade Dancer]" gossiped the maids.
Their silver hair would glow on the battlefield resembling a banshee as they wove their way through enemies leaving a dance of death wherever they went.
Being a mere husk of her former self. Aurelia Lancaster gave birth to a single child, Celestia Lancaster.
She did not carry the baron's name–an unspoken boundary that defined every room she entered.
Servants bathed her and dressed her without a word, avoiding her gaze as though eye contact itself carried consequence.
Soon after, the young girl was escorted back to her room–a door closing softly behind her like a sigh.
Unaware that the court buzzed with alliances, whispers and scheming, not knowing what fate brings her tomorrow. But as she lay upon her bed, blankets tucked to her chin, she clung to one memory–a moment of unexpected warmth against a world grown cold.
"His eyes… I never got to tell him how beautiful they were."
As if turning the wheels of fate, the heavens held secrets they were not yet ready to reveal.