The room was quiet—too quiet. Only the soft clicking of the clock on the mantel and the shallow breathing of an unconscious girl broke the stillness.
Lady Virelle Cersenia lay pale and motionless on the bed, her head wrapped in gauze, bandages wrapped tightly around her arms and ribs. The blankets did little to disguise the bruises beginning to bloom like twisted violets across her back and sides.
At her bedside sat Lia.
She hadn't moved in hours.
Her tiny silver paws were planted firmly on the bedspread, her blue eyes wide and glistening. Her fur was matted from where she'd pressed herself to Virelle's side, trembling as if trying to keep her warm.
She had promised to protect her.
And she had failed.
"Why didn't I stop her?" Lia thought. "Why couldn't I stop her?"
She meowed quietly, the sound pitiful, choked.
Behind her, Princess Serenthia stood with arms folded tightly over her chest. She was silent, unmoving—but the look in her eyes could have frozen the sun.
The doctor, the one who had arrived with her from the capital for her own protection, stood near the foot of the bed. He wiped his hands slowly with a cloth that had seen too much blood in one night.
"She's stable," he said at last, breaking the heavy silence.
The Duke exhaled.
"But," the doctor added, "her blood loss was significant. We cannot say when she'll wake up."
The Duke nodded slowly.
"And there's something else."
Luthair turned sharply.
The doctor lifted the edge of Virelle's sleeve with trembling hands and revealed dark, layered bruises across her arms—some fresh, others older. Burns. Welts. Scars half-healed and poorly treated.
"These didn't happen from a fall," the doctor said gravely. "These are signs of prolonged abuse."
The room seemed to go silent all over again.
Even the wind outside stilled.
Lia's ears twitched. She turned to look at the Duke, who had frozen.
Serenthia spoke, her voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "She's been hurt for years, hasn't she?"
"Yes," the doctor said, glancing at the man who had ruled over this house. "This didn't start yesterday. Or last week."
The Duke took a single step toward the bed.
Virelle hadn't matured early. She had learned silence.
She hadn't become reserved—she had been taught to hide.
The marks on her skin were a story he had never cared to read.
His legs folded beneath him, and the Duke dropped to his knees beside her.
"…Virelle…"
He reached out a trembling hand, brushing a lock of blood-crusted hair from her forehead. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed.
"I didn't know," he whispered. "I didn't see."
Tears slid down his cheeks, silent and raw.
Lia, still seated at Virelle's side, looked up at him.
Her eyes said it clearly, though she could not speak.
Then start seeing.
Duke Luthair's shoulders trembled. He wept openly.
This girl—his daughter—had grown up under his roof with cruelty cloaked as care.
He had left her.
Again and again.
He had trusted others with her happiness, and they had repaid that trust with torture.
And still, she had endured.
He stood.
Without looking at anyone, he turned to the princess. "…Will you stay with her?"
Serenthia met his eyes. She saw the cracks. The fire. The guilt blooming into action.
"I will," she said.
It wasn't a command.
It was a plea.
And she had accepted it.
The Duke left without another word.
Lia turned to follow, curiosity clawing at her instincts.
But something stopped her.
The way the Duke walked now—like a man walking toward his fate, not away from it.
He wasn't retreating.
He was hunting.
Duke Luthair's Office
The door slammed open as he entered, his boots echoing like thunder on the stone.
The sword on the wall—her mother's sword—he took it without hesitation.
A long, silver-forged blade with a sapphire crest at the hilt.
Then, his voice boomed across the hallways:
"BRYCE!"
A tall man, clean-shaven and dressed in a captain's coat, arrived moments later, panting.
"You called, Your Grace?"
Bryce is the aide that was with the duke in the capital.
"I'm invoking that oath. Fire every servant. All of them. Start with the ones on the west wing."
Bryce's eyes widened. "All of them?"
"Yes. If even one stood by and let this happen—they are complicit."
"And Lady Mirane?"
The Duke's hand tightened on the hilt.
"She is not to be dealt with easily."
"…Not easily?"
"She will not die easy."
Mirane screamed as she was dragged into the underground chamber.
Her once-pristine hair was a mess of pins and shrieking protests.
"I am your wife!"
"You were a servent in name of wife did you forget the contract," the Duke replied coldly. "No more. No less."
"You'll regret this!"
He said nothing.
The iron door slammed behind them.
He turned, sword still in hand.
"You struck my daughter," he said, stepping forward. "You nearly killed her."
"She—she lied to you!"
"You left marks on her for years."
"No, she was clumsy! A brat! She didn't—"
CRACK.
He struck the floor with the sword, embedding it into the stone.
Mirane fell silent.
The blade shivered.
He stepped closer.
"You called her cursed. Weak. Filthy."
"She is—!"
"She's mine."
The look in his eyes was no longer of a duke or a general.
It was a father.
And fathers don't ask for forgiveness from monsters.
They give judgment.
"Enjoy the dungeon," he said, voice like a blade. "Each breath you take will be earned in screams."
He turned to Bryce. "Chain her. Don't let her die quickly."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And when I return," he said, sheathing the blade, "we'll talk about what real punishment feels like."
He left the screams behind him.
Back in Virelle's Room
Serenthia sat quietly, stroking Lia's back as she lay curled against Virelle's unmoving side.
"Rest, little one," she whispered. "She's safe now."
Lia's eyes fluttered closed.
Safe. Yes.
For now.
But there was a story still to change.
And Lia would not fail again.
Not this time.