The sun had long dipped behind Stromwalde's jagged mountains, leaving only the pale chill of twilight to seep through the manor's stone walls. The servants lit candles in golden sconces, and distant voices echoed from the lower halls.
Lan hadn't left her room all day.
Her body still ached from the bruises of yesterday—the stares, the spilt wine, the endless whispering behind her back. Her stomach growled faintly, but she didn't move.
Then came the knock.
Three soft raps.
She didn't respond.
The door creaked open regardless. A maid stepped inside—a different one this time. Older, poised, with delicate silver pins in her bun. Her smile was polite, almost too polished.
"My lady," she said smoothly, "you've not eaten."
Lan remained still.
The woman held up a small dish, steam rising gently from a porcelain bowl. And beside it, a dainty cup of what looked like fruit tea.
Lan's blue eyes flicked to the tray.
The scent was sweet. Almost too sweet.
"Her Ladyship Elara sent it herself," the maid said with a practiced smile, "She said a young bride must keep her strength."
Something in the way she spoke made Lan's neck prickle. But hunger gnawed at her too loudly.
"…Thank you."
The maid placed the tray down with reverence and bowed once.
"I shall return to collect it later. Enjoy, my lady."
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Lan hesitated only a moment longer before sipping the drink. It warmed her throat instantly, but with an odd, sharp undertone that bit the back of her tongue.
She didn't stop.
The warmth spread too fast.
Too deep.
Later That Night
When Prince Alaric returned home, it was later than expected.
His cloak hung from his shoulders, dust and ash lining his boots. He'd ridden directly from the outer barracks. His body was tense, his eyes cold.
Elara met him briefly in the inner court.
"She's still very young," Elara said with gentle warning. "You may not care for this arrangement, but she is under my protection now. I expect her to be treated fairly."
"I didn't put her here," Alaric muttered.
"No," Elara replied, her voice never losing its calm, "But you are the reason she stays."
With that, she turned and disappeared into her own wing.
Alaric was left alone in the hall, his jaw tight.
He didn't intend to check on the girl. He'd assumed she was being fed, clothed, watched over.
Still… something in Elara's tone lingered.
He stopped a maid nearby. "Has the princess been properly cared for?"
The maid lowered her eyes. "Of course, Your Highness. She has everything she needs."
Another nodded. "The girl is difficult, but we obey orders."
He frowned slightly.
Why did their smiles feel too smooth?
Without a word, he turned and walked toward her room.
...
Lan's laugh echoed in the dim room like a cracked bell.
Alaric stared at her from the doorway, unmoving. She'd just stumbled into him—light as a feather, sweet-scented, her arms half-wrapped around his waist like she was clinging to the only branch in a flood. Her words slurred, tears shimmered faintly at the corners of her eyes. A weird combination of giddiness and despair danced on her flushed face.
"I… I think I'm floating," she whispered against his chest, then leaned her forehead against him as if he were something soft. "Do you feel it too? The spinning…?"
Alaric froze.
She was just a child. Barely fifteen. And clearly drunk.
His hand hovered above her shoulder but never landed. "Get off me," he said sharply.
She didn't.
Instead, she giggled—a soft, broken sound that immediately turned to sobs. "It's funny… I hated you. I still do. But you… you smell like rain."
"What the hell are you talking about?" His tone grew colder, harsher. "Do you even realize what you drank?"
Lan tilted her head back and looked up at him with blurred, ocean-blue eyes. "You're… angry again."
"You shouldn't be drunk. Not like this. Not at your age," he snapped, gripping her by the arms to pull her off him. Her skin burned under his touch—too warm.
"You don't get it," she muttered, weakly struggling but never pulling away. "I didn't mean to be born. I didn't ask to be a wife or… or a prisoner."
Something in his jaw twitched.
He steadied her enough to sit her down again on the bed. Her hanfu had slipped again, loose at the shoulder. He averted his eyes and grabbed the edge of the fabric, tugging it back over her silently.
"Stop looking so fragile," he muttered under his breath. "You're not the only one with scars."
Lan blinked up, barely understanding, then slowly smiled.
"Are you… scared of me?" she whispered with strange glee.
Alaric didn't respond. He simply turned and stormed out of the room, fists clenched.
He would make someone pay.
...
The corridor outside was dim. Cold. Too quiet.
He found them gathered like birds at the far end—maids in stiff uniforms, whispering and pretending to polish silver trays. They flinched as he approached.
"Who gave her the drink?" His voice cracked like thunder.
They exchanged glances. One dared to speak.
"Your Highness… we served only what was requested. Perhaps she found something herself."
"She's fifteen," Alaric said, his voice deceptively calm, "She doesn't even speak our language."
"She didn't seem to mind, my lord," said another, mouth twitching with barely-hidden contempt. "She smiled while drinking it."
He stepped closer.
The maids stiffened.
"You hate her," he said quietly. "All of you."
No one answered.
"You know she's under the protection of Elara. You know what it would mean if something happened to her."
"She's… not one of us," someone whispered.
"She doesn't belong here."
Alaric stared at them, then suddenly turned—fury clawing behind his ribs—and walked back toward the private wing.
His boots echoed like thunder.
When he returned to her room, Lan had slid down to the floor, curled beside the bed like a lost kitten. Her cheeks were wet. One of her sleeves had slipped again—half her shoulder bare—and her lips parted slightly as if she were dreaming of water in a desert.
Alaric stared at her.
Not with desire.
Not entirely.
But with something sharp. Violent. Unforgivable.
He crouched beside her and brushed a damp lock of hair from her face.
She stirred, still deep in a fog. "I'm not broken," she whispered faintly. "Even if I look it."
His hand hovered at her cheek. Didn't touch.
Then lowered to her collarbone. Her skin twitched.
"Is this what they see when they look at you?" he said softly. "A body to sell? A symbol of victory?"
He felt disgusted.
With them.
With himself.
But most of all, with the part of him that hadn't turned away fast enough.
"Remember this when you wake up," he said in a low voice. "This world doesn't give kindness freely. And if you want to survive here… don't ever get this careless again."
Lan murmured something unintelligible, leaning toward him once more, arms reaching feebly.
He stood and walked away, faster than before.
This time, he didn't stop until he reached the farthest end of the corridor, punching a stone pillar with a force that cracked his knuckles open.