---
"Thank you for escorting me."
Marin offered Olive a sincere bow of gratitude.
"Oh, it was nothing." He waved away the thanks with an easy smile. "Get some proper rest tonight. Tomorrow will be busy."
"I will. Please—be careful on the road."
She watched him ride away until horse and rider melted into the darkness, swallowed whole by the moonless night.
Beside her, the white stallion snorted softly, releasing a plume of warm breath that curled like smoke in the cold air. Marin turned to face him, reaching up to stroke his velvet nose.
"You're a good boy, aren't you? Thank you for carrying me safely."
The horse whickered in response, nudging her palm with gentle insistence. She led him around the back of the cottage and secured his reins to the sturdiest post she could find.
"Marin? Is that you?"
Her mother's voice drifted from the doorway—thin, anxious, trembling with questions she was too polite to ask.
Marin hurried toward the entrance, alarm spiking through her chest. "Mama, it's cold out here. Why did you come outside?"
Roenna stood silhouetted against the dim interior light, wrapped in a shawl too thin for the night air. Despite her obvious curiosity, she asked nothing—simply opened her arms in wordless welcome.
*Always thinking of me. Never demanding explanations.*
Marin stepped into her mother's embrace, careful not to squeeze too tightly. She could feel every bone through the worn fabric of Roenna's nightgown.
"Everything worked out," she whispered.
Her mother's dark green eyes—so like her own, just a shade deeper—flickered with cautious hope.
"Truly?"
"Truly." Marin guided her gently back inside, one arm wrapped around those fragile shoulders. "Mama, we're moving."
Roenna's hand closed around Marin's wrist, grip surprisingly strong for someone so frail.
"Moving? Out of this house?" Worry sharpened her voice. "You couldn't get the money? Are they forcing us out?"
"No—nothing like that." Marin couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. "His Grace the Duke has offered us quarters on the castle grounds. Proper servants' quarters. We can live there together."
"My *God*."
Roenna's hand flew to her chest. For a moment, she simply stared, as though the words needed time to arrange themselves into meaning.
"The Duke himself? Marin, His Grace must be the kindest man in all the empire. Truly, we are blessed—"
"Yes, Mama. We certainly are."
Marin kept her expression carefully neutral, swallowing back the sardonic twist that wanted to curl her lips. *Kind* wasn't exactly the word she would choose. Their arrangement was a transaction—her voice for his shelter. Nothing more.
But the result was the same, and her mother didn't need to know the details.
"We should start packing," Roenna said, already attempting to rise. "How much time do we have? When do they expect us?"
"Tomorrow morning. A carriage will come for you." Marin pressed her mother gently back down. "But that's tomorrow. Tonight, you rest. I'll handle the packing."
"But—"
"*Rest*, Mama."
Roenna subsided, though her eyes remained bright with barely contained excitement. It was the most animated Marin had seen her in months.
*Perhaps this move will be good for her. A new beginning.*
She turned to survey the cottage—their home for the past three years—and began mentally cataloguing what little remained worth taking.
---
## — The Duke's Study —
"Enter."
Olive retrieved a candle from the wall sconce and pushed open the heavy door. Darkness swallowed him whole the moment he crossed the threshold.
"I've returned, Your Grace."
The Duke lounged in his chair with the boneless grace of a predator at rest—deceptively languid, fundamentally dangerous. His black silk blindfold made it impossible to read his expression, but something in the tilt of his head suggested amusement.
"Tell me, Olive. Do you genuinely believe the temporary worker will be able to help me sleep?"
Olive considered the question carefully before answering.
"Honestly? No."
"On that, we agree."
A pause stretched between them. The candle's flame guttered in some unfelt draft.
"Then you understand," the Duke continued, his voice dropping lower, "why I ordered her moved to the outbuilding?"
Olive's brow furrowed. He chose his next words with care.
"The house was certainly in no condition for habitation—that much warranted immediate relocation. But beyond that practical concern..." He hesitated. "You still suspect her."
"Now she will live within my walls." The Duke's lips curved—not quite a smile. "Close enough to observe. Close enough to catch."
*If there's anything to catch.*
Olive kept the thought to himself. He bowed slightly and retreated from the study, leaving his master alone with the darkness.
---
## — The Next Morning —
A bird perched on a low branch, busily preening its feathers in the pale morning light. It startled into flight when heavy footsteps came thundering up the mountain path—sharp and angry, striking the clay-packed earth like hammer blows.
Oksanda stormed toward the cottage at the base of the slope, her face contorted with barely contained fury. Behind her, her husband Jorno struggled to keep pace, his considerable bulk heaving with each labored step.
"Would you *slow down*?" He wiped sweat from his brow despite the cool morning air. "What's the point of arriving at dawn? They're broke—everyone knows that. How exactly do you plan to squeeze money from people who have none?"
Oksanda whirled on him, eyes narrowing to slits.
"You think I'm here for *money*?"
"Then what—"
"I'm here to finish what I started." Her fingers curled into claws. "That little wretch escaped me yesterday. I got a handful of the mother's hair, but that wasn't nearly enough. Today, I'll have the daughter's too."
She snorted—a harsh, ugly sound—and resumed her march.
"You're a fool, you know that?" Jorno muttered, shuffling after her. "Who's going to rent that hovel after you've terrorized the tenants? We need that income—"
"*We*? Since when do you contribute anything to this household?" Oksanda spun again, finger jabbing at his chest. "I know why you're suddenly so concerned about those two. You've been sniffing around that skinny girl like a dog after scraps!"
"That's—that's a complete misunderstanding—"
"*Misunderstanding*?" Her voice rose to a screech. "Are you trying to protect her again?"
"No! No, never. Let's just go. Please, let's just go."
Jorno scurried forward, desperate to outpace her rage.
They disappeared into the thicket of trees. Moments later, along the same path, a carriage appeared—fine horses drawing polished wood—accompanied by a rider on a powerful black stallion.
---
"Look at that. She came out to meet us."
Oksanda's lip curled in contempt as she spotted Marin standing a short distance from the cottage. The girl had positioned herself deliberately, Oksanda realized—far enough from the house that voices wouldn't carry to whoever waited inside.
*Trying to protect mommy. How sweet.*
"You think coming out here will make me forgive you?" Oksanda stalked forward, fingers flexing. "You think a little politeness will save your pretty face?"
Marin said nothing.
She simply stood there, expression calm, hands clasped loosely before her.
The stillness was unnerving.
Oksanda faltered for just a moment, then shook off the feeling and launched herself forward—
*Thump.*
A heavy pouch landed at her feet.
Silver coins glinted through the leather, catching the morning sun like scattered stars. The sight stopped Oksanda mid-stride.
Her eyes went wide. Greed replaced rage in an instant.
She snatched up the bag, fingers scrambling to count the contents. "Where did *you* get this kind of money?"
Behind her, Jorno's voice quavered with naked avarice. "Marin... where did you find such a sum?"
Instead of answering, Oksanda looked Marin over—from her worn shoes to her threadbare dress to her thin, pale face—and laughed.
"Where do you think? It's obvious how a girl like *her* earns coin."
*Crack.*
Marin's palm connected with Oksanda's cheek so hard the woman staggered, nearly losing her footing entirely.
Silence.
Then Oksanda *screamed*.
"Have you lost your *mind*?!"
She clutched her face, already feeling it swell beneath her fingers. The coins scattered across the ground, momentarily forgotten.
"Touch my mother again."
Marin's voice emerged flat. Cold. Completely unlike anything Oksanda had heard from her before.
"I dare you."
Her eyes had gone hard as winter ice. Every trace of the meek, downtrodden tenant had vanished, replaced by something far more dangerous.
"W-what—"
"You came into our home." Each word fell like a stone. "You destroyed our belongings. You grabbed my sick mother by the hair and *dragged* her."
Marin took a step forward.
Oksanda retreated, nearly tripping over her own feet. The pressure radiating from the girl was suffocating—like standing in the path of an avalanche.
*Where did this come from? She was always so timid, so easy to bully—*
"Marin, now, let's not—let's not be hasty—"
Jorno edged forward, hands raised in placation, sweat beading on his forehead.
Marin crossed the distance between them in two swift strides and slapped him with equal force.
He stood frozen, hand pressed to his reddening cheek, mouth hanging open in shock.
"You," Marin said quietly, "are the source of all this."
"W-what are you—"
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Her voice remained eerily calm. "Did you think I didn't know who your *real* mistress is? The one your wife's been searching for across the entire county?"
Jorno's face went white.
Marin reached into her pocket and withdrew a single silver coin. She flicked it at his feet.
"There. A gift. For Windy."
His eyes bulged. Before he could stop himself, he lunged for the coin—
"*Windy*?"
Oksanda's shriek could have shattered glass.
"The *stable mistress* Windy? You've been bedding *Windy*?!"
"No—wait—it's not—" Jorno's hands flew up defensively. "Windy is a wonderful woman, she would never—"
"*Wonderful*? For you, every woman except your wife is wonderful and perfect!" Oksanda's face had gone purple with rage. "Today you *die*, and I *live*!"
She launched herself at her husband, fingers tangling in his hair, yanking with all her strength.
"AAAH! Let go! It hurts—IT HURTS—"
Marin watched the spectacle with grim satisfaction.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. The urge to join in—to exact her mother's revenge directly, to rip out every strand of hair on both their heads—pulsed through her like fire.
*No. This is enough. Let them destroy each other.*
"HOW MANY OTHERS?!" Oksanda's voice echoed off the mountainside. "TELL ME! HOW MANY—"
"Ahem."
The single syllable cut through the chaos like a blade.
Both Jorno and Oksanda froze.
Butler Sebas emerged from the tree line, his expression carved from granite. He moved to stand before Marin, broad shoulders forming a wall between her and the landlords.
"Is there a reason," he inquired, his voice dangerously soft, "that you've chosen to conduct your marital dispute *here*?"
Oksanda's grip on Jorno's hair loosened.
She took in the stranger's appearance with growing alarm: the immaculate black uniform, the silver cufflinks, the bearing of someone accustomed to authority. Everything about him screamed *nobility's servant*—and not minor nobility, either.
"I... we were just—"
"Miss Marin."
Sebas glanced over his shoulder, and the hardness in his eyes softened momentarily.
"Why is *he* here?"
Marin's question emerged before she could stop it.
"I came to escort you personally." His lips twitched—not quite a smile. "Though it seems I arrived at precisely the right moment."
"You're... early."
She'd expected a carriage. A driver, perhaps. Not the head butler of the Duke's household.
"Punctuality is a virtue."
Sebas turned back to face Jorno and Oksanda. His gaze swept over them like a winter wind—cold, assessing, utterly unimpressed.
"Now then." His voice dropped to something approaching a growl. "I believe you were leaving."
---