Act X: The Wind That Tried to Take Her
The house held its breath.
Somewhere far beyond the stone walls and velour curtains, the wind changed — no longer a whispering hush of autumn's descent, but the wild roar of something old and unkind returning. A pressure rolled through the halls like the ghost of a storm not yet begun. Books lay untouched. Fireplaces burned low. But everything — everything — felt on the brink of breaking.
And then the door slammed open.
He came in not like family, but like force. Cold air clung to his shoulders. The smell of frost and control followed. Gloves still on. Words sharp and final. He didn't ask — he declared. He didn't wonder — he commanded. F•••••, he said. Tomorrow, he said. She is mine.
But she was listening.
Upstairs, not sleeping, not dreaming — just listening. Wrapped in stars and silence, knees to chest, she heard everything not meant for her ears. The man's voice. The words. Heir. Legacy. Blood. Not her name. Never her name.
And then something cracked — soft at first, then sharp as glass.
She ran.
Barefoot through gravel, through night. No shoes. No coat. Just fury and sorrow and a name whispered like a prayer. She didn't knock. She never had to.
Arms opened. She collapsed.
"I don't want to be an heir," she cried. "I want to be me. I want to stay."
And the answer was not a lecture, not a promise wrapped in power. It was arms around her. Fingers in her hair. A voice saying, "Then stay."
Because sometimes love is not protection through walls or legacy through blood.
Sometimes love is a girl's lap in the middle of the night, steady as the moon.
Sometimes it's a whisper that dares to defy kingdoms.
Sometimes it's the fierce truth that one small voice can choose where it belongs.
And as the wind screamed outside and voices argued in rooms she had left behind, she clung to the only thing that had never tried to reshape her:
Warmth.
Love.
And the girl who said you don't have to go.