Dawn's eyes fluttered open slowly, the world around her swimming into focus.
Her body ached, and her head felt heavy, like it was full of fog and broken memories. The sound of voices, sharp and tense, cut through the silence.
She lay still, trying to make sense of it. "...What are we going to do about Dawn?" a woman asked, familiar but not comforting.
Dawn blinked toward the sound. Standing near the doorway was a woman with fiery red hair, freckles scattered across her pale face, and a slim, delicate frame.
It was Martha, her mother's closest friend. But right now, her expression was twisted in fury. Opposite her, seated with a straight spine and a face carved from stone, was Dawn's grandmother. Her gray hair was pulled tightly back, not a strand out of place, and her eyes were cold and unfeeling. "We just get rid of her," the old woman said flatly, as though speaking about an unwanted object. "Martha, I'm an old woman. I don't have the strength or the patience to raise my daughter's orphan. It's not my burden."
Disbelief flashed across Martha's face, then twisted into something darker, pure disgust. "You disgust me," she said, her voice low and trembling with restrained rage. "That was your own daughter, your flesh and blood..." "Don't call that thing my daughter," the woman snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "She was a Sylvan."
Martha's jaw tightened. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her pale skin flushing as fury coursed through her. "What proof do you have? She never had wings. She never had horns. You had no reason. You burned her for nothing! You should've been the one that was burned."
The older woman raised her chin, unbothered. "Mind your tongue, girl. I'm still this child's legal guardian. I have the right to do whatever I choose with her."
"Then to hell with guardianship," Martha said, stepping forward, her voice unwavering. "She's my best friend's daughter. I will take care of her myself."
The old woman narrowed her eyes and scoffed. "If you're so eager, fine. But if you're too soft to throw her out, you could always sell her. Slavery would've fetched a good price. Pity she's only ten, too young for the market."
Martha's entire body recoiled as if struck. Her voice trembled, not with fear, but rage. "You're a monster."
As the two women clashed, Dawn sat frozen on the thin mattress. She heard them clearly, but her mind couldn't hold on to the words. Her thoughts were a blur. Her mother was gone. Just like that. Gone.
Her warmth, her laughter, her voice, all vanished in smoke and screams. She was alone. 'I can't even cry', Dawn thought, dazed. 'I don't have the strength. I'll never see mama again.'
Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself upright. Her heart pounded in her chest like it was trying to run away. She scanned the room, plain wooden walls, cold floor, a dim oil lamp flickering near the window, and then her gaze settled on Martha. Her mother's friend. The one who was supposed to be her mama's friend.
Without a word, Dawn stood and walked quickly across the room. She stopped just a few steps away from Martha and looked up at her, eyes red as she tried to hold back her tears. "How could you?" she said, her voice cracking. "She was your friend."
Martha turned immediately, startled. Her own eyes filled with tears at the sight of Dawn, so small, so broken. She crouched down and reached for her gently. "Oh, Dawn... I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I wasn't here; I stayed back home last night. I came back this morning and she was already gone." Her voice broke, and she gathered Dawn into her arms.
"I should have been there. I should've protected her. I failed her. I failed you. No child should ever have to live through something like this." Dawn clung to her, shaking. "Aunty?"
she said softly. "Yes, my love?" "I want to go to military school." Martha pulled back slightly, looking at her with wide eyes. "What? Why?"
"Because I promised Mama," Dawn said, her voice hollow but steady. "I told her I'd become the best soldier the Empire has ever seen. I want to keep that promise." Martha stared at the girl, ten years old, carrying a sorrow and resolve far beyond her years. Her heart broke all over again. She nodded slowly.
"You can become a soldier, Dawn. I won't stop you. But… wait. Wait until you're twelve. Please."
Dawn hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you." Martha stood and turned toward the grandmother with one final, unwavering glare. Her eyes said everything: Don't come near her again. The old woman scoffed, muttered something under her breath, and walked out without looking back. Once the door shut behind her, Martha turned back to Dawn, hesitant but needing to ask.
"Dawn… I know this is hard, but… do you think your mother was a Sylvan?"
Dawn looked up at her, eyes full of hope. "Do you think mama was a Sylvan".
Martha gave her a soft, warm smile and gently brushed a lock of hair from her face. "Of course not. Your mother wasn't a Sylvan. She was the best person I ever knew." A tear slipped down Dawn's cheek. "Thank you." "For what?" Martha whispered.
"For believing in her... for still believing in me." Then, finally, exhaustion overcame her. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she drifted into sleep. Martha leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Sweet dreams," she whispered. "You're not alone anymore."