Marina stared at her brother, her breath caught in her throat.
She's dead?
The words felt like a stone dropped into her chest. She's really dead… just like that?
Trey Forwhilst's voice carried through the room, crisp and indifferent.
"Her tasks will be assigned to you this week until we can find a suitable slave to replace her. You'll also issue a public apology on behalf of your mother."
He didn't linger. His boots clicked against the floor, and within moments, the door shut behind him with a hollow finality.
Marina stood frozen, staring at the empty doorway. The air in the room was still—almost suffocating. She couldn't move. Couldn't even blink. Her arms felt too heavy to lift.
She's gone.
Her thoughts splintered, unsteady. Then, memories began to surface—soft voices and candlelight, her mother's hand brushing her hair back, whispers shared in secret years ago.
"Marina," her mother had said one night, voice low and calm, "our lives here are small, but the world beyond these walls is endless. There are thousands of plants to grow, lands to see, people who will care for you. But none of that can happen while we stay here."
She had smiled then, eyes gleaming with a hope Marina had never understood. "If we ran away—far to the east—there are places where slavery is illegal. We could live free. Live those lives we missed."
"But how?" Marina had asked, clutching the hem of her mother's skirt. "You're always working inside, and I can't leave the village. How could we ever meet to escape?"
Her mother's expression had softened, though something weary hid behind her smile. "I don't know, sweetheart. But someday, we'll have a chance. When it comes, you have to take it. Promise me."
Her voice had hardened slightly then, firm but loving. "The villagers turn a blind eye to our pain. No one will stand up for a slave. So you must rely on yourself, Marina. No matter what happens."
Now, those same words rang hollow in Marina's mind.
She left me to this pile of shit alone.
Her nails dug into her palms. I was going to see her. It was supposed to be like always. Why? Why did she leave me just to throw her life away? Was it worth it? Did she really see her chance and risk everything?
The thought twisted. No—she took the easy way out. She left me here to fend for myself. Did she even care? Is this what she meant by "rely on yourself"?
The next few days blurred together—more chores, longer hours, fewer words. She barely slept. The punishment from Trey came quickly: endless work and, from the duchess, twenty strokes of the cane. She didn't cry. Not much, anyway. Years of the same pain had dulled her reaction into quiet endurance.
When Trey returned with the confirmation—the proof that her mother truly had died—Marina's hope collapsed completely.
So it's true. Her mother had abandoned her. And in doing so, she'd dragged Marina's name through the mud.
Her mood curdled into something brittle and dark. Every thought turned toward the coming apology she'd been ordered to give.
What am I even supposed to say? she thought bitterly while scrubbing the floors. "Sorry my mother killed herself and burned half your homes while doing it"?
The duchess's words still echoed, sharp and venomous:
"Your mother tried to flee while shopping. One of our guards spotted her, and rather than face punishment, she chose to die—and take others with her. She's worse than the demons in the southern continent. Be grateful you're only half of her. If it weren't for that blond hair reminding me you're my husband's child, I'd have killed you myself."
The woman had smiled the entire time she spoke.
When the day of the apology came, the village air hung heavy with smoke and ash. Marina's stomach turned as she saw her mother's body—a desecrated corpse hung on a stake at the square's edge.
Disgusting.
The crowd stretched across the main street. Burnt homes and makeshift shelters lined the west side, though even that area hadn't been spared. Blankets flapped in the cold breeze; the smell of soot and wet wood lingered.
Faces filled the square—faces she knew. Faces that hated her.
Going up there and admitting I'm the daughter of the woman who did this... how am I supposed to do that?
Even children glared at her, small fists gripping tomatoes.
Wonderful, she thought. If they start throwing those, these clothes will never come clean again.
Her only plan was to sound regretful—broken, apologetic. To make them believe she despised her mother as much as they did.
When she reached the front, her knees trembled. The stares burned into her like hot coals. She forced herself to speak.
"Everyone here today," she began, voice trembling, "I'm… very emotional seeing the burnt houses and the villagers without shelter. I'm incredibly sorry for this unjust crime that has been committed against you all. As you might already know, this was the result of my horrible m—"
The word stuck in her throat.
Why can't I say it?
Her voice faltered. She left me. She left me here to rot. Why do I still feel… sorry for her?
Her mind fractured under the weight of conflicting emotions.
Then something wet hit her chest with a splatter. A tomato.
She blinked down at the red stain spreading across her shirt.
"My sister died in the fire!" a boy shouted, winding up another throw.
"It was my horrible mother! Not me!" Marina cried, raising her arms to shield her face. The next tomato struck her forearm, splattering her cheeks with pulp.
The crowd's anger ignited. More children joined in, adults watching silently—or worse, handing them more fruit.
I disgraced her. Isn't that enough? she thought desperately, tears blurring her vision. You got what you wanted, mother. My humiliation. My pain. You traded your life for this?
The world became a blur of red and noise.
And then—something still.
At the far edge of the crowd, she saw a boy. White hair. Violet eyes. His expression wasn't angry or disgusted. He was smiling. Applauding.
What is he—?
Another tomato struck her face. She stumbled, blinking through tears.
***
Cecilus stood at the edge of the crowd, his hands clasping softly in rhythm. His smile, faintly amused, didn't fade.
Poor girl, he thought. Getting harassed by the same people her mother tried to die with. Maybe she'll notice me—maybe it'll distract her from the misery for a second.
He watched the crowd carefully, studying their faces. Do they even know who I am? Probably not. I'm never outside long enough for them to remember. My younger siblings get all the attention—my mother's perfect little mirrors.
He let his eyes wander toward the burning stake, then back to Marina. Taking my mother's maiden name was supposed to protect me. "Wiser," my father said. Yet no one out here even realizes I'm royalty.
Another tomato flew. Cecilus frowned.
Still throwing? Bathing her in red won't bring anyone back. You're just making more sins for yourselves.
He could see the fury building behind Marina's tears—the quiet, dangerous kind.
If this continues, they'll destroy her completely. And for what? The master's negligence? The cruelty that made her mother desperate enough to run?
He sighed, then raised his hand slightly, murmuring under his breath.
"The soul of the golem that wields the spear with resolution… awaken from within me, and protect the girl blanketed in red."
The ground trembled. A shape burst upward—stone and soil twisting into form. A golem, tall and broad, spun its spear in a blur, deflecting every flying object before it could reach her.
Marina lowered her arms slowly, blinking through the chaos. Her breath caught when she saw the creature standing before her—massive, unmoving, and shielding her from the storm of hatred.
Her hands trembled. When her vision cleared, she gasped.