The rain fell in torrents, like the sky itself was mourning. The streets turned into pools of mud. Gianna's small body slipped, crashing hard onto the ground. Cold splashes of mud struck her face—but that chill was nothing compared to the stench of death hanging in the morning air.
Amid the soaked crowd, her tiny steps forced their way forward through tall, tightly packed bodies in the city square. Her eyes fixed on one thing only: the execution post at the center of the field, where her father stood with bound hands—waiting for the final turn of his life.
Her small mouth trembled, desperate to scream—but her throat locked tight. She knew her cries would save no one; they would only become entertainment for those watching without pity. Her fingers clenched the fabric of her tattered dress, holding her frail body together so it wouldn't collapse.
When the executioner's sword was raised high, time seemed to stop. The rain poured harder, disguising the tears on Gianna's mud-stained face. And when the blade cut through the air, her life was split in two—along with her father's head that fell beneath the bleak sky.
****
The name Whitmore was once known among the nobility—a respected family with wealth and an untarnished reputation. But all of that collapsed in a single day.
Gianna Whitmore, the little girl who once lived in the warmth of a grand house with a rose garden in its yard, now possessed nothing but dust and memories.
The kingdom accused her father of treason. The charge came without warning—swift, cold, and merciless. Overnight, the Whitmore family banner was torn down from the tower of their estate and replaced with a blood-red royal standard—a mark of disgrace that could never be erased.
Guards arrived with confiscation orders. They took gold, land, even ancestral paintings from the once-glorious marble walls. One by one, servants and guards departed, leaving the house like a body without a soul.
The name Whitmore was erased from the rolls of nobility, spoken only as that of traitors—shame meant to be buried deep so it would never stain the crown.
Not long after her father's death, the only family Gianna had left followed him. Her mother—once graceful and loving—slowly lost the light in her eyes. Her days were spent sitting in an old wooden chair, staring blankly through a partially shattered window. Her body grew frailer, her voice more rarely heard.
Until one morning, when the air in the room felt colder than usual. Gianna shook her mother's shoulder, but there was no answer.
The silence swallowed everything—leaving only the creak of the floorboards and the ragged breathing of a seven-year-old girl who had just lost her entire world.
The days that followed drifted without direction. Her family's remaining property was looted and sold. Gianna had no one.
She wandered along wet cobblestone streets, scavenging leftovers from the market. Trading her labor for a stale piece of bread. The tattered dress that once belonged to her mother was now the only clothing she owned.
Every night, she slept beneath shop awnings or behind stacks of flour sacks. Cold ground pressed against her skin. Her small body trembled in the night air, yet her eyes remained fixed on the sky—as if searching for her parents' faces among the stars.
Life hardened her too quickly. At an age meant for dolls and lullabies, Gianna was already carrying flour sacks larger than her own body.
Every step felt heavy. Every breath was an act of resistance against a world that seemed to reject her existence.
That day, the sun hid behind thick clouds. Damp air carried the scent of flour and sweat from the bakery where Gianna worked.
Her body felt light—not from happiness, but from weakness. Every joint throbbed, her vision swam. She dragged the flour sack over her small shoulder, stumbling along the stone road.
Her sight blurred; the city's noise faded into a chaotic hum. From afar, the rumble of carriage wheels echoed. Mud splashed against her legs.
Gianna tried to step aside, but the world spun violently. The sounds of horses and the driver's shouts merged into one before her small body collapsed onto the ground—right before a black buggy adorned with an eagle crest on its side.
The carriage door swung open. A woman stepped down in haste. Her dark brown dress fluttered in the afternoon wind. A cap hat shaded part of her face, but her eyes were sharp and attentive.
She knelt beside Gianna, pressing the back of her hand to the child's forehead. "Fever…" she murmured softly, almost to herself.
She turned to the driver. "Help me. Quickly."
Without hesitation, the driver lifted Gianna into the carriage. The scent of medicine and aged wood filled the air as the door closed. The wheels rolled again, leaving the crowded market street behind—carrying Gianna toward a house that would change her fate.
****
Gianna's sense of touch slowly returned. Something cool and damp rested on her forehead. Faintly, she smelled vegetable soup and wet pinewood burning in a hearth.
Her eyes opened slowly. A wooden ceiling shimmered with firelight shadows. The room around her was warm, yet unfamiliar. She lifted her hand, touching the damp cloth on her head.
"Mother…" Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.
"I am not your mother."
A gentle yet firm voice came from beside the bed.
Gianna turned slowly. In the corner of the room sat a woman in a cushioned chair, a book open on her lap. The same dark brown dress—the last figure Gianna had seen before everything went dark.
Gianna jolted upright, pressing her back to the headboard, breath racing. She stared at the woman with the wary eyes of a street child who had been betrayed too many times by the world.
"Easy, child."
The woman closed her book and approached calmly, without threat.
"My name is Verity Clark. I am a doctor." She sat on the edge of the bed and touched Gianna's forehead again—her fingers cold, yet soothing. "You still have a fever. What is your name?"
Gianna hesitated, then spoke softly. "If I tell you my name… will you send me away?"
Her eyes trembled, carrying a fear far older than her years.
"I will not send you away," Verity replied, her voice like wind calming a storm. "But once you recover, I will ask you to leave my home."
She looked deeply into Gianna's eyes. "So, what is your name?"
"Please let me stay here…" The small voice shook, but beneath it was something harder than steel—resolve.
Verity tilted her head, one brow lifting slightly. Her gentle smile remained.
"Why should I allow you to stay in my house?"
"I will do any work you ask of me," Gianna said, staring straight ahead, her eyes reflecting the dancing firelight. "As long as you do not make me leave."
Silence followed. Only the crackle of fire and rain tapping against the window, as if the world itself were holding its breath for Verity's answer.
"How can I let you stay," Verity finally said, "when I don't even know your name?"
Gianna lowered her head. Her shoulders trembled. After a long pause, her voice emerged.
"My name is… Gianna." She swallowed, then forced the rest out. "Gianna Whitmore."
"Whitmore?!"
Verity's shock broke through—because that name carried the ghosts of the past. A noble family once revered, now disgraced, cursed, whispered with disgust throughout the city.
"My father was not a traitor," Gianna said quickly, tears falling one by one. "I know he was framed. He was a good man. My family are not traitors."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if holding back a sea ready to burst.
"How do you know your father was a good man?" Verity asked gently, testing her.
"I will prove it," Gianna replied softly, but with burning resolve. "I will prove to the world that my father was not the traitor the kingdom claimed him to be."
Her tears would not stop—but behind them was a voice louder still: determination, nearly audible beneath her sobs.
Verity studied her for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. Something in her gaze shifted—from doubt to recognition.
"Rest," she said, easing Gianna back down. "I will not send you away."
"Thank you…" Gianna whispered before sleep claimed her again, tears still trailing down her cheeks.
The days passed slowly, like winter pages that refused to turn.
In Verity Clark's modest home, life moved quietly—but that silence carried new warmth for Gianna.
Each morning, she lit the fireplace, swept the yard, and helped Verity prepare her medical tools. The scents of soap, wet leaves, and black tea became her daily world.
Sometimes, Verity sat in her reading room with a cup of tea while Gianna read beneath the window's light. In that shared quiet, pages turned like synchronized breaths.
To Verity, the little girl was no longer a guest—but an echo of her own youth.
One afternoon, as the sky turned copper and sunlight filtered through the glass, Verity closed her book.
"Gianna," she called softly.
The girl looked up, eyes still lingering on the last page she had read.
"Would you like to learn more than what is written in the books I gave you?" Verity asked with a smile.
The question was simple—but within it lay a new path.
Gianna closed her book slowly. "I need to learn far more than books alone," she answered firmly. There was conviction in her voice—something far greater than her age. "May I borrow your family name… until I obtain what I seek?"
Verity paused. Silence filled the room. Then she smiled—not the soft smile of a mother, but of someone who knew the girl before her was no ordinary child.
"I will lend it to you," Verity said. Rising, she walked toward Gianna. "And I will give you the finest education this kingdom can offer."
Gianna looked at her, eyes gleaming like metal forged in fire. A small smile formed—but behind it lay something else: resolve, and a trace of ambition.
"Thank you, Lady Verity," she whispered.
Verity simply rested a gentle hand on her shoulder.
****
Dawn had not yet fully broken. Fog clung to the trees, shrouding the stone road leading to the city gates. The air was heavy with dew and rain-soaked earth.
Hoofsteps echoed rhythmically in the morning silence. A black carriage stopped before Verity's stone house. Gianna stood beside her—small in body, but her eyes no longer those of a child.
"Gianna, listen to me," Verity said calmly, authority carried through the biting cold. "I care for you deeply. That is why… I will help you clear your family's name."
Gianna watched Verity's face lit by the pale sky. Their breath fogged the air.
"But before that," Verity continued, her gaze sharp and serious, "I need to ask you something."
Gianna swallowed. Her chest felt heavy. This was the first time she saw this side of Verity—eyes sharp as cold glass.
"What do you want to ask?" she said softly.
"I want to know how far your resolve truly goes."
Gianna clenched her wool skirt, steadying her trembling hands. Then, through her misted breath, her voice emerged—calm, yet blazing.
"I will cleanse my family's name… and reclaim everything that was taken from me."
Her eyes shone—cold, burning, unwavering.
"And I will destroy those who defamed my father. Including the royal family. I will repay every drop of blood and every lie they created. I will break them one by one—until the crown falls from the King's head. And that crown will be mine."
Silence consumed the world. Only a horse's distant breath broke it.
Verity smiled faintly—not from pride alone, but because she knew such fire could only be born from deep wounds.
"What is the first step you need to carry out your plan?" she asked.
Gianna lifted her chin. "I cannot act alone. I must find allies—people I can use to rebuild the Whitmore name. I need powerful allies."
Verity nodded, then reached out to gently stroke Gianna's bonnet-covered head.
"I will take you to the most powerful nobles of this era. By lending you my family name, I trust you know what must be done."
Gianna nodded firmly. Her body might be small, but her resolve towered higher than the morning sky.
Cold air struck her cheeks, yet she felt warmth—warmth from the fire of vengeance burning in her chest.
The carriage began to move. Wheels struck stone. From the window, Gianna stared ahead. Thin fog veiled the road toward the Romanov Palace—as if the world itself was holding its breath, awaiting the first step of the Whitmore family's rise.
To Be continued~~~