The sun rose quietly over the forest, as if afraid to wake the sleeping world.
Golden rays slipped through the ancient trees like blessings, piercing the soft mist that curled around a small, worn hut nestled deep within the woods. Morning light painted everything in hues of amber and gold—the leaves, the stream, the weathered wooden walls that had sheltered two souls for longer than either could remember.
By the edge of the nearby brook, a frail figure bent low.
Rowena.
Her hands moved with practiced calm as she filled her clay pot from the clear, flowing water. The stream sang its eternal song, and for a moment—just a moment—the weight she carried seemed lighter. The cough that plagued her chest was silent. The fear that lived in her heart was still.
Then—
"Mama! Where are you?!"
Rosella's voice rang through the morning like a bell.
Rowena smiled, the sound of her daughter's voice always managing to reach places in her soul she thought had gone numb.
"What happened, my little angel?" she called back, concern already touching her voice despite the smile.
A small face appeared in the hut's doorway, framed by wild curls and wide, worried eyes.
"I can't find Eira! I looked ALL over the hut, and she's GONE!"
The little girl pouted, her cheeks flushed with frustration. She'd been searching for what felt like hours—though in truth, it had only been minutes. Time moved differently when you were nine and your best friend in the world was a fluffy white bunny.
Rowena laughed softly, the sound carrying across the stream like music.
"Did you check the garden, little one?"
Rosella's eyes widened. "No, Mama..."
"Well then," Rowena gestured with her chin toward the small vegetable patch behind the hut, "look over there—who's hiding among the carrots?"
Rosella spun around.
There, nestled between the leafy green tops, a familiar white puffball sat munching contentedly.
"HA! That's EIRAAA!"
The little girl squealed with delight, darting toward the garden with the speed of someone on a sacred mission. She scooped the bunny into her arms, cradling it against her chest with the fierce tenderness only children possess.
"Don't you DARE eat carrots without asking me again," she scolded, though her smile betrayed her. "You're supposed to wait for me! We share everything, remember?"
Eira twitched her nose, utterly unrepentant.
Rowena watched them from the stream, her heart swelling with a love so fierce it sometimes hurt to contain. These moments—these simple, golden moments—were the ones she would carry with her into whatever came after.
She resumed watering the garden, her movements slow but steady. The plants responded to her touch as if they knew she'd poured her remaining strength into their soil.
"Hey, Mama! Come here!" Rosella called from near the water's edge. "What kind of flower is THIS?"
"What flower?" Rowena set down her pot and walked toward her daughter, her eyes following Rosella's pointing finger.
"Look! I didn't know flowers could grow in MUD!"
Near the muddy edge of the brook, where the earth was dark and thick, a single delicate bloom rose from the muck. Its petals were pristine—white as fresh snow, untouched by the filth surrounding it. The contrast was startling. Beautiful. Almost... miraculous.
Rowena's breath caught.
"The lotus," she whispered, barely audible.
"Can flowers REALLY grow in mud?" Rosella asked again, her curiosity gleaming brighter than the morning sun. "It's so dirty there. How does it stay so clean?"
Rowena was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice carried something deeper—a weight, a knowing, a truth she'd been waiting to share.
"Come inside, little one. There's something I want to tell you."
Rosella's eyes lit up. "A story, Mama?"
"Perhaps a story..." Rowena smiled, though her eyes held shadows. "Let's go."
---
They settled on the worn couch inside the hut, Rosella nestled safely in her mother's arms. Sunlight streamed through the small window, painting golden patterns on the wooden floor. Eira curled at their feet, already dozing after her carrot feast.
"Now listen closely," Rowena began, brushing a strand of dark hair from Rosella's forehead. Her touch lingered, as if memorizing the softness of her daughter's skin. "This may not sound like a fairy tale. There are no princes or dragons in this story. But it's something you need to understand. Something very important."
"Yes, Mama," Rosella whispered, her full attention captured.
"You see..." Rowena chose her words carefully, each one a seed planted in fertile soil. "Some people in this world are like mud. Not because of how they look—but because of how they ARE. Their hearts are ugly. Twisted. Evil."
Rosella's brow furrowed. "Evil? Like the devil you told me about?"
Rowena nodded slowly. "Exactly. Do you remember what I told you that night, under the stars?"
"I remember." Rosella's voice was soft, reverent. "You said the stars are watching us. That they remember everything."
"Good girl." Rowena paused, letting the silence settle around them like a blanket. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, heavier. "Some people may look kind but carry hatred inside. Some may seem ugly but have pure hearts. But then..." Her eyes grew distant. "There are those who are ugly both inside and out."
She exhaled slowly, as if the words themselves cost her something.
"Like mud, those people soil everything they touch. Their darkness spreads, their filth seeps into good hearts, turning them cold. Over time, even the purest souls can be stained if they stand too long in the wrong company."
Rosella hugged Eira tighter. "That's scary, Mama."
"It IS scary, little one. But listen—do you know what's more fascinating?"
"What?"
"Thelotus." Rowena's eyes gleamed with something fierce and beautiful. "That flower you saw outside—it grows in the dirtiest mud, surrounded by filth and darkness. But it never absorbs any of it. It stays clean. It shines. Even in the worst place imaginable, it remains beautiful."
"Wow..." Rosella breathed, her young mind working to understand.
"Eye-catching, isn't it?" Rowena smiled, pressing a kiss to her daughter's hair. "You, my little angel, are like that lotus. You bloom despite the world's ugliness. You shine in the darkness. That's why I protect you with everything I have."
Her voice trembled slightly.
"This world is full of selfish, cruel, twisted souls. People who will smile at you while sharpening knives behind their backs. People who will promise you the world and leave you with nothing. But you..." She cupped Rosella's small face in her hands. "You are precious. You are my lotus."
Rosella's eyes shimmered with unshed tears—not of sadness, but of something deeper. Understanding. Love. The weight of being cherished.
"I understand, Mama..."
"I'm glad, sweetie." Rowena kissed her forehead once more. "Any questions?"
Rosella hesitated. The pause stretched long enough that Rowena knew something significant was coming.
"Actually... yes." The little girl bit her lip. "There's a book you keep hidden in your secret cabinet. The one behind the loose board in your room. Why do you never let me touch it?"
Rowena's face changed—solemn, shadowed, ancient in a way that had nothing to do with age.
"That's not just a book, my dear." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "It's my diary. My life. Everything I've been, everything I've seen, everything I've lost." She paused. "And I'm waiting for the right time to share it."
"What time?"
Rowena looked toward the window, toward the forest, toward a future she couldn't see but desperately hoped for.
"When you turn eighteen..." Her voice caught. "Or after I'm gone."
Rosella's expression crumpled.
"Gone? Why do you always talk about dying?! I HATE it when you say that, Mama!" Her lower lip trembled, her eyes flooding. "You're not going anywhere! You CAN'T!"
"Alright, alright." Rowena pulled her closer, rocking gently. "I won't say it again. Forgive me, little one. Mama is sorry."
Rosella sniffled against her chest.
"But promise me this," Rowena continued softly. "When the time comes—whenever that may be—you'll read it. You'll learn the truth. You'll know who you are and where you came from."
A pause.
"Promise me, Rosella."
The use of her full name carried weight. Rosella looked up, her tear-streaked face serious.
"I promise, Mama. When I'm eighteen... or when you..." She couldn't finish.
"Good girl." Rowena smiled through her own unshed tears. She stood, offering her hand. "Now—shall we take care of our garden?"
Rosella wiped her eyes and nodded, the resilience of children asserting itself.
"Oh, YES! Come on, Eira!"
She scooped up the sleepy bunny, grabbed her mother's hand, and together they stepped out into the morning light.
The hut stood silent behind them, holding its secrets close.
---
Meanwhile, far from the peaceful stream and the lotus flower, darkness stirred.
The Solvane Black Market thrived in shadows—a place where souls were sold and silence was currency. Deep within its twisting corridors, in a headquarters reeking of wine and fear, chaos erupted.
"REPORT! REPORT!"
A low-ranking soldier of the Black Army burst through the heavy doors, his face pale as death, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stumbled forward, nearly collapsing at the feet of his superior.
"What NOW, you fool?!"
Head Leader Gregor Maddoc slammed his fist against the table, his temper already frayed from too much drink and too little sleep. He was a bull of a man—broad, brutal, and stupid enough to be dangerous.
"Sir..." The soldier gulped. "The child smuggling operation... it FAILED. All ten children escaped. And the bodies of our men..." He swallowed hard. "They haven't been found."
Silence.
Absolute, terrifying silence.
Gregor Maddoc stood frozen, his drink halfway to his lips. For a moment, he seemed not to comprehend. Then—
CRASH.
The wine glass shattered against the wall, spraying glass and red liquid like blood.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!" Gregor's roar shook the very foundations. He rounded on the trembling soldier, grabbing him by the collar. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?! His Lordship will have my HEAD—"
"I already know, Mister Maddoc."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere—deep as thunder rolling across a cursed battlefield, cold as the space between stars.
Gregor froze.
The soldier stopped breathing.
From the shadows at the far end of the room, a figure emerged. Not walking—simply appearing, as if the darkness itself had given birth to him.
Lord Veyric Draan.
His presence filled the room like smoke, suffocating, inescapable. He was tall, elegant, and utterly terrifying. His eyes held centuries of cruelty, and his smile—when it appeared—was the last thing many people ever saw.
"My... my Lord," Gregor stammered, releasing the soldier and dropping to his knees. His forehead pressed against the cold floor. "I—I was going to inform you—"
"You thought you could hide this from me?"
The voice was soft now. Deceptively soft. The kind of soft that preceded storms.
"I've known for DAYS."
Sweat poured down Gregor's temples. His hands trembled against the stone.
"My Lord, I wasn't trying to deceive you! I simply didn't know how to face you with such failure—"
"Oh, save it."
Lord Veyric waved a dismissive hand, his expression bored—a man tired of stepping on insects.
"You're lucky I'm not in the mood to waste energy on minor disappointments today."
Gregor exhaled shakily. Relief flickered across his brutish features.
Then Lord Veyric's eyes sharpened.
"But..." He stepped closer, each footfall echoing like a death knell. "I am CURIOUS. Who slaughtered my men so cleanly that not even their CORPSES were found?"
His voice dripped with menace now—honey laced with poison.
"Search for clues. Turn the black market upside down. Leave no stone unturned, no shadow unsearched. I want ANSWERS." He paused, letting the weight settle. "And I want them NOW."
"YES, MY LORD!"
Both men responded in unison, bowing so low their foreheads nearly touched the ground.
Lord Veyric studied them for a long moment—two insects scurrying to please him. Then, satisfied, he allowed a smirk to curve his lips.
Without another word, he faded into the shadows.
Not walked.
Faded.
Vanished like a nightmare that leaves no trace at dawn.
---
The room remained frozen for a long moment. Then Gregor Maddoc slowly raised his head, his face a mask of terror and fury.
"You heard him." His voice was hoarse. "MOVE."
The soldier scrambled to his feet and fled.
Gregor stood alone in the wreckage of his office, staring at the spot where Lord Veyric had disappeared.
Whoever you are, he thought, whoever killed those men and took those children—I hope you're ready to die.
Because Lord Veyric Draan did not ask questions.
He took revenge.
---
To be continued...
Up next: Chapter 11