Sapphire stirred as the harsh sunlight slipped through the narrow window, slicing across the wooden board where she had slept. Her limbs were stiff, her dress wrinkled and crusted from dried rainwater and tears. Every inch of her body protested as she tried to sit up, but she refused to stay down.
Her nose was puffy and sore, her eyes heavy from crying herself to sleep. The cold had sunk deep into her bones, leaving her shivering despite the daylight. As she shifted, a sharp jolt of pain shot through her arm.
She looked down. the gash was angry and red, slightly swollen, crusted with dried blood. It hadn't been treated. She clenched her jaw, breath hitching as she reached toward it.
Pain flared through her ribs, her feet throbbed with blisters, and her shoulders screamed with strain. Her stomach growled. Everything hurt. A sob threatened to rise, but she bit down hard on her lower lip to silence it, the metallic taste of blood mingled with the salt of her tears. She would not scream. Not here. Not now.
A sarcastic voice sliced through her haze of pain.
"Well, you look positively radiant this morning," Eugene muttered dryly from the doorway. How he had managed to enter the room without making noise was incredible.
Sapphire winced, turning her head slowly to see him standing there with a tray in hand, a bowl of something pungent and steaming, along with rough cloth strips and a tiny bottle. His usual sharp frown was in place, and his eyes scanned her condition without a hint of sympathy.
She tried to sit up straighter, biting back a groan, but Eugene was already stepping in, placing the tray down with a clatter.
"By all means, do try to injure yourself further. It gives me something to do," he snapped irritatedly
Sapphire blinked, too drained to match his sarcasm.
"You might've warned me that the floor wasn't the most ideal place to sleep," she muttered.
Eugene scoffed, dabbing a cloth in the steaming mixture. "Oh, forgive me, I assumed common sense survived wherever you came from."
She pinched her nose as the scent hit her again. "What in God's name is that?"
"Medicine. Disgusting, yes. Effective, also yes. Now sit still before your swollen feet start rotting off," he said briskly, reaching for her injured arm.
"I'm fine," she tried to say, pulling back slightly.
He shot her a cold look. "Clearly. Next time you decide to collapse like a dying goat, try not to do it with open wounds and bare feet."
She narrowed her eyes. "Do you speak to all your guests this way?"
"Only the ones who bleed on the floor I mop," he replied. "Now stop flinching. You'll live — unfortunately for me."
Sapphire bit her lip hard to stop from screaming as the burning liquid touched the gash on her arm. Her back arched slightly from the sting, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a scream.
Eugene paused only for a moment, glancing up with a raised brow. "You bite your lip like that and you'll have more wounds for me to patch."
"You seem to enjoy patching them," she hissed.
"I enjoy quiet, obedient patients who don't sabotage their own survival," he retorted coolly, wrapping her arm with practiced ease. "But I suppose that would be too much to ask."
Sapphire inhaled shakily, the pain dulling into a deep throb. "Why are you even helping me?"
Eugene looked at her for a moment, then tied off the last knot of her bandage with a firm tug.
"Because Milord said I should look after the Lady ," he replied curtly. "And because I don't like burying people before breakfast."
He stood and picked up the tray again. "Rest. Don't be stupid again. And if you must cry, do it on the bed next time."
Before she could respond, he was already out the door,
Sapphire sat in silence for a moment, staring at the door he'd walked out from. With courage she dragged herself toward the bed, the polished wood frame cold against her fingers. She hesitated, then slowly climbed onto the bed sinking into the unfamiliar softness. Her body ached in protest, but it was better than the unforgiving floor.
A soft knock echoed through the quiet room before the door creaked open. A young maid stepped in, no older than sixteen, with a pale round face and timid eyes. She curtsied quickly, keeping her gaze low.
"My Lady… Sir Eugene said I should help you clean up," she said gently, stepping inside with a basin of warm water, folded linens, and a small tin of salve.
Sapphire nodded, too tired to protest.
The maid set her things down, dipped a cloth into the basin, and knelt beside the bed. As she wrung out the cloth, she cast Sapphire a brief, curious glance, her puffy eyes, bruised skin, and bandaged arm all told stories she dared not ask about.
"This might sting," she whispered.
"I've had worse," Sapphire replied dryly, biting her lower lip as the warm cloth touched the wound.
The maid cleaned her wounds in silence, occasionally glancing up with faint concern. She worked gently, applying the salve and wrapping the fresh linen around the worst of the gashes.
"You're not from here, are you?" the maid asked quietly, more as an observation than a question.
Sapphire looked at her, her eyes unreadable. "No."
The maid gave a small nod and said nothing more, as if she understood enough already.
When she finished, she helped Sapphire into a clean shift and tucked the blanket around her.
"Thank you," Sapphire murmured.
The girl paused at the door, hesitated, then curtsied once more.
"I'll bring you some warm soup," She said "it's good for the pain ... And maybe it'll help you sleep without dreams."
And with that, she disappeared into the hall.
****
The sun beat harshly against the earth, casting long shimmering waves on the dirt path that wound through the farmlands. Dust clung to the wheels of an elaborate carriage, Atop the front seat, the coachman tugged the reins, bringing the majestic black steeds to a halt.
Inside, reclined against the velvet seat, sat a man of unmistakable presence , Lord Maeven of Rhydell cloaked in cool silks despite the heat. A silver eye patch covered his left eye, an heirloom of his house, giving him an air of mystery that stirred whispers in every hall he entered.
Outside, a mild commotion had drawn the coachman's attention. A group of serfs huddled around a man who had collapsed in the fields, his body limp from exhaustion or thirst. One fanned him with tattered cloth, another lifted his head gently, while others murmured in worry.
Beside the Lord sat Wilbert, his advisor — a man with little taste for dirt or pity. He squinted through the glass-paneled window, then scoffed.
"Milord, it seems to me the King's serfs tend to his lands worse than they tend to their own lives," Wilbert muttered, voice thick with disdain.
Lord Maeven tilted his head, gaze steady on the scene before him. His jaw clenched ever so slightly, though his expression remained unreadable beneath the shadow of his hat and the cold sheen of his eye patch.
"What say you, Wilbert?" he finally murmured, his voice smooth as silk, but cool as steel.
Wilbert shifted in his seat, the creak of leather accompanying his irritation. He leaned slightly toward the open window, eyes narrowing at the distant scene.
"Just a few days, Milord. That's all it took," he muttered, bitterness in his tone. "You journey off for matters of state, and the Mayor forgets his duty. The serfs are fainting on royal land, and not a single steward in sight."
Lord Maeven said nothing, his gaze still fixed on the crowd.
Wilbert scoffed."That man feeds off fear, not responsibility. If we hadn't passed this way, no one would have noticed a thing." He shook his head. "Neglect parading as governance."
Maeven finally turned his head slightly, his lone eye cold and thoughtful. A subtle nod. That was all. The message was clear — he had taken note. And when Maeven took note, consequences followed.
The carriage rolled on, leaving behind dust, whispers, and a silent promise of reckoning.