The memories came unbidden, like a tide Ophelia couldn't hold back.
She was younger then. Barely more than a child, standing barefoot at the edge of a dirt road, her hands scraped, her dress torn and stained with soot.
The smell of smoke was thick in the air—burning wood, burning flesh. The screams still echoed in her ears, long after the village had fallen silent.
Ash rained from the sky like snow.
Her village, once vibrant and full of life, was now nothing more than blackened ruins.
And she was alone.
She remembered staggering forward, coughing, her lungs raw. She remembered calling out names—her mother, her father, her brothers. No one answered.
Only silence.
And then... the sound of hooves.
A group of riders emerged from the smoke—men in dark cloaks, faces shadowed beneath heavy hoods. At their head was a man who rode a massive black stallion, his posture straight, his presence commanding.
Mr. Alex.
He was known even then—Lord of Blackthorne Heights, a man whispered about in fear. Some said he trafficked in forbidden magic. Others said he had made pacts with dark spirits.
All Ophelia knew was that when his cold, assessing gaze fell on her, she had nowhere left to run.
"What have we here?" he said, his voice smooth, almost amused. He leaned down from his horse, his gloved fingers tipping her chin up to force her to meet his eyes. "A stray."
She had tried to pull away, but another man seized her arms, wrenching them behind her back.
"Please..." she had whispered, her voice hoarse from smoke and tears.
Mr. Alex only smiled.
"You'll be of use," he said.
That was how it began.
She was dragged back to Blackthorne Heights, to his fortress-like mansion built into the hills. From the outside, it was beautiful—a marvel of white stone and glittering towers. But inside, it was a prison.
She was not treated as a guest, but a servant.
A Servant without a pay.
Beaten for the slightest mistake. Starved if she displeased. Forced to clean endless halls, polish marble floors until her hands bled, serve wine to guests whose eyes lingered too long, too hungrily.
Mr. Alex's cruelty was refined. He used words, punishments, isolation, cane, belt depending on the gravity of her offense.
"You are nothing but a servant so behave and act as one," he had told her once, his voice cold as frost. "You have no family. No name but the one I give you. No future beyond my mercy."
And she had believed him.
Every escape attempt ended the same way: caught, dragged back, punished so severely she learned not to try.
In time, she learned silence was survival. Submission was safety.
But the fire inside her, the one born the night her village burned, never fully went out.
It was that stubborn ember that finally drove her to run one last time—through dark woods, across frozen streams, through thorn and bramble.
She didn't know where she was going.
She just knew she had to leave.
And when the hooligans caught her, she thought that was the end—that she would be used up, sold to someone, or even killed.
Until Lysander.
The memory of him—standing tall, silver eyes like stormlight, reaching out to her at the gala—cut through the dark.
For the first time in years, she had dared to believe in salvation.
Only for her to get caught by the slave merchant who sold her to Lysander for such a huge amount.
Back in Lysander's room, Ophelia stirred, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
She woke with a gasp, heart hammering, disoriented by the heavy velvet gloom around her.
It took her a moment to remember where she was.
Who she was.
A slave.
Nothing had changed.
Except maybe... the master.
She curled into herself tighter, shivering despite the warmth of the fire.
What do you want from me, Lysander?
What do you see when you look at me?
A tool? A pawn? Something to be used like Mr. Alex had used her?
Or something else?
She didn't know.
And she didn't dare hope.
Not yet.
Not again.
Lysander sent off Cassius, came back to the room and saw her laying on the floor shivering. With her food untouched.
So she chose the floor over the bed interesting.
When she heard the door open, she pretended to be asleep.
He took a thick blanket covered her and added more wood to the fire, to make the room warm.
The door creaked open.
Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut, feigning sleep, her heart thudding painfully in her chest.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured.
She heard the faint rustle of fabric as Lysander crossed the room, the scent of the cold night air clinging to him.
He draped a thick blanket over her shoulders, heavy and warm.
Then the soft crackle of wood as he stoked the fire, adding more logs to the flames.
She lay perfectly still, hardly breathing.
She tightened her fists beneath the blanket, confused and trembling.
A part of her screamed to remain cautious. To trust no one. To remember that kindness could be a trap.
And yet, when Lysander spoke, his voice was so low, so rough, she almost thought she had imagined it:
"You don't have to be afraid here."
The words ghosted through the room like a forbidden spell.
Ophelia's eyes snapped open.
And for the first time, she looked up—and met Lysander's gaze.
Unmasked, Unshielded.