The world beyond the hovel was a revelation, not of beauty, but of stark contrast. I was carried not by a hovel dweller, but by a sturdy acolyte, my small body surprisingly secure in his arms. The rough, open cart that served as our transport jolted over uneven paths, pulling us away from the familiar stench of poverty and into air that, while still carrying the scent of damp earth, was cleaner, hinting at distant forests and cultivated fields. My eyes, no longer confined to the murky interior of the hovel, devoured the landscape: stunted trees giving way to more robust forests, then to nascent farms, their fields scarred by winter but promising life. Even here, the marks of the Crown were omnipresent – crude watchtowers on distant hills, the occasional group of weary laborers in patched uniforms, their faces devoid of hope.
My captors, the priests and the lean clerk, spoke in hushed tones, their conversation a new source of intelligence. They discussed the Duke's temperament, the upcoming Winter Council with the Prince, and the implications of a "prodigy" appearing from the lower ranks. They saw me as a curiosity, a tool, a potential gift to curry favor. I allowed myself to appear suitably awed by the passing scenery, occasionally pointing or uttering a simple sound, maintaining the facade of a curious, albeit quiet, child. My mind, however, was a relentless analytical engine, categorizing everything: the grade of their fabrics, the quality of their horses, the subtle power dynamics in their conversations. This was a world of hierarchy, of subtle cues, and I needed to master them.
The journey stretched through the day. As afternoon bled into evening, the path widened, eventually becoming a paved road. The air grew colder, but cleaner, carrying faint hints of stone and something sweeter, like woodsmoke from finer hearths. Structures began to appear: larger, more solidly built houses, then shops, their windows displaying meager wares, until finally, a towering stone wall, its gate guarded by armored men, loomed before us.
This was the Duke's seat of power, the city of Volkov's Keep.
The gates groaned open, admitting us into a bustling, though still somber, town. The streets were cobbled, the houses built of timber and stone, their roofs pitched steeply against the snows. There were more people here, dressed in better clothes, their faces not as utterly despairing as those in the hovel, but still etched with weariness. My eyes darted everywhere, absorbing the details: the disciplined movements of the Duke's guards, the muted chatter of merchants, the imposing bulk of a grand Montala temple, its spires piercing the twilight sky. The power of the Crown and the Church was visibly more entrenched here, less subtle, more absolute.
The cart eventually stopped before a truly massive structure: the Duke's keep itself. It was a formidable fortress of dark stone, its battlements crowned with banners bearing the Duke's crest – a stylized bear rampant on a field of white. Torches flared in sconces along the walls, casting flickering shadows that made the grim architecture seem almost alive. Guards, in polished armor emblazoned with the same bear crest, stood sentry, their expressions unyielding.
We were led through a massive archway, into an inner courtyard, then through a heavy wooden door that led into a cavernous hall. The air inside was warm, scented with expensive firewood and spiced wine. It was a shocking contrast to the bitter cold I had known for nearly three years. Servants, dressed in simple but clean livery, moved with quiet efficiency.
The priests led me directly to a raised dais at the far end of the hall. There, seated on a heavy, carved chair that was clearly a throne of sorts, was a man in rich, dark furs and embroidered garments. His face was sharp, intelligent, but cold, his eyes the color of flint. This was Duke Volkov. Standing beside him, a woman of severe beauty, draped in dark, formal gowns. And then, beside her, the girl.
She was older now than when I had glimpsed her from the hovel, perhaps ten or eleven, but her eyes held the same piercing intelligence I remembered. She was clad in a dress of deep emerald, modest but clearly of fine make. Her dark hair was pulled back simply, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek. She was not smiling, her expression one of quiet observation, a book held loosely in her hand.
"My Lord Duke," the lead priest bowed deeply, interrupting my assessment. "We bring before you the child of the hovel-dweller, Mara. He is... unusual. Possessing a comprehension far beyond his years. We believe he may be a gift from the Lord Montala, or perhaps, a spirit sent for the Crown's service."
The Duke's flinty gaze swept over me, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. I stood perfectly still, my eyes, wide and innocent on the surface, but intensely analytical within, fixed on him. I had to maintain the illusion of a quiet prodigy, not a fully aware adult.
Then, the girl beside him moved. She stepped forward, her dark eyes, sharp and perceptive, studying me with an almost scientific curiosity. She did not approach with the easy familiarity of one playing with a child, but with the cautious interest of one encountering something unique.
"So this is the 'still child' Father spoke of," she murmured, her voice clear and calm, almost musical in its tone. She knelt, her face coming level with mine. Her eyes were deep, intelligent, devoid of the condescension I had seen in the priests'. They held a different kind of curiosity, one that seemed to seek understanding rather than control. "He has eyes that see too much for an infant, indeed."
She did not touch me. She merely observed, a faint, almost imperceptible hint of a smile touching her lips. My cynical guard, hardened by three years of brutal reality and deceit, wavered for the barest fraction of a second. This was the "kind, sharp daughter of a Duke," the glimmer of hope the synopsis had promised. A new chess piece had appeared on the board, and for the first time in this new life, the game felt… complex. And perhaps, not entirely without a chance for something beyond mere survival.