Morning arrived heavy with silence.
The air smelled of damp earth from the night's rain, but in my household, there was no freshness in it—only tension. Brian sat at the table, staring at his rough, calloused hands, the kind that had tilled fields for years. His eyes, however, were far away, clouded with thoughts he didn't voice.
Christina moved quietly through the house, her smile a brittle mask. She held me close in her arms while Lila, who had grown strangely perceptive for her young age, sat stiffly beside her mother. She played absently with my hand, squeezing my tiny fingers as if trying to anchor herself.
Even as a child, she knew.
We all knew.
Philips was coming.
I couldn't speak, not with this infant body, but my mind churned. Yesterday's events replayed in a vicious loop: my father coughing blood as boots slammed into him, Lila's trembling shoulders as she tried to shield me from the sight, my mother's hollow eyes as she swallowed her rage. And Philips' sneer… that arrogant curl of the lips, the disdain for people he considered beneath him.
I felt a heat inside me, something dangerous for a soul trapped in a baby's shell. Anger. Frustration. Shame.
But above all, a vow had started forming deep within me: Never again. I will not let this family break the way my old one did.
A knock came—no, not a knock. A pounding.
The flimsy wooden door rattled on its hinges.
Brian rose stiffly, his body still sore from yesterday's beating, and opened it. Philips strolled in as though the house were his own. His fine velvet coat was deep crimson, trimmed with gold. Rings glittered on his fingers, and the smug tilt of his chin screamed entitlement. Behind him, two guards in polished breastplates stood like shadows, their hands already resting lazily on their weapons.
"Well, well," Philips drawled, his voice slick and venomous. "I do hope you've come to your senses, Brian. I'd hate to… motivate you again."
My father kept his back straight despite the tremor in his shoulders. He held out a small leather pouch, its contents clinking softly. "Here. The remaining two silver coins, as agreed. That makes five in total."
Philips took the pouch, weighed it in his hand, then smirked. "Two silver. Five silver. A pitiful sum either way. Do you know how much it costs to keep guards stationed here? To maintain order so that filth like you can live in peace?"
My father's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.
"Five silver is an insult," Philips sneered. "From this season forward, I demand ten. Land tax, crop tax, and the privilege of breathing air that belongs to noble blood."
Christina stiffened, clutching me tighter. Lila's small hand squeezed mine until her knuckles turned white.
"That wasn't the agreement," Brian said, his voice low, steady, but dangerous in its restraint. "You cannot simply change it when it pleases you. The harvest was poor enough this season."
Philips laughed, a cruel sound. "Oh, listen to the farmer pretending he has rights. Do you think your whining matters? You're nothing more than livestock that happens to stand on two legs. When I say ten silver, it will be ten. And if you fail…"
He turned his eyes toward Christina.
My mother's face froze, but she did not look away.
I could feel her heartbeat against my tiny chest, hammering, terrified.
Philips reached out a jeweled hand, slow and deliberate, toward her arm—the arm that held me.
That was when my father moved.
Brian's hand shot out, calloused fingers closing around Philips' wrist. The room seemed to freeze at the contact. My father's grip was iron, his dark eyes blazing.
"You will not touch her," Brian said, his voice raw steel.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Philips' smug mask cracked, twisting into fury.
"You dare?" His voice was shrill now. He jerked his arm back and snapped his fingers.
The guards stepped forward like wolves descending on prey.
The first blow came from a mailed fist, slamming into my father's gut. He doubled over, coughing, but did not fall. The second struck his jaw, snapping his head to the side. He staggered, blood spraying from his lip, yet still he did not fall.
"Pathetic," Philips spat. "A dog pretending to be a man."
Outside, voices whispered. Neighbors, drawn by the commotion, gathered near the small house. Their faces were pale, their eyes darting. No one dared step forward.
Lila pressed her face against my arm, trembling. I could feel her silent tears, hot against my skin, though she tried so hard not to cry.
I, too, was shaking—not from fear, but from fury. Trapped in this tiny body, unable to stop any of it, my thoughts screamed: I swear… I'll never let this continue. I will grow strong enough to crush men like him. To protect them. To protect her.
Philips raised his hand again, signaling the guards to continue, when the sound of hooves thundered outside.
A carriage—larger, finer, drawn by gleaming black horses—rolled into view. The neighbors gasped, parting in fear and curiosity.
Philips froze, his smirk faltering. His eyes went wide.
The door of the carriage swung open.with a metallic clack.
Out stepped a man who carried himself with a weight far greater than Philips ever could. His coat was midnight black, trimmed with silver embroidery that shimmered faintly in the sun. A cloak of dark fur hung over his shoulders, and unlike Philips' flashy arrogance, his presence was solid, commanding, the kind that demanded silence without a word.
Lord Alistair.
Even without knowing his name, I could see it: this was a man who had power written in the lines of his face, power that did not need to scream. His hair was streaked with grey, his jaw sharp, his posture unbending. His eyes, steel-grey, scanned the scene with the cold precision of a blade.
Beside him stepped a little girl, perhaps Lila's age, her pale blonde hair tied in neat ribbons, her dress an elegant shade of lavender. Her wide green eyes darted nervously around until they fell on Philips—then on my father lying bruised on the ground.
Philips' lips parted, his face draining of color. He stumbled forward, his voice caught between disbelief and panic. "F–Father? What are you doing here?!"
The older man's gaze narrowed. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his eyes moved to the guards, then to Brian—bloodied, struggling to stand—and finally to Christina clutching me, her body taut with fear, and Lila, who stared back with tear-streaked cheeks.
The silence that followed was crushing.
And then, without warning, Lord Alistair stepped forward and struck Philips across the face with a single, brutal punch.
The sound cracked through the air like thunder. Philips staggered back, clutching his jaw, his eyes wide with shock. The gathered neighbors gasped, some covering their mouths. Even the guards froze.
"You shame me," Alistair's voice boomed, deep and cutting. "You shame this house. Beating farmers? Extorting them like a common thug? Threatening women?" His lip curled in disgust. "I left you in charge of this region, Philips, because I thought you were ready to act as my successor. But what do I find?"
He gestured sharply to Brian, who stood barely upright, blood dripping down his chin. "A man who works his land beaten half to death. His family terrorized. His children forced to watch. Do you think this is nobility? Do you think this makes you strong?"
Philips trembled, his arrogance cracking but not gone. He straightened his coat, sneering faintly despite the blood on his lip. "Father, you don't understand. These people are—"
"What?" Alistair cut him off, his voice sharp as a whip.
Philips faltered, then spat bitterly, "They're commoners. Filthy peasants. Less than human. They should be grateful I even let them keep their pathetic fields."
A heavy silence followed.
Then Alistair moved again, this time grabbing Philips by the collar and hauling him close. His grey eyes burned with fury. "Less than human? They feed this land with their sweat, their backs, their lives. Without them, you would starve in your gilded halls, dressed like a fool. And you dare call yourself my heir while spouting this filth?"
Philips struggled, his voice breaking with indignation. "It's the way things are! Nobles rule, peasants obey. I only take what is mine by right—"
"By right?" Alistair snarled, shaking him. "A noble's right is not to steal. A noble's right is to protect. To guide. To carry the burdens the weak cannot. You are not a noble, Philips—you are a leech wearing silk."
Philips' face twisted, anger and humiliation warring in his eyes. "You'd defend them over your own blood?"
"Yes," Alistair said coldly, releasing him with a shove. Philips stumbled back, his face pale. "Because blood without honor is worth nothing."
The words struck harder than the punch. Philips stared at his father as if he had been gutted.
In the silence, the little girl—Seraphina—stepped forward, clutching at Alistair's cloak. Her voice was small, timid, but it carried through the tense air. "Grandfather… he was the one."
Philips' eyes shot to her. "Sera—!"
She flinched but didn't stop. "I saw him yesterday. He was hitting the farmer in the field. I told you… I didn't want to believe it was him, but it was." Her green eyes welled with tears, and she clung tighter to Alistair's sleeve. "He scared me."
The crowd stirred, murmurs rising. The guards looked uneasily at one another.
Alistair's face hardened further. "So it is true."
Philips rounded on Seraphina, his face twisted with desperation. "You stupid brat—!"
But before he could finish, Alistair's hand lashed out again, another slap cracking against Philips' cheek.
"You will not raise your voice to her," Alistair growled. "And you will not disgrace this family any longer."
Philips staggered, his pride shredded before the eyes of commoners he once trampled. His fists clenched at his sides, his teeth grinding audibly, but he did not strike back. He couldn't.
The crowd of neighbors—once silent, fearful shadows—were alive now, whispers running like wildfire. Eyes wide, some filled with awe, others with a new kind of respect.
And in my mother's arms, I felt it too.
Hope.
Even I, who had known only cruelty from men like Philips, felt something shift. This man, Lord Alistair, was no saint—but he had power, and he wielded it not to destroy the weak, but to correct his own blood.
And for the first time, Philips looked small.
Philips stood there trembling, his chest heaving like a cornered animal. His silken coat hung awkwardly after his father's grip had twisted it, his once-proud face smeared with blood and shame. He glanced around at the gathering villagers—people who once cowered at his presence—only to find their eyes fixed on him not with fear, but with disgust.
Lord Alistair straightened, releasing a slow breath, his expression carved from stone. His deep voice carried like thunder across the hushed crowd.
"You have squandered your station. You have dishonored your house. And worst of all—" his gaze sharpened, piercing into Philips' soul, "—you have proven yourself unfit to inherit anything."
Philips staggered back as if struck again. His mouth worked soundlessly before words spilled out in desperation. "Y-you can't! I am your son! Your successor! You said so yourself when you left me in charge—"
"And I was a fool," Alistair cut him off, his tone merciless. "A fool to think you had even a fraction of what it takes to lead. All I see before me is a child playing lord with the lives of others as his toys."
The villagers murmured louder now, emboldened by Alistair's words.
"Unfit indeed…"
"Aye, nothing but a tyrant brat."
"About time someone saw it."
Philips' face flushed crimson, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles whitened. "How dare you humiliate me before these… these rats!" he spat, his voice cracking between rage and humiliation.
But Alistair didn't even flinch. Instead, he took a deliberate step toward Brian.
My father, still battered and bruised, instinctively straightened despite his limp, his hand brushing against his ribs as he tried to look presentable in the face of true authority. His breath came shallow, but his eyes never left Alistair's.
The noble lord studied him for a long, tense moment before speaking. "You. Farmer. What is your name?"
Brian swallowed, then bowed his head slightly. "Brian, my lord."
Alistair's gaze softened—barely, but enough to notice. "Brian. You have suffered greatly under my son's negligence."
The words seemed foreign to hear: an apology, wrapped in authority. My mother stiffened beside me, clutching me closer, and Lila's eyes widened in disbelief. Even the neighbors leaned forward, straining to hear.
"I cannot undo what has been done," Alistair continued. "But I will see that it does not happen again."
Philips barked a bitter laugh. "You'd apologize to this dirt-digging nobody? You'd lower yourself before worms in the mud?!"
Alistair turned to him slowly, his eyes icy. "Do you know what makes a man low, Philips? Not the soil under his nails, but the rot in his heart. And yours festers beyond repair."
Philips flinched as if stabbed. His words faltered, his pride collapsing in shards.
Alistair turned back to Brian. "You will not pay a single copper more than what is just. The extortions my son has burdened you with are hereby annulled." His voice rose, echoing over the fields so all could hear. "Any man or woman who has been abused by his false rule will report directly to me. Do you understand?"
The neighbors erupted in murmurs again, this time tinged with hope. Some even bowed their heads in gratitude.
Brian lowered his head, his voice heavy but sincere. "Thank you, my lord. Truly."
But Philips could no longer bear it. He lunged forward, his face twisted with fury. "You strip me of everything—everything I've built—because of these vermin! Do you not see how they look at me? They hate me! They despise me!" His words broke into a strangled cry. "And you'd side with them over your own flesh and blood?!"
Alistair did not move. His eyes were cold steel. "Yes."
The single word cut sharper than any blade.
Philips froze, his mouth agape, the weight of rejection slamming into him like a hammer. The silence afterward was suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
It was then that Seraphina, who had clutched her grandfather's cloak all this time, whispered softly, "Papa… you scared me yesterday."
Philips turned to her, his face breaking. "S-Sera…"
But the girl pressed her face into Alistair's side, refusing to meet his gaze.
Philips staggered back, his entire being unraveling before our eyes. His arrogance, his cruelty, his pride—it all lay bare, stripped away by his father's scorn and his daughter's fear.
I clenched my tiny fists in my mother's arms, my teeth biting hard against the bitterness in my chest. The memory of my father being beaten, of my mother shielding me, of Lila trembling yet trying to hide it from me—all of it boiled inside me like fire.
This man—Philips—wasn't just pathetic. He was dangerous. The kind of rot that poisoned everything he touched. And though Alistair had crushed him today, I swore to myself in silence: If ever he rose again to harm my family, I would cut him down.
Alistair's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "From this day forward, Philips, you will no longer govern this land. You will no longer collect a single coin, nor raise a single hand to its people. Consider yourself stripped."
Philips collapsed to his knees, his voice hoarse. "Father, please… don't do this to me…"
But Alistair did not falter. He turned to his guards, his voice commanding. "Escort him back to the estate. He will await judgment there."
The guards hesitated—loyalty torn between father and son—but one look at Alistair's eyes was enough. They seized Philips by the arms, dragging him toward the carriage. His protests turned to screams, then to sobbing curses.
"Damn you all! Damn you, father! Damn you, peasants! You'll regret this—you'll all regret this!"
His cries faded as he was hauled away, leaving only the echoes of his downfall.
Alistair stood unmoving, his expression unreadable. The crowd slowly dispersed, whispers rippling like waves.
My mother exhaled shakily, sinking to her knees as relief washed over her face. Tears pricked her eyes, though she tried to hide them.
Lila rushed to our father's side, clutching his arm. "Papa, are you okay? Does it still hurt?" Her voice trembled with both worry and lingering fear.
Brian knelt down to embrace her, wincing at the pain in his ribs but smiling faintly through it. "I'll be alright, my little star. Don't you worry."
And as I looked at them—the bruised yet unbroken farmer, the sister trying so hard to be strong, the mother who shielded us, the noble who, against all odds, chose justice over blood—I felt something settle deep within me.
Resolve.
This world was cruel. Its hierarchy twisted. Its nobles corrupt. But in the midst of all that darkness, there could still be light.
And I would fight to become that light for my family.The field slowly emptied after Philips was dragged away, though the tension still clung to the air like smoke after a fire. Neighbors whispered among themselves, some daring to glance back at our small home with pity, others with admiration. The entire village had witnessed the spectacle, and word would spread faster than wind through wheat: Philips had fallen, and the Allen family had been spared—for now.
Lord Alistair remained, his imposing figure framed by the last light of the day. He stood with the ease of a man accustomed to command, yet there was a weariness in his eyes, a heaviness not even his grandeur could conceal. Seraphina clung to his cloak, her small face half-hidden, her eyes darting timidly toward us.
Brian, leaning heavily on Lila's shoulder, approached with cautious steps. He bowed his head deeply, though the motion nearly unbalanced him. "My lord," he said hoarsely, "we are… undeserving of your mercy, but you have it all the same. For that, I will never forget this day."
Alistair raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture that was neither cruel nor impatient—merely firm. "You owe me no gratitude, Brian. What I have done is not charity. It is correction."
His gaze swept over our little house, our meager fields, the humble life carved out by calloused hands. Then his eyes returned to Brian, sharp but steady. "A ruler who abuses his people does not command loyalty. He breeds rebellion. I will not allow my son's weakness to sow rot in these lands."
Brian swallowed, nodding slowly, though his pride still lingered in his voice. "Even so, my lord… you stood against your own blood for the sake of a commoner. That is not something often seen in this world."
Alistair's jaw tightened, as if the words struck deeper than intended. He looked away briefly, toward Seraphina, who was now tugging at his cloak with small, hesitant fingers. "Grandfather," she whispered, her voice carrying just enough to reach us. "He… he was hurting them. He hurt the little girl's papa. He scared me."
Lila flinched at the mention, her lips pressing tight, but she didn't let go of Father's arm.
Alistair crouched down, bringing himself to his granddaughter's level. His hand rested gently on her shoulder. "You did right to tell me, Sera. You were brave."
Her eyes softened, and she finally dared to glance our way. Her gaze met Lila's, two children separated by status yet bound in the quiet knowledge of cruelty witnessed. There was no smile, no words exchanged—just a recognition, raw and honest.
Alistair rose again, turning back to Brian and Christina. My mother had edged closer during the exchange, still clutching me to her chest. Her face was calm, but her knuckles were white where they held me, as if letting go would mean losing me to the chaos around us.
"You have a family," Alistair said, his voice carrying a weight that felt almost personal. "Do not squander it. There are men who break under far less than what you have endured. Yet you stand."
Brian's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "A man must stand, my lord. If not for himself, then for those who look to him." His arm shifted, pulling Lila closer. "For them, I'll keep standing."
My chest ached at his words. In my past life, I hadn't stood. I'd fallen, collapsed under the weight of despair. But this man, this humble farmer with nothing but a small field and a stubborn will—he stood, even beaten, even broken.
Alistair seemed to consider Brian's answer, his expression unreadable. Finally, he said, "You have more strength than some who wear crowns."
The words lingered, heavy in the air.
Christina, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. Her voice was soft but resolute. "My lord… forgive me if I overstep, but… will Philips return?"
The question sent a ripple of unease through the silence. Lila stiffened, clutching Father's sleeve tighter, and I felt a sharp pang of fear echo through my small body.
Alistair's face hardened. "If he does, it will not be as a lord. That much I swear. Whether he rises again at all…" His eyes darkened, the storm behind them briefly flashing. "That will depend on whether he learns, or whether he chooses to remain the disgrace he has shown himself to be."
It wasn't the promise of safety we wanted, but it was truth—and perhaps truth was stronger than hollow reassurances.
Alistair turned to leave, signaling for his men. Seraphina followed at his side, though before climbing into the carriage, she paused and looked back at us once more. Her small hand lifted hesitantly in a half-wave, directed at Lila. My sister blinked, surprised, then raised her hand shyly in return.
For a moment, the gap between noble and commoner seemed to shrink, bridged by two little girls who understood more than their years should allow.
Then the carriage door closed, and the noble entourage departed, wheels grinding against dirt, leaving silence in their wake.
Only when they were gone did Mother let out a shuddering breath. She sank to her knees, still holding me tightly, as though only now did the fear she had held back spill free.
Lila crouched beside her, eyes shimmering. "Mama… what if he comes back? What if he hurts Papa again?"
Mother brushed a trembling hand over her hair. "Then we'll face it together. As we always have."
Father staggered to them, dropping to the ground with a groan. He pulled them both into his arms, and even I was pressed between them, surrounded by their warmth, their exhaustion, their stubborn love.
And in that circle, I made my vow once more.
I will not run again. I will not give in to despair. This time, I will rise. For them—for this family who has given me more love in six months than I ever felt in seventeen years of my first life. For them, I will forge myself into something stronger.
The setting sun painted the horizon in hues of crimson and gold, as if the sky itself bore witness to the oath that burned within me.
This was my second chance. And I would not waste it.