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Chapter 16 - Shadow in the Forest - Bound by Blood, Silenced by Pride

The morning sun bathed the Baron's estate in a pale gold, the kind of light that made even dew drops look like jewels scattered over the earth. Birds trilled high in the branches, their songs weaving in with the soft rustle of leaves. Amidst the serene backdrop of the garden, life stirred with gentle purpose: maids trimmed bushes with shears, stable boys carried feed sacks to the pens, and the fragrance of roses mingled with damp soil.

At the heart of this quiet flurry stood Marian. Her laughter, light as spring rain, carried across the garden as she knelt among a bed of marigolds. Her hands, though roughened by labor, moved with tenderness, coaxing stubborn buds into bloom.

"You're growing well," she whispered to the flowers, as though they could hear her delight.

Workers passing by would bow their heads politely, but she always answered with a wave or a radiant smile, so full of warmth it made the morning brighter.

Just a step behind her was Rossetta. Unlike her sister, she spoke little, offering only nods of acknowledgment to those who greeted them. Her eyes, cool and steady, scanned the edges of the garden—not in suspicion, but with a certain habit of wariness, as though the world had taught her to measure every shadow. Even in stillness, there was an undeniable strength in her bearing: shoulders squared, chin lifted, yet tempered with quiet grace.

They were a study in contrast—Marian, the sunbeam, bright and approachable; Rossetta, the moon, calm and untouchable. Yet together, they moved in harmony, each anchoring the other.

It was then that Frank, the stable master, strode past, smelling faintly of hay and horse sweat. He offered Marian a playful salute with his riding crop.

"Morning, Marian," he said, his grin teasing.

 "The roses seem happier with you fussing over them than with the gardener himself."

Marian chuckled, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

"Plants just need kindness, Frank. Same as your horses."

Rossetta gave him only a curt nod, her lips pressed in a thin line. Frank dipped his head politely before continuing on, used to her silence by now.

But peace is never promised for long.

A sudden sharp pain seared through Rossetta's thigh. It was so abrupt, so biting, that her knees buckled beneath her. She staggered once, twice, before collapsing against the soil. Gasps erupted around her as gardeners dropped their tools, and Marian spun around in alarm.

"Sister!" Marian cried, instantly at her side. She pressed her hand against Rossetta's leg, finding warmth—too much warmth—seeping through the fabric. Blood.

The garden erupted into chaos. Servants rushed forward, their hands fluttering in panic, unsure what to do.

Meanwhile, across the estate on the training grounds, the clang of steel rang out as knights sparred under the Baron's watchful eye. The morning drill was routine, yet accidents were inevitable. In the midst of a heated practice, one blade slipped, slicing across the Baron's thigh as it ricocheted off his opponent's steel. The wound was shallow, barely more than a scratch. The Baron grimaced, waved off the panicked apologies of his men, and left the ground with measured composure.

Intent on returning to his chambers to change, the Baron crossed the mansion's halls—until the commotion in the garden caught his attention. Servants were clustering, whispering in distress. His steps shifted course, and soon he broke through the gathering to see them.

At the center sat Rossetta, steady even as Marian pressed firmly on her bloodied leg. Her head was bent, her expression composed. She did not tremble, nor did she complain. The only sign of pain was the tautness in her posture, the quiet control with which she bore it.

"What happened here?" the Baron's voice cut through.

Marian stood halfway, bowing her head.

"She stumbled, my lord. The earth was sharp with stone. Please forgive the disturbance."

The Baron's gaze slid to Rossetta. The girl gave no excuse, no explanation—only a silent nod, her eyes unreadable. For all her frailty, she looked unshaken. It stirred something in him, though he masked it quickly.

As he turned, Marian's eyes flickered downward. Beneath the Baron's fine trousers, she glimpsed the faint stain of blood—his left thigh, the same place Rossetta now bled. But his wound could not be more than a scratch. So why was her sister's injury deep, raw, crueler by far?

Her throat tightened. She bent her head quickly, hiding the storm of questions behind a mask of calm. If the Baron noticed her glance, he gave no sign. He left without another word.

Only when he was gone did Marian let her fingers tremble faintly as she pressed the bandage tighter against Rossetta's leg.

Marian paced the floor, her steps restless, her thoughts in turmoil.

"You saw it, didn't you?" she whispered.

Rossetta's gaze fell upon her wound, silent, steady.

"The curse was only to share the Baron's pain—not to magnify it! He bears but a scratch, and yet you bleed as though struck by steel!" Marian's voice trembled with disbelief.

"It is the retribution," Rossetta murmured.

Her words summoned the memory of that night—the whisper of a curse in the dark.

Marian's hand flew to her lips, as if to hold back breath itself. She had nearly forgotten the first law of witches: every spell demands its price.

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