Maria's PoV
The Countess beat me for hours.
Each strike of the stick sent fire through my body. I screamed until my throat went raw, then whimpered when I had no voice left. Begged until the words lost meaning.
No one came to help me.
The servants who'd raised me stood outside the door—I could hear their breathing, their shuffling feet. But none entered. None intervened.
Why would they? I was a bastard who'd embarrassed the legitimate daughter. Who'd stolen spotlight meant for Calla.
I deserved this. At least, that's what their silence said.
My skin swelled. Went numb. I stopped feeling the blows around the hundredth strike, my body just... shutting down to protect itself.
The door opened.
"Enough."
Count Haroth's voice cut through the haze of pain.
The Countess paused mid-swing, breathing hard. "This creature dared to—"
"She can still be useful." His voice was flat. Clinical. Like discussing a tool that had malfunctioned but could be repaired. "Beating her to death serves no purpose."
The Countess threw the stick aside with disgust. It clattered across the floor, coming to rest near my face. I stared at it through swollen eyes, at the blood—my blood—staining the wood.
She swept past her husband without another word, skirts rustling with barely contained rage.
Count Haroth looked down at me.
I couldn't see his expression clearly. Everything was blurred, doubled.
"From today onwards," he said, "you shall be Calla's maid."
The words should have brought relief. Being assigned to the household meant I wouldn't be sold. Wouldn't be sent to the frontlines.
But relief required the ability to feel, and I'd gone numb inside as well as out.
He gestured. Servants entered—not the ones who'd raised me, but older women with hard faces who'd seen this before.
They lifted me with practiced efficiency. I felt ointment being applied—cool against burning skin—but the sensation was distant, happening to someone else.
Then darkness swallowed me whole.
***
When my eyes opened again, I was in a bed.
Not the pallet in the servants' quarters where I'd always slept. An actual bed with clean sheets and a pillow.
For a moment, I thought I'd died. This seemed too comfortable for the life I knew.
Then I tried to move, and pain screamed through every nerve.
My hands wouldn't respond. My legs were dead weight. Even breathing hurt—each inhale pulling at bruised ribs, each exhale threatening to collapse something inside.
I lay there, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, and tried to remember what joy had felt like.
The golden insignia. The priest's voice.
High Enchanter. Unbound potential.
It seemed like a cruel joke now.
What good was potential if you couldn't use it? What did power matter when you had no control over your own fate?
***
Days passed in a blur of pain and numbness.
Slowly—so slowly—my body remembered how to move. First fingers twitching. Then hands curling into fists. Eventually, legs that could bear weight for a few steps before giving out.
The day I could walk without assistance, the head maid summoned me.
She was an older woman named Iris—grey hair pulled back severely, face lined with decades of service. Not unkind, just... worn down by years of navigating noble politics.
"You're to serve Lady Calla," Iris said, showing me through the manor's upper floors. "Wake her at dawn. Help her dress. Attend her lessons. Serve her meals. Prepare her for bed."
She stopped, turning to face me fully. "You will be perfect. You will be invisible. You will never embarrass her or give the Countess reason to notice you. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good." Her expression softened fractionally. "And child? Learn quickly. Mistakes in this house are... unforgiving."
I learned.
How to lay out clothes without a single wrinkle.
How to pour tea at the exact temperature Lady Calla preferred.
How to anticipate needs before they were spoken.
How to fade into the background like furniture when nobles spoke of things servants shouldn't hear.
Calla was kind to me.
She never raised her voice. Never made unreasonable demands. Treated me with the sort of gentle courtesy one might show a favored pet.
She acted like a lady should.
I never any liberty to even thought of her as sister.
Perfect manners. Perfect posture. Perfect smile.
Sometimes I caught her watching me with an expression I couldn't read. But whenever I met her eyes, she'd just smile warmly and ask if I needed anything.
Life as her maid settled into routine.
Wake before dawn. Prepare Calla's room. Help her dress. Attend her through the day. Clean her quarters. Fall into bed exhausted after midnight.
And always—always—the Countess's eyes following me. Looking for mistakes. For excuses.
She found them regularly.
A teacup not quite in the right position. Bathwater half a degree too cool. Arriving three seconds late to summon Calla for dinner.
Each infraction earned punishment. A slap. Hours kneeling on rice. Being locked in the cold cellar until I could barely stand.
Never enough to permanently damage. Just enough to remind me of my place.
But Calla always found me after. Always brought salve for bruises, warm blankets for shivering, soft words of comfort.
"I'm sorry," she'd whisper. "Mother is just... protective. She doesn't understand that you're not a threat."
She became my support. My only kindness in a house that saw me as less than human.
I trusted her.
That was my naive move.
***
It started three months after I became her maid.
Calla called me to her chambers late one night—long after she should have been asleep. I hurried there, worried something was wrong.
She sat at her desk, illuminated by a single candle. A book lay open before her—old, leather-bound, pages yellowed with age.
"Maria," she said softly. "Come here."
I approached, curious despite my exhaustion.
"I know Father forbade you from studying magic." Her fingers traced the book's cover. "But that's not fair. You have a gift. It shouldn't be wasted."
My heart stuttered. "My lady, I couldn't possibly—"
"I can keep a secret if you can." She looked up, eyes warm. Conspiratorial. "This is a grimoire on enchantments. Basic principles, simple exercises. Nothing that would draw attention."
She held it out. "Study it. Practice when you have time alone. But tell no one. Especially not Mother."
I stared at the book like it was made of gold.
"Why?" The question slipped out. "Why help me?"
Calla's smile was gentle. "Because we're sisters. Blood matters, even if Father pretends it doesn't." She pressed the grimoire into my hands. "You deserve a chance to be more than a maid. Even if it's in secret."
I clutched the book to my chest, tears burning my eyes. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"Study well," she said. "And be careful."
I left her chambers walking on air.
***
Late at night, after my duties were finished and everyone slept, I studied.
The grimoire was basic—meant for beginners, explaining fundamental concepts of how enchantments worked. How to bind magic into objects. How to strengthen, sharpen, preserve.
I devoured every word.
Within a week, I was attempting my first practical exercise. A rusted knife I'd found in the storage rooms—something no one would miss.
I held it carefully, channeling mana the way the grimoire instructed. Feeling for the object's nature, its potential, the places where magic could sink in and transform.
The knife grew warm in my hands.
The rust flaked away like shed skin. The blade straightened, sharpened, took on a faint gleam that hadn't existed before.
When I was done, it could slice through leather like butter. Stronger than before. Better than new.
I stared at what I'd created, joy flooding through me so powerfully I nearly cried.
I can do this. Even here, even as a maid, I can still be what the goddess said I could be.
I continued studying. Continued practicing in stolen hours. Every successful enchantment felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
And through it all, Calla encouraged me. Asked about my progress. Brought me new materials to practice on when I needed them.
She was my savior. My secret keeper. The only person in that house who saw me as more than a bastard or a servant.
I loved her for it.
***
Then one day, new soldiers joined the county guard.
They arrived in the morning—a dozen men, travel-worn and road-weary, reporting for duty.
Most were unremarkable. Standard recruits, young men seeking stable work and training.
But one stood out.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
Moving with the kind of quiet confidence that came from real combat experience, not just training yard drills.
A scar ran along his jaw—old enough to have faded but still visible.
His name was Garrett.
And everything started to change.