Part One: The Pawn's Gambit
CHAPTER ONE
The Gift
Who could have known that fate turns on a single night—from hell to paradise to another hell entirely, one escape bleeding into the next, until at last the game began?
*
The carriage jolted over the rutted dirt road, each hole sending sharp pain radiating through Victoria's spine. She did not complain. She had learned long ago that complaints changed nothing—only made things worse.
She sat rigid on the hard wooden bench, hands folded in her lap, amber eyes fixed on the passing landscape beyond the small window. Green fields, dense woods, gray skies threatening rain. She committed every detail to memory, every turn in the road. Perhaps she would need to remember this path someday. Perhaps she would need to run.
"Victoria."
Sister Catherine's voice severed the silence. The old nun sat across from her, her lined face bearing an expression impossible to read. Pity? Concern? Victoria could not tell.
"Yes, Sister?" Victoria's reply came measured and neutral, her voice quiet as the Church had trained her.
"When we arrive..." Sister Catherine began, then faltered. She looked down at her clasped hands. "When we arrive at the Duchy of Ashford, you must remember—a good nun does not raise her voice. A good nun does not ask questions."
She paused.
"Yes, Sister?" Victoria repeated, her tone unchanged.
"And also, I have heard..." Sister Catherine stopped again. "That Duke Leomord is a man of... difficult temperament."
Victoria raised a single eyebrow but said nothing. She waited.
"They say he has endured trying times of late." Sister Catherine's voice dropped as though she feared being overheard. "Cardinal Shafer trusts you. He has faith in you. Do not betray that trust."
"In what, precisely?" Victoria asked. She knew that questions were dangerous, but the mystery surrounding this "gift" to the Duke troubled her more than any potential punishment.
Sister Catherine's gaze sharpened. "It is not your place to ask, child. Your duty is obedience. To serve the Duke faithfully. That is all you need know."
She continued, her voice taking on a darker edge:
"And be careful. The days ahead will be difficult for you."
"Should anything unusual occur, you are to report immediately to the Cardinal. He trusts you... do not disappoint him."
Victoria nodded slowly, but her mind worked rapidly. A gift from the Cardinal? A personal servant? A Duke of "difficult temperament." Something was not right. The Church did not bestow trained nuns upon nobility without good reason. A game was being played, and for some reason, she was the piece being moved across the board.
After long hours, the Duchy of Ashford finally appeared on the horizon.
The palace was massive—larger than any building Victoria had ever seen. Stone towers reached toward the sky, stained glass windows gleaming beneath the wan sunlight, vast gardens stretching as far as the eye could see. The place screamed wealth and power. The Ashford family were not mere nobles—they were among the wealthiest families in the Kingdom of Valeria, their trade with the royal family rendering them untouchable.
The carriage halted before the main entrance. Sister Catherine descended first, Victoria following with careful steps. She wore her simple gray habit, her short black hair bound tightly beneath her white coif. She looked exactly as a young nun should—modest, obedient, unremarkable.
An elderly woman waited at the entrance. She wore an elegant black dress, her white hair pulled into a severe bun, her gray eyes examining Victoria with unsettling precision.
"Sister Catherine," the old woman said in a dry tone, her head inclining slightly in formal greeting. "Welcome to the Duchy of Ashford. I am Mrs. Gregory, head of the household staff."
"Mrs. Gregory." Sister Catherine returned the formal tone. "This is Victoria Marsh. A gift from Cardinal Shafer to His Grace the Duke."
Mrs. Gregory's eyes lingered on Victoria for a long moment. Something flickered in that gaze—pity? Warning?—before she looked away.
"I see," Mrs. Gregory said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Please, Sister Catherine, I will show you to the guest quarters. As for you, Victoria, come with me."
Sister Catherine nodded, then looked at Victoria. "Be obedient," she said quietly, then turned and departed.
And so Victoria remained alone with Mrs. Gregory.
The head servant led her through long, labyrinthine corridors. The walls were hung with massive oil paintings, the floors of polished marble that reflected the candlelight. Everything was opulent, extravagant—a far cry from the cold, austere stone walls of the Church where Victoria had been raised.
"Listen carefully," Mrs. Gregory said suddenly, without breaking her stride. "I will tell you this only once. What happens here stays within these walls. Should it be otherwise, do not expect mercy."
Victoria did not ask why. She merely quickened her pace to match the old woman's, feeling with each step that the walls themselves were watching her.
They continued until they reached a massive wooden door at the end of an isolated corridor. Mrs. Gregory stopped, placing her hand on the handle but not yet opening it.
"The Duke now lives in his private wing," she said in a low voice. "He does not go out. He barely eats. He refuses to see anyone. You are one of four servants who know the Duke's... condition. It would be best if there were not a fifth."
Victoria, despite her outward calm, felt a storm of thoughts whirling in her mind. *None of this bodes well.*
"Well then, that is all I can say," Mrs. Gregory said firmly. "Now, when I open this door, you will enter. You will introduce yourself. And you will begin your work."
Victoria said nothing. She looked at the massive door, then at Mrs. Gregory.
"Is there anything else I should know?" she asked quietly.
Mrs. Gregory hesitated. For a moment, it seemed she might say something important. But she shook her head in refusal.
The room beyond the door was dark. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking all daylight. The air smelled stale—sweat, dust, something else Victoria could not identify. Chaos reigned. Clothes scattered across the floor, uneaten dishes strewn about the tables, broken vases in the corners.
And in the midst of all this disorder, on a massive bed with carved wooden posts, lay a shape wrapped in blankets.
"Your Grace," Mrs. Gregory said loudly enough to be heard. "Your new servant has arrived. A gift from Cardinal Shafer."
No response came.
Mrs. Gregory looked at Victoria, nodded toward the bed, then turned and exited swiftly, closing the door behind her with a resounding thud.
Victoria remained alone.
She stood there for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Then, slowly, she took one step forward, then another.
"Your Grace?" she said in a clear but not loud voice. "My name is Victoria Marsh. I have been sent from the Church to serve you."
The blanket stirred. Then, suddenly, a sound erupted—an angry scream, harsh and raw, laden with fury.
"Get out!"
Victoria did not move.
"Your Grace, I am here to help you—"
"I said get out! Get out now!"
Something flew through the air. A vase. It was heading straight for her head.
With quick instinct, Victoria ducked to the side. The vase sailed over her head and shattered against the wall behind her with a deafening crash.
She straightened slowly, brushing small ceramic shards from her shoulder. She looked at the bed, where the blanket now moved violently.
Then, in a perfectly calm tone, she said:
"Your Grace, if your aim is to kill me... you will need to improve your accuracy, truly."
Then something else flew toward her. A wooden clock this time.
But this time she could not avoid it. It struck her forehead.
She felt warm blood flow, but she did not move.
With a healer's instinct, she assessed the wound:
*Superficial. Won't need stitches. Simple pressure and the bleeding will stop.*
She wiped the blood with the back of her hand, as if it happened every day.
For her? It did.
From beneath the blanket, a hoarse, muffled voice emerged. "You... you don't understand, do you?"
"Understand what?" Victoria replied, her eyes scanning the room for anything else that might be thrown in her direction.
The voice said forcefully: "You'll run. One way or another, you won't last long."
Victoria did not answer immediately. Instead, she walked slowly to the nearest window. She yanked the curtain open with one firm motion, and light exploded into the room like a shockwave. She responded with sarcasm: "Do you think I would leave all this money and run from you? Do you think me so stupid? Do you know how much they're paying me to care for you? Hah!"
An angry scream erupted from the bed. "What are you doing?! Close it! Close it now!"
"Light is good for health," Victoria said calmly, pulling open another curtain. "Darkness breeds disease. I have seen it time and again at the Church."
"I am not sick!" the voice screamed. "I am—"
He stopped abruptly.
Victoria turned to look at him. For the first time, she saw Duke Leomord Ashford.
He was young—younger than she had expected. He could not be more than his mid-twenties. His long blond hair was disheveled, falling across his face, a light unkempt beard covering his jaw. His body was noticeably thin, bones prominent beneath his stained white shirt. But what truly caught Victoria's attention were his eyes.
They were emerald green, stunningly beautiful. But they were... empty. They did not follow her movement. They did not focus on anything.
She understood immediately.
Duke Leomord Ashford was blind.
She tilted her head in bewilderment. Thoughts rushed through Victoria's mind: *Blind? All these warnings for a blind young man?*
She stood there for a moment, processing this information rapidly. This was what they were hiding. This was the reason for his isolation. A blind duke would be unable to maintain his authority, his respect. He would be seen as weak, easy prey. Of course they would hide him.
"I did not expect this," she said finally, her voice quiet.
"Shut your damned mouth and get out now," Leomord said bitterly, his face turning toward the sound but his eyes not finding her. "That's exactly the problem."
Victoria took a deep breath. Then, without comment, she began to move about the room. She gathered the scattered clothes, stacking them carefully. She collected the old dishes, placing them on a tray.
But the moment she turned her back, the enraged Duke threw the last thing he could find near him—the pillow. It hit her.
Yet Victoria showed no reaction. She continued her work, gathering disorder here and there.
"What are you doing?" Leomord asked, his voice wary.
"Cleaning," she answered simply. "It is part of my work, is it not?"
"I did not ask you to clean."
"You did not ask me to leave, either. At least, not in a way that made me obey."
She heard a sharp intake of breath. "You are... insolent. No, a cursed demon."
"I am honest," Victoria corrected, carefully gathering the broken vase shards. "There is a difference. And I am not the cursed one here—the proof being that you cannot see me because of dark magic."
The Duke answered, grinding his teeth with hatred: "Is this Shafer's gift to me? A wretch who gloats over my misery?!"
He screamed loudly as if the Duke had lost his mind: "Get out now! Return her from whence she came!"
Victoria ran to the wooden door, dropping everything in her hands. She opened the door and slammed it shut forcefully.
She deceived the Duke into thinking she had left.
She stood for a moment, catching her breath, but showed no agitation. Her eyes monitored the Duke's condition, who calmed the moment he heard the door close. She removed her shoes and began to quietly survey the Duke's private wing.
She walked slowly among the luxurious furniture, running her fingers over the carved wood, observing every corner with precision.
Victoria whispered to herself: "All these warnings and fear over a spoiled blind child. Nothing could be easier than this."
Victoria remembered the last time she dealt with a stubborn person...
It was two years ago, when she was summoned to the infirmary.
A war veteran, screaming and refusing to let anyone touch him.
"Get away from me! I don't want a cursed nun touching me!"
She did not retreat. She grasped his trembling hand and looked into his eyes:
"You can scream all you want. But I will not let you die."
In the end, he allowed her to clean his wound.
In the end, he lived.
Victoria smiled as she gazed out the carriage window.
Duke Leomord? Just another stubborn patient.
*But Duke Leomord is no ordinary wounded man.*
*He is a nobleman, with pride, and rage... and power.*
Let us stop thinking about this. What is the worst that could happen?
She continued to herself: "Judging by his reaction, Cardinal Shafer's words are correct! The Duke has been cursed by an unknown sorcerer."
Victoria finished gathering the shards and debris, then straightened. She looked at him—at this thin young Duke who spoke of solitude as if it were his only refuge.
"Very well," she said at last. "If you wish to be left alone to die in this dark, filthy room, that is your choice. But as long as I am here, I will do my work. I will clean. I will bring food. I will open the windows. And if you want to kill me, well..." She shrugged. "You are the only loser here. You will not find a better servant than me!"
For a moment, she thought he would scream again. But instead, she heard something unexpected.
Laughter.
It was short, bitter, but it was laughter.
"You are mad," Leomord said, shaking his head slightly. "Or incredibly stupid."
"Perhaps both," Victoria replied, a small smile appearing on her lips. "But I am excellent at surviving. And that is what truly matters."
She placed the tray full of dirty dishes near the door, then turned to look at him once more.
"Now, Your Grace, would you care for something to eat?"
His head turned toward her, and though his eyes saw nothing, there was something in his expression—surprise, perhaps? Or curiosity?
"You truly are not afraid, are you?" he asked quietly.
Victoria thought for a moment. "I am afraid of many things, Your Grace. But you? You are not one of them."
With that, she turned and headed for the door. "I will bring you fresh food. And water for bathing. Whether you use them or not is your decision."
Before she left, she heard his voice again, quieter this time.
"Remind me what your name was again?"
She stopped at the door. "Victoria Marsh, Your Grace."
He merely buried his head beneath the covers without answer.
*
CHAPTER TWO
The Breaking Point
In the corridor, Victoria found Mrs. Gregory waiting, her face bearing an expression of astonishment mixed with doubt.
"You are... still alive," the old woman said, as if she had not truly expected it.
"It would appear so," Victoria replied calmly, brushing dust from her hands. "I need fresh food for the Duke. Something light, easily digestible. Soup perhaps, and fresh bread. And hot water for bathing. And clean linens."
Mrs. Gregory stared at her as if she had grown three heads. "You... want to bring him food?"
"Yes. That is what I said."
"But... the previous servants did not—"
"The previous servants ran away or were removed, as you told me," Victoria interrupted, her voice firm but not rude. "I do not intend to be one of them. Now, can you please fetch what I have requested?"
For a moment, Mrs. Gregory looked as if she would object. But something in Victoria's eyes—the quiet determination, the silent confidence—made her nod.
"Very well. I will send the food and water," she said slowly. "But Victoria... the Duke will not eat. He has not touched proper food in weeks."
"Then it is time he did," Victoria said simply.
Mrs. Gregory looked at her for a long moment, then shook her head in bewilderment. "You are either very brave or very foolish. I am not certain which."
"Perhaps a bit of both," Victoria replied with a small smile. "Now, where is my room?"
Mrs. Gregory showed her to a small room adjacent to the Duke's wing. It was simple—a narrow bed, a small wooden table, a window overlooking the gardens. But it was clean, and it had a door that could be locked. More than Victoria had expected.
"The three other servants who know of the Duke's condition work only in cleaning his wing," Mrs. Gregory explained. "You alone are responsible for his personal care."
Victoria thought to herself:
*Is this a privilege... or the chains of an eternal prison?*
Victoria nodded. "Thank you."
Mrs. Gregory departed, and Victoria remained alone in her small room.
She sat on the edge of the bed and, for the first time since her arrival, allowed herself a deep breath. She closed her eyes.
A blind duke. A secret that must be protected at any cost. Servants who disappear or flee.
All of this was strange, dangerous. But it was not the worst Victoria had faced in her life.
In her room, she sat before the small mirror.
She opened her bag: thread, needles, herbal salve, bandages.
"Old habits," she whispered to herself.
"A nun without medical supplies... like a soldier without a sword."
She cleaned the wound with cold water, pressed with clean cloth until the bleeding stopped.
She applied the salve with skilled movements, then wrapped the bandage.
Five minutes. It was done.
She remembered a soldier once, a wound far deeper.
Unstoppable bleeding, a pale face, a cold hand.
"I'm going to die, aren't I?" he had asked her.
"Not today," she had answered, and stitched the wound with steady hands.
Though that soldier lived with permanent disability, at least he remained alive.
And her forehead wound? Merely a scratch.
Afterward, she collapsed onto the soft bed, and that night, allowed her body to relax. She took a deep breath, then sighed softly. *I wonder... how is everyone at the Church? What is Lea doing now, my dear friend?*
If there was one thing Victoria had learned—or *****, as she was called before the Church—it was that survival required more than mere strength. It required intelligence. Adaptation. And not fearing the things that frightened others.
She opened her eyes and looked at the wall separating her from the Duke's wing.
"Very well, Leomord Ashford," she whispered to herself. "Let us see who surrenders first."
The next morning, she returned to the Duke's quarters carrying a heavy tray. Upon it sat a bowl of hot soup, fresh bread, a cup of water, and an apple. Behind her, two other servants carried a large bucket of hot water.
She pushed the door open with her foot, and light from the corridor spilled into the room, which was still only dimly lit by candles.
Leomord remained in bed, but now he sat upright, his back resting against the pillows. His head turned at the sound.
"You returned?" he said in a dry tone, tinged with sarcasm. "Will you not tire?"
Victoria placed the tray on the table near the bed, with deliberate slowness, as if she wanted him to hear every movement.
"Good morning to you as well, Your Grace," she said calmly. "And rest assured, boredom is not in my nature."
She gestured toward the two servants behind her.
"Hot water. As I promised."
A brief silence fell. Leomord did not comment immediately. His breathing was steady, but his shoulders were tense, as if the presence of others in the room disturbed him more than he wished to admit.
"I did not ask for—"
"I know," she interrupted calmly, lifting the lid from the soup bowl. A warm aroma spread through the room. "But you need it."
He smelled it involuntarily. His fist tightened on the blanket.
"I will not eat."
Victoria smiled a small smile and placed the spoon in the bowl.
"That is fine."
He furrowed his brow. "How is that fine?"
"Because I did not say you would eat now." She lifted the apple slightly. "But your body will impose its will sooner or later. And I am patient."
One of the servants cleared her throat nervously.
But Leomord... did not scream.
Instead, he moved slowly.
From beneath the blanket, his hand emerged, gripping an old pistol. He raised it steadily. He did not know where to aim; he merely followed her voice.
He said in a low, cold voice:
"You are merely a servant sent here. Even if I killed you, no one would care. And no one would hold me accountable."
Victoria tilted her head slightly.
"You said it yourself, Your Grace... no one would care."
Then she added with deadly calm: "And therefore, I shall continue my work."
A silence heavier than the bullet itself settled.
He slowly pulled the trigger.
"Will you pretend bravery now?"
She looked at him steadily. She did not retreat.
"You told me before that I am either very brave... or very stupid."
Her voice took a step closer.
"And I, Your Grace... am both."
The two servants fled in terror, and Victoria remained alone.
Suddenly, she extended her hand and yanked the blanket from him.
At the same moment, the pistol's muzzle touched her forehead.
But she did not retreat.
She said coldly, with a trace of amusement in her tone:
"Your Grace... please, remove it from my face."
He did not answer.
She waited a second, then added:
"Your Grace? Or is... the pistol empty?"
He froze.
His face paled, as if the last mask had fallen.
"H-how?" he stammered. "How did you know?"
She smiled a slight, non-provocative smile.
"Simple," she said calmly.
"When you drew it, it was far too light."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Had it been loaded, you would not have lifted it so easily... especially with a hand that has not known strength for some time."
The Duke suddenly screamed and hurled the pistol at her.
Its muzzle struck her nose. She did not feel pain immediately, but warm liquid rushed across her lips.
She stood for a moment, then gently touched the liquid with her hand, checking it calmly, as if assessing its volume and considering the situation without losing her composure.
She knelt slightly, placed her hands on her face, then slowly retreated and exited the room in silence, each step calculated.
As for the Duke, he remained seated, breathing slowly. *Does this mean... she will truly leave? Like the other servants?*
When Victoria emerged, Rebecca—one of the three servants who knew the Duke's secret—stood there.
She threw down the laundry she was carrying and screamed in terror:
"Victoria! Your nose! Come, let us go to the physician quickly!"
Blood flowed profusely, but Victoria showed no distress and said calmly:
"Dear Rebecca, I know how to treat myself. Do not trouble yourself with such matters."
But Rebecca insisted, her voice trembling:
"Victoria, this does not look like ordinary bleeding... quickly, let us go to the physician!"
Victoria smiled gently, retreating into the corridor hastily:
"Have you forgotten that I am a healer?"
All this conversation took place before the Duke's chamber door, and he heard everything from within. His seat on the bed was silent, but he now felt an unfamiliar worry... and that new knowledge he had gained about her strength and confidence.
*
"Who said I want to remain alive?" he said bitterly.
Victoria stopped. She looked at him—at this young man who spoke of death with such frightening simplicity.
"Your Grace!" Victoria paused for a moment, then said with strange calm:
"If you do not wish to live, Your Grace... death here is easy."
She tilted her head slightly toward the window and said in a quiet tone:
"The window behind you, Your Grace. Third floor. One leap and the entire story ends."
The Duke did not answer.
She said calmly:
"You do not want to end your life."
She paused a moment.
"You want to end your suffering."
Then she added in a lower voice:
"To end this darkness."
Her voice was quiet but direct. "Why starve yourself slowly? That is not a brave death."
She fell silent a moment.
"It is slow surrender. It is cowardice."
The silence that followed was thick, dangerous. Leomord's face turned toward her, his jaw clenched.
"How dare you—"
"I dare because I see the truth," Victoria interrupted, not retreating. "You do not want to die. You want this situation to die. There is a difference."
For a moment, she thought he would scream again, or throw something else. But he did not. Instead, his face turned away, his jaw trembling slightly.
"You do not understand," he said in a low voice, nearly choked. "I was... someone. A duke. A leader. And now I am... nothing. Blind, useless, a burden."
"You are not useless," Victoria said firmly. "You are injured. There is a difference. And even if you remain blind for the rest of your life, that does not make you nothing. It makes you someone who needs to adapt."
He laughed bitterly. "Adapt? How can a blind duke adapt? Everyone in the kingdom will see me as weak. They will try to take everything from me."
"Then do not let them know," Victoria said simply.
His head turned toward her again, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"Do not let them know," she repeated. "Keep the secret. Learn how to move, how to act, how to speak in a way that makes no one suspect. I have seen people do remarkable things despite their disabilities. It takes time, and patience, and courage. But it can be done."
Leomord said nothing for a long time. Then, in a quieter voice:
"And why... why do you care? You are merely a servant sent here. Why not just run like the rest?"
Victoria thought for a moment. Then, honestly:
"Because I am tired of running. And because you, despite all your anger and stubbornness, still deserve a chance to live."
She took the bowl from the tray, stepped toward the bed, and stood before him.
"Now, Your Grace, you will eat. Even if it is only one spoonful. Because if you starve to death in this bed, I will feel I have failed in my work. And I do not like failure."
She heard the sound of a deep sigh. Then, slowly, Leomord extended his hand.
"Give me the bowl," he said in a weary voice.
Victoria extended the bowl, gently guiding his hand to it. His fingers touched the bowl's edge, then grasped it carefully.
He lifted the spoon and took a small sip. Then another.
Victoria stood there watching, a strange feeling of satisfaction filling her chest.
It was a beginning. A small beginning, but a beginning nonetheless.
And Victoria Marsh was very good at beginnings.