⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains references to past abuse and descriptions of physical scarring that may be distressing to some readers. Please take care while reading.♥️

❧༻༺❁༻༺☙

Helena woke up before dawn, drenched in sweat. The fever had returned, and the nightmares dragged her back into the void. Too weak to clean herself or the soiled sheets, she sank onto the windowsill. Her slim hands trembled as she forced the window open.

The dreams clung to her like claws sinking into her skin. She was trapped in a dark room. A beast of a man approached her like a predator toying with its food. She couldn’t move, couldn’t scream.

Liquid pooled beneath her feet, thick and red.

Please! The words died before reaching her throat. The man only smiled, amused by her struggle.

Please! Again and again, the words stuck on her chest, refusing to go out. The liquid reached her waist. Not water. Blood.

Help me! Tears blurred her vision. She struggled to stay upright, but the blood dragged her down.

The last thing she saw before it swallowed her whole was the man’s lips moving.

Helena. Come to me.

The door slammed open.

Helena didn’t move. She sat perched on the window, her lips blue-tinged. Her limbs trembled so hard her teeth clicked like glass.

The world washed over her. Aidin shouted, arms pulling her back to the warmth, blankets wrapping her tight.

But Helena’s mind was elsewhere, drowned in red.

A man’s voice snapped her back. Behind the fog, maids were stoking the fire, laying out bowls of steaming food.

“I apologize for coming late,” Raymond said. He settled stiffly beside Aidin. His posture was polite but held an uneasiness he couldn’t hide.

“Had I known your condition was this fragile, I wouldn’t… You’re welcome to stay until winter breaks.”

“No,” Helena said. “I want to work.”

The words hung in the air, calm but sharp, sharp but out of place.

Raymond took a deep breath.

“My lord has agreed to take you in until you recover. ‘Simple hospitality,’ he calls it. I suggest you don’t make light of Lord Ossveil’s generosity.”

Helena lowered her gaze, biting her lower lip until it tasted coppery. Crossing a noble wouldn’t be smart. Her mind spun, already searching for a way to make Raymond and his lord change their minds.

“Don’t stress too much.”

Raymond rose, reaching for her head in a familiar gesture.

“You’ll be able t—”

Helena recoiled. Her eyes flew open, her body jolting backward until she nearly fell off the bed.

Both adults froze. Raymond’s hand hung midair.

“I’m s-so… I…”

Her cheeks burned.

“Don’t.”

He let his hand fall, curling it into a fist. His expression didn’t look hurt. It was something colder, hollowed by contempt. Helena’s breath caught. A lump—heavy, familiar, and dangerous—pressed down on her chest.

“I-I apologize, sir!”

She folded forward on the bed, her forehead pressing into the mattress. Aidin caught her, lifting her gently.

“Child, darling… stop. You’re sick.”

Her voice was soothing and warm.

Raymond turned and left without a word.

Silence lingered. Helena’s eyes stung, but the tears refused to fall. Aidin prepared the medicine.

“Here,” she said, handing her the spoon and pouring the medicine. She waited until Helena swallowed it and offered two candies.

“Laloid says it’s too bitter.”

Helena hesitated. A faint “thank you” left her lips.

“Child… do you mind if I ask about your family?”

Helena shook her head, bringing the candy to her mouth.

“I don’t remember them. I heard they sold me to the convent when I was five or six… I only remember my mother being pretty… Maybe.”

Her voice sounded alien for someone who talked about their past.

“And the nuns… did they…”

Aidin’s words faltered. She reached out, but Helena recoiled with the same fear as before.

Aidin rose, murmured a choked “rest,” and left. Helena noticed her eyes were watery.

She stared at her hand long after the door closed.

Why…

Why do they cry? Are they being forced to keep me?

She chewed the second candy, her thoughts circling over.

If I show them that I can work. If I’m useful… they’ll stop pitying me!

It took her a while to reach that conclusion. To her, it made sense: they pitied her because she was sick. And because they were good people, they wouldn’t throw her out. But that meant wasting resources. That’s why they were sad enough to cry despite their kindness.

They’re nice, though…

Helena stared at the candy wrapper. Heat bloomed on her cheeks.

With her new resolve, she stood and began rearranging the bed. She smoothed the sheets, meticulously tucking the corners and flattening each crease until it looked untouched. Then the pillows. She fluffed and tapped them until they sat round. She even swept the rug with her hands, crawling on her knees to catch stray hairs and lint. The bedside table was next: a cup, a jug of water, and a handkerchief.

She moved to the footed mirror. She wanted to remove the undergarments they had lent her, but she couldn’t stay nude. Instead, she combed her hair with her fingers and turned away from her reflection. Her eyes swept the room for something else to clean, but she didn’t know what she could touch.

When she finished it, she knelt beside the bed but then remembered: Aidin had told her never to do that again. She rose and sat by the window instead.

Her spine was straight. Eyes down. Hands folded.

Perfect posture.

She waited.

The door cracked open, and Becka stepped inside, holding breakfast and a warm smile.

“Morning!” Becka chirped. “Gee, you’ll freeze! Are you the wife of the snowman? Close that window!”

Becka set the tray on the table and urged Helena back to bed.

“I have the most incredible news!” Her eyes sparkled. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll tell you.”

She winked at Helena, then darted back to the door to retrieve a large sack. Becka settled on the corner of the bed and watched Helena eat in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Becka said, biting her lips. “I shouldn’t have cried like that yesterday. Laloid says I can be such a crybaby… and that it makes people uncomfortable.”

Helena’s eyes studied the girl—her gaze down, her hands fidgeting on her lap, the way her mouth pressed into a small pout.

A faint smile tugged at her lips.

“Not at all… You did nothing wrong.”

Becka’s eyes snapped up, light shining in them.

“How did you sleep?”

“…Fine, thanks.”

“Mama said you had a fever again. Are you feeling good? Can you walk?”

Helena’s eyes lit up, misinterpreting Becka’s question.

“Yes… Yes, I can.”

“Excellent!”

Becka grabbed Helena’s hands, bouncing on the balls of her feet like an excited puppy.

“Hella! Mama and Papa say you can go out! Walking will do you good, but—”

Becka’s voice grew firm, pointing a finger at Helena with each rule she listed.

“You absolutely must: first, eat all your food; second, no cleaning and working. And third, keep your body warm—so no more window for you in those clothes!”

Becka’s stern expression crumbled, giving way to a mischievous smile. She turned to the sack on the floor and began pulling out bundles of clothing.

“Laloid scolded me for turning her room upside down,” she said. “But I brought you these!”

She flung the gowns onto the floor with a colorful “Ta-da~!”

“This dress was Laloid’s, but she never liked it”—she held each dress as she spoke—“This one used to be mine, but it’s too small now… I think it’ll fit you. And this one… Ugh, it’s ugly. Oh, not ugly-ugly. I mean… this kind of blue doesn’t suit me.”

Becka pulled ten new dresses in a whirlwind of fabric and chatter. Helena sat in silence, growing used to Becka’s whims… and finding them oddly charming.

Her gaze lingered on the rich midnight blue dress—a dress meant for women who didn’t have to raise their voice to be heard. The fabric looked soft, heavier than anything she’d ever worn. Its hue shimmered like a quiet lake holding the moonlight.

It wasn’t overly ornate; just a ribbon tied at the waist and lace trimming the sleeves.

It looked pretty. Clean.

Clean and safe.

Not for her.

A little while later, Becka left to prepare a bath, insisting Helena had to shake the stiffness from her body.

When she returned, she—almost—yanked Helena off the bed and dragged her to the bathroom. Becka bubbled with the excitement reserved for children who’ve just claimed a new best friend.

“I’ll help you!”

Helena stood awkwardly. She didn’t mind being seen naked, but the idea of being helped made her uneasy. Becka had already declared she’d assist her with everything, “unlike those bastards from the convent.”

Helena peeled off the undergarments. Her back turned, Becka politely gave her space to undress.

A gasp echoed within the walls. Becka let out a muffled cry.

“W-what… what…”

She choked on her own words as she approached. Her hand hovered above Helena’s back, not daring to touch.

Scars covered Helena’s body. Old cuts and lash marks—long, pale indentations etched across her back. Circular burns like plucked skin. Some places looked carved into, leaving sunken flesh behind. Rope-like welts bulged across her shoulders, back, and down her thighs.

Becka scanned her body. Except for her calves, arms, and chest, Helena’s whole body had wounds as if someone had butchered her and stitched her back together.

Becka couldn’t hold her tears. She threw herself into Helena’s arms and wailed, her body trembling with every breath.

Ah… I should’ve been more careful…

Helena had expected the reaction. She wasn’t naïve about how gruesome her body looked. She’d been careless—entranced by the warmth of the moment—forgetting what they’d done to her.

What she was.

She held Becka in silence, letting her cry until the shaking stopped. She had no words. No explanation worth offering.

And for once, Becka didn’t ask.

The bath resumed in silence. Every time Becka had to help her wash, she closed her eyes. But she held back her tears.

When they exited the bathroom, Becka had found her cheer again. She rushed to choose a dress, already talking about how she’d doll Helena up.

“I saw you looking at it,” she said, lifting the midnight blue dress with a smug grin.

Helena stood stiff, letting her do as she pleased.

Once Helena was dressed, Becka dragged her to the dressing table. There, she pinned up her hair, letting the white strands at the front fall loose in soft waves.

Helena didn’t look like a servant—she looked like a proper lady.

Becka chattered about how pretty she looked, how elegant she seemed in the gown, and urged her to look in the mirror.

But Helena didn’t look.

She couldn’t.

Something inside her twisted in disgust.