The great hall's torchlight guttered, clawing shadows across the pine table, strewn with dented goblets and crumbs of cinnamon cookies. Gloria crouched inside the castle's stone walls, her breath shallow, the crack in the mortar framing her view. Count Edgar Eldeholt sprawled in his carved chair, wine staining his lips, his grin a polished mask over a festering heart. Helga sat rigid, her pale eyes slicing the air, blue skirts stiff as frost. Tristan, 16, broad from years of hauling nets, hunched beside his sister Rebecca, her dark hair loose, her teacup trembling with ripples. Lady Filmore's face was smooth as river stone, unreadable, while Byron, their butler, poured tea with ghostly precision. The envoy, gray and gaunt, scowled as Rebecca's voice thundered, raw and unfiltered.
"A Filmore child, not a Count?" Rebecca slammed her cup down, tea splattering the pine. "You think we'll bleed our gold, fish, docks, every coin for your name to choke it? Tristan's worth ten of your half-starved girl." Her eyes flashed, her words a blade. "We need time your deal's filth."
Edgar's grin held, his voice honeyed, a Count's veneer cloaking rot. "Time, is it? Fair enough, mull it over, let it settle." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his red-and-gold cloak catching the light, his gaze sweeping the Filmore's like a hawk. "My girl's blood is gold, her heir our future, Eldeholt's name carries weight you'll come to crave. Five villages, one city, yours to share… if you're wise." He paused, letting the words hang, his fingers drumming the goblet, wine sloshing. "But don't dawdle—opportunities like this don't linger."
Rebecca snorted, her wine goblet steaming, but Lady Filmore raised a hand, her voice cool, cutting. "We'll consider it, Count. The terms are… bold, but not without merit." Her pale eyes locked on Edgar, unblinking, as if weighing his soul. "Our ports, our fish—our gold—demand a fair stake."
Edgar's laugh was low, a noble's charm, but his eyes glinted, sharp and hungry. "Fair's my middle name," he said, winking at the envoy, who shifted, uneasy. "You'll see the sense of it—Tristan here, he's a fine match for my Gloria. Strong lad, sea in his bones." He tilted his head at Tristan, who stiffened, green eyes darting to the table. "You'll rule well together, boy mark my words."
The room held its breath, the air thick with unspoken barbs. Edgar rose slowly, his cloak sweeping the floor, and beckoned a servant, Lina, face pinched, silent. "East wing," he said, his tone warm but commanding. "Our finest rooms, velvet beds, hearths roaring, fit for river lords." He lingered, his gaze sliding over each Filmore, a king dismissing pawns. "Rest, talk, scheme come morning, we'll carve this deal proper." His smile widened, teeth stained, and he turned to Tristan, voice dropping, firm. "Lad, roam the castle, make it yours, but my room, the dungeons, my daughter touch them, and you'll regret it." He clapped Tristan's shoulder, hard enough to rock him, his fingers lingering a beat too long, a warning wrapped in jest.
Tristan nodded, jaw tight, his sailor's hands flexing. Edgar's eyes flicked to the envoy, then Lady Filmore, his charm unyielding. "Duties call," he said, waving a hand, the noble lie smooth as silk. Helga's glance, cold and sharp, caught the truth duties meant wine, women, or worse. The Filmore's stood, cloaks rustling, Byron gathering their goblets with a clink. Lina led them out, her steps quick, the envoy muttering to Lady Filmore, Rebecca's scowl burning. Edgar watched them go, his grin fading to something darker, then turned, his boots echoing.
Helga rose, skirts rustling, and caught his stride, her boots sharp on the stone. Gloria pressed closer to the crack, her patched dress torn, filthy, the silk gown shredded in the tunnels, catching on jagged mortar. Her heart pounded, the castle's damp chill seeping into her bones. Helga grabbed Edgar's arm, her voice low, venomous but noble. "What do we do about the girl?" Gloria strained, but their steps faded, the hall's echo stealing the rest. About her? Edgar's "training," Helga's scorn—they saw something, hid something.
She slid back, the tunnel's darkness swallowing her, and ran, boots slapping wet stone. The castle's veins—passages snaking beneath towers, kitchens, the bath chamber—were hers, mapped since she was six. Her hideaway waited: a smooth ledge, a pine plank shelf with a chipped mug, a flint, a sapphire glinting like a bruise. Victor's yellow eyes gleamed, his limping bulk steady; Nubs, Scratch, and Laura skittered close, their warmth a frayed thread. She sank to the floor, the sapphire heavy in her palm, its facets cold. "What do I do?" she whispered, her voice raw, trembling.
The gem pulsed, a cloudy purple blooming in its core, swirling like smoke trapped in glass. Shadows curled from the stone, coiling up her arms, their voice a hiss: "Lay down. Let us teach." Her chest burned—fear, rage, shame—fueling the dark, stirring it alive. The rats turned wild—Nubs squeaking, sprinting in circles; Scratch's claws gouging the floor; Laura darting under the plank, teeth bared. Victor paced, growling, his fur bristling. The sealed crack in the wall glowed violet, pulsing like a heartbeat, its secret older than her mother's lies. Gloria's vision blurred, the tunnel's walls warping, shadows pulling her down. "Your pain is power," they whispered, cold and hungry. A figure flickered—a woman, cloaked in black, screaming, swallowed by stone.
Victor's snarl broke the trance, his teeth grazing her wrist, a warning. She gasped, shoving the sapphire under the plank, hands trembling. The rats stilled, Laura shivering, Nubs panting. The shadows ebbed, their voice lingering: "Wait." Her pulse raced—the gem, the crack, that woman—what was this? Helga knew, had buried it, her eyes cold since Gloria was six. But Tristan's face—green eyes soft, speechless in the hall—gnawed at her. Who was he, this boy she'd marry? What did he see in her?
She moved, the tunnels her pulse—left, right, up, to the east wing. Her dress hung in rags, ruined—she didn't care. A crack in the guest room's stone wall, found years ago, opened to her. She peered through, shadows cloaking her, and saw Tristan by a four-post bed, blue curtains drawn, his sailor's frame tense, green eyes clouded. Rebecca lounged on a velvet chair, cloak off, wine goblet steaming, her blue dress tight. Her voice was venom, low and cutting.
"This deal's a noose, Tristan," Rebecca said, tossing her hair. "An Eldeholt heir? Our name—our ships, our gold—buried under their decay. You're chaining us to a girl who's nothing, a wisp with no fight." She stood, pacing, wine sloshing. "Help me undress—this dress is strangling me." She turned, lifting her hair, and Tristan's jaw tightened, disgust flickering.
"Rebecca," he said, his voice rough but warm, kind, like a hand pulling someone from the sea. "This isn't right. You keep doing this—stripping when I'm here. I'm 16, not a child." He stepped back, his hands hesitating, shoulders stiff. "It's… wrong."
Rebecca's laugh was a blade, cruel and sharp. She unbuttoned the top, the dress falling to the floor, her bra and petticoat clinging, her full bosom straining. She knelt to his eye level, inches away, steam curling around them. "Cause I can, little brother," she purred, her bosom nearly spilling, her voice a taunt. "You need to see a real woman before you're stuck with that pretender. Four years won't make her anything. Her family's poison—Edgar beats her, Helga loathes her. You'll be lucky if she can bear a child."
Tristan recoiled, fists clenching, green eyes blazing with hurt and defiance. "Stop," he snapped, his warmth cracking under her venom. "She's not nothing. She's… alive, fighting, even if you can't see it." He paced, boots heavy, his voice softening, aching. "I've seen men broken on the docks—starved, beaten. I gave them bread, work, hope. Gloria's like them—trapped, but not gone. I don't want to hurt her, Rebecca. I want to… stand with her, let her breathe." He ran a hand through his salt-rough hair, eyes distant. "Edgar's a monster, Helga's ice—she's got no one. Maybe I can be someone, not another fist."
Rebecca's laugh sliced, rising to sprawl on a couch by the window, moonlight glinting off her petticoat. "Stand with her?" she mocked, wine spilling over her goblet's edge. "She's a weight, Tristan. No spark, no worth—Edgar called her a disgrace, a noble with nothing. Your soft heart will sink us—our ports, our fish, our gold. Marry her, fine, but don't dream of saving her. She's a tool, not a wife." She leaned forward, her bosom slipping further, eyes glinting. "You'll have to break her—or Edgar will, and you'll get a husk who'll birth no heirs. Our legacy—gone. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me your kindness will fix a girl forged by lunatics."
Tristan froze, breath ragged, his hands flexing. "You're wrong," he said, quiet but fierce, his voice thick with something unbroken. "Kindness isn't soft, it's iron. I've held dying men, shared my rations, fought for them. Gloria's not a husk—she faced you, all of us, in that hall. I saw her eyes—fire, even in fear. I don't want to own her, Rebecca. I want her to rise, not kneel." He turned to the window, voice dropping. "Maybe I'm naive, but I'd rather try than crush her like they do. She deserves a chance."
Gloria's throat burned, tears carving tracks through the grime on her face, the crack's edge biting her fingers. Tristan's words—kind, raw, a lifeline clashed with Rebecca's venom, Helga's hate, Edgar's fists. Was she broken, barren, a curse? The sapphire's purple cloud flashed in her mind, the rats' frenzy a warning, the shadows' voice "You're enough," her anchor. She wasn't nothing—they'd chosen her, warped the chair, pulsed in the tunnels. But Tristan's hope, his wish to see her rise, cracked her open. Could he mean it? Was it real, or another cage?
The shadows stirred, whispering: "Learn. Wait." She wiped her tears, the ragged dress clinging to her skin, and slipped back into the tunnel, Victor's growl a faint echo. The east wing faded, but Rebecca's taunts—husk, no heirs—stuck like thorns. Tristan's kindness burned brighter, a spark in the castle's dark. The shadows pulsed, their lesson clear: she'd learn, she'd wait, and the stone would forge her rise.