Chapter 5
Pain makes a home in the body.
It lingers long after the wounds close, creeping into bone, twisting into flesh. Some things heal. Some things don't.
My right hand would never be the same again.
I spent the next two weeks locked in my room, left to rot like a broken thing too damaged to be useful.
They didn't bandage my hand. They didn't bring me medicine.
The swelling spread, the skin turning a sickly shade of purple and black. The pain was unbearable at first, a deep, relentless throb that made me delirious with fever.
No one came.
No one cared.
By the fourth day, I forced myself to move.
I bit down on a scrap of cloth to keep from screaming as I pressed my palm against the stone wall, willing my fingers to bend.
They wouldn't.
They never would.
The bones had shattered in too many places, the tendons torn beyond repair. My middle and ring fingers barely responded, curled uselessly against my palm. The little finger bent at an unnatural angle, stiff and unmoving.
Only my thumb and index finger still worked, though even they ached with every motion.
I stared at my ruined hand, at the twisted, mangled flesh.
I should have felt despair.
But all I felt was rage.
When they finally let me out, the world had not changed.
Lady Drevon still sat in her throne of wealth, draped in silks, sipping from cups lined with gold.
Valic still walked the halls like a prince waiting for his crown, his cruelty sharpened by boredom.
Celena still sneered at me like I was filth on her shoe.
They looked at me and saw something broken.
Good.
Broken things were easy to discard.
And if they thought I was no longer a threat—
Then they were fools.
"You're still alive," Valic mused, smirking as he caught sight of me in the corridors. "I almost thought Mother had finally gotten rid of you."
I didn't respond.
I didn't look at him.
I had learned long ago that Valic hated being ignored.
His smirk faltered. "What, no sharp tongue today? Did we finally beat the spirit out of you?"
I said nothing.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper.
"You should have learned your place, stray."
I forced myself to keep walking.
Forced myself to wait.
Not yet.
Not today.
But one day, Valic would regret every single word he had ever spoken to me.
One day, Lady Drevon would choke on her own cruelty.
One day, the house of Drevon would burn.
And I would be the one to light the fire.
My hand didn't heal right.
I knew it wouldn't.
The bones had been too damaged, the tendons too torn. The swelling had faded, but the stiffness remained. My fingers barely moved, my grip weak and useless.
Once, I had thought my hands were the only things I had left.
They scrubbed floors, carried trays, worked until they bled.
Now, one of them was ruined.
Lady Drevon had taken away my usefulness.
She thought that meant I was powerless.
She was wrong.
---
The world inside the Drevon estate was the same as it had always been. The nobles feasted while the servants starved. The rich lived without consequence while the poor were crushed beneath their boots.
I should have gotten used to it.
I never did.
A part of me still wanted to fight.
But fighting got you punished. Fighting got you killed.
So, I didn't fight.
Not yet.
I listened. I learned.
I paid attention to things I never had before—the way the guards rotated their shifts, the way the nobles whispered behind closed doors, the way Lady Drevon's wine was always tasted by a servant before she drank it.
I memorized the weak spots in the estate. The locks that were loose. The windows that were never properly latched.
If I couldn't fight, then I would **plan.**
And when the time came—
I would be ready.
---
One night, as I lay awake in my cot, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, I thought about the past.
About the girl I used to be.
About the slums, about Jaro, about the fleeting moments of warmth that had once belonged to me.
I had wished for a different life once.
Wished to be rich, to be free, to be untouchable.
But now, I wished for something else.
I wished for **vengeance.**
Not just against Lady Drevon. Not just against Valic.
But against all of them.
The nobles. The lords. The families who sat in their gold-plated houses and treated people like me as if we were dirt beneath their feet.
I wanted them to suffer the way we had.
I wanted to rip their world apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but **ashes.**
I didn't know how.
I didn't know when.
But I would.
One day.
Because fire, no matter how small—
**Never truly dies.**
The days blurred together.
Wake before the sun. Work in silence. Endure.
It was easier to survive when I thought of nothing, felt nothing. I told myself that every morning as I tied my apron, as I carried trays, as I bowed my head in quiet submission.
But some wounds refused to be ignored.
The pain in my ruined hand was a dull, constant throb. I had learned to work around it, gripping with my left, using my thumb and index finger when absolutely necessary. But I wasn't as quick as before.
And in a house like this, **weakness was dangerous.**
---
It didn't take long for the others to notice.
The other servants were careful not to speak to me. Some pitied me in silence, others avoided me altogether. None of them wanted to be caught too close to a girl who was already marked for suffering.
That didn't bother me.
But I hadn't accounted for Matron Idra.
She ran the servants' quarters with a sharp tongue and an iron rod, a woman who had long since accepted her place in the world and expected the rest of us to do the same.
"Useless hands don't last long here," she muttered as I struggled to wring out a wet cloth, my grip weak and clumsy.
I didn't respond.
She watched me for a long moment, then sighed, her expression unreadable. "I'll move you to kitchen duties."
It wasn't kindness.
It was practicality.
I couldn't carry heavy trays anymore. I couldn't serve the nobles directly without fumbling and risking another punishment.
So they put me where I wouldn't be seen.
Where I wouldn't be a problem.
I should have been relieved.
But there was no safety in this house.
Not even in the shadows.
The kitchen was loud, hot, filled with the constant clatter of knives and boiling pots. I kept my head down, doing what little I could—peeling vegetables, cleaning plates, sweeping floors.
It was better than being out in the open.
Or so I thought.
Because even there, I wasn't invisible.
Even there, he found me. It was late when Valic entered the kitchens, the stench of wine clinging to him.
The servants around me stiffened, lowering their gazes. The cook, an older woman who had been in this house far too long, swallowed hard before forcing a smile.
"Young Master, are you hungry?"
Valic ignored her, his eyes scanning the room before landing on me.
A slow, wicked smile curled his lips.
I went still.
He stepped closer, the heavy scent of alcohol thick in the air. "So this is where they've hidden you."
I said nothing. His gaze flicked to my right hand, still wrapped in a tattered cloth. A quiet chuckle left his lips.
"Can't even work properly anymore, can you?" He tilted his head, as if considering something. "Maybe they should've just cut it off completely."
The cook gave a nervous laugh, her hands trembling as she wiped them on her apron. "Young Master, I'm sure your mother wouldn't—"
"She wouldn't care," Valic said easily, still looking at me. "She already considers this one broken."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay still.
This wasn't new.
Valic had always enjoyed poking at wounds, tearing them open just to watch people bleed.
Before, I could at least defend myself.
Now, with my ruined hand, I was slower. Weaker.
He knew it.
And he wanted me to know it too.
His hand reached out, gripping my jaw with enough force to bruise.
I tensed but didn't pull away.
He smiled, his breath warm against my cheek. "Still got that fire in your eyes." His grip tightened. "I wonder how long it'll take to snuff it out."
Then, just as quickly as he had grabbed me, he let go.
He turned away, waving a careless hand. "Clean up the mess hall when the meal is done."
Then he was gone, leaving only the sharp taste of fear in the back of my throat.
I didn't move for a long moment.The kitchen was silent.
The cook finally exhaled, rubbing her forehead. "You should have kept your head down from the start."
I didn't answer.
She was right.
I should have.
But I never did.
And now, Valic had noticed me again.
That was dangerous.
I had learned to endure pain. I had learned to be patient, to be careful.
But something in my gut told me— I wouldn't survive another punishment. Not the next one. Not from him. I had always thought I had time. That I could wait, plan, gather my strength before striking back.
But now, time was running out.
I had to do something. I had to escape.