The first step towards healing

The little girl was terrified of everything. The unfamiliar walls, the strange softness of the bed, the too-clean clothes. The brightness of the room wasn't comforting; it felt foreign, overwhelming. She curled under the bed often, where the shadows reminded her of the cabin.

It was strange—how the very darkness she had once begged to escape now felt safer than the gentle warmth seeping into her new life. The dim room at the far end of the duchy's wing had no cracks on the walls, no sharp smell of mold, no cold floor that bit her skin. Yet, as she sat curled in the corner, eyes lingering on the golden light slipping through the drapes, her chest tightened. She had cried for freedom, but now, with no shouts or blows, with soft food and kinder voices, she couldn't breathe. The silence didn't soothe her. It warned her. Her body flinched at footsteps even when they carried no rage. Because for Serena, darkness meant pain but it was pain she understood. Comfort was unfamiliar, and the unfamiliar was far more terrifying.

Every day, the man—Tristan—came with a silver tray. He would kneel beside it, place it gently near her, and wait in silence. Sometimes he sang. Soft lullabies, words she'd never heard before. They sounded like stars, like warmth. But she never responded. Just stared, frozen. And when he realized she wouldn't eat, he'd whisper something kind and leave without scolding. That made it worse somehow. The kindness.

She didn't understand kindness.

She feared it.

Three Weeks Later~

Tristan stepped into the room carrying a tray. A light aroma floated from the food—warm chicken and vegetable broth, a bowl of fresh salad, three soft slices of bread, a glass of orange juice, and a few delicate macarons arranged with care. Under the bed, the little girl moved.

Drawn by the scent, she slowly crawled out from her hiding place, wary yet hungry. Tristan said nothing, simply placing the tray near her on the floor. She sat down with small, rigid movements and began to eat in a rush, her tiny hands trembling slightly.

"Baby, eat slowly," he said in a gentle voice. "I won't take your food away."

The little girl blinked, startled by his tone. There was no sharpness in it, no threat lurking between the words. Unlike her mother and father or the others from the cabin who spat cruel remarks like venom, who punished her for crying, who hit her when her sobs grew too loud.

She slowed down. Just a little.

"Good girl." Tristan's voice was warm. He sat in front of her and pointed softly toward the red welts and bruises along her arms. "Baby… those wounds, they must hurt, right?"

The little girl followed his gaze to her own wounds. They did hurt, terribly so but it was the kind of pain that had become part of her skin, familiar like breath. Pain that taught her how to stay silent. So she shook her head and whispered, "No."

The moment the word slipped out, her eyes widened in alarm. She gasped and clamped her mouth shut. She wasn't supposed to speak. Her voice was unwanted, filthy. Every time she spoke back home, they got angry. They hit harder. Took food away. Maybe he would too.

Tristan watched her, confusion knitting his brows until it hit him.

She's been hurt so much that pain feels normal to her.

He rolled up his sleeve, meaning to show her something but the movement was too sudden.

The little girl flinched hard.

She scooted backward in fear, arms raised in defense, her small frame shivering like a leaf caught in wind. Her mind screamed. He's upset! He'll hit me! I ruined it! I shouldn't have spoken! and she braced herself for the blow.

"Baby, I'm sorry," Tristan blurted, his voice shaky with guilt. "Did I scare you? I… I just wanted to show you something."

He extended his bare arm toward her. "Look, there are bruises. Just like yours."

Hesitant and trembling, the little girl crawled closer. Her eyes widened as she spotted the purple marks scattered across his forearm. Slowly, she reached out and touched one, soft as a whisper. Then she glanced down at her own hand wrapped roughly in an old bandage and looked back up at him.

"Som… someone hit… hit you?" she asked, voice small and broken with disbelief.

Tristan nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Yes, sweetheart. One of my enemies hurt me. It was very painful. But I used a special medicine, and now…" He gently pressed one of the bruises. "See? It doesn't hurt anymore."

She blinked at him. Her lip quivered. She raised her hand and murmured, "Mom… Dad beat all day. It… no pain."

Tristan gritted his teeth, barely containing the storm inside him. But he stopped. He couldn't afford to scare her not now.

"Baby," he said gently, kneeling to her level, "it's hurting you, even if you can't feel it. That's because… you've been hurting for a long time. We cleaned your wounds before, when you were sleeping, but now we need to change the bandages. These papers wrapped around you, they're bandages. If we don't change them, the wounds might get worse."

The little girl shook her head. "No pain," she mumbled, her wide eyes darting to the bruises on his arms. He was hurt too. Why? Who did this to him? Was he also punished like her? Was someone cruel to him too?

Tristan took a breath and softened his voice even more. "Okay, baby. But… can we please change those bandages? Just for a little while?"

She trembled. The thought of someone touching her again made her chest tighten in fear. Sensing it, Tristan sighed quietly and whispered, "Baby, I know you're scared of me. I know your… dad used to hurt you and take your powers. But I'm not him. He wasn't your real father."

His voice wavered slightly as he continued. "I am. I'm your real father. And I'm so sorry… so terribly sorry that you had to go through such pain. Please forgive me. I promise, I will never hurt you. I'll never let anyone hurt you again. I'll protect you, my baby."

She stared at him, frozen in place. Real father? She didn't understand. What did he mean? Why would he protect her? Why wouldn't he hurt her? Why… why would anyone not want to hurt her?

So she asked, her voice trembling, "Why?"

Tristan smiled, his eyes full of something she had never seen before—tenderness. "Because I love you, baby. I love you a lot."

She blinked. Love me? Her tiny frame stiffened, a dazed look washing over her as silent tears began slipping down her cheeks. Love? Someone… loved her?

Her mother used to tell her what love meant—how she and father loved each other. They used to whisper it between themselves. But those words had never been for her. Her mother always said she hated her. That no one would ever love her. Ever. So then… why him?

Tristan gave a slow nod. "Yes, sweetheart. I love you so, so much. May I hold your hand? I won't hurt you, I promise."

He extended his hands slowly, cautiously—palms open, unthreatening.

The little girl stared at those hands. They were large. Strong. She shut her eyes in fear, but trembling, she reached out.

Tristan gently enclosed her tiny hand in his. Careful. Tender. As if holding a petal that might crumble.

"Sweetheart," he said, voice like a lullaby, "love is when someone cares about you so much, they want you to be safe and happy. It's when they stay beside you when you're hurt and take care of you. When I say I love you, I mean that I'll do anything to protect you. I'll never let you be hurt again. I'll always hold your hand like this, and I'll always remind you how special you are to me."

Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at his face. He was smiling but not the way others did. Not the cruel smiles she knew. This one was… soft. Gentle. Not scary.

"So," he continued softly, "when you feel scared or alone, remember that I love you. I'll always be here to help you heal, my sweet girl."

She looked down, her gaze falling to their entwined hands. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Thwnks you."

Tristan's eyes softened. "It's okay, baby. I'll protect you. So… can we change your bandages now? It's part of protecting you."

The little girl nodded hesitantly. She didn't want to make him angry. What if he got mad because she said no?

But Tristan only smiled wide and bright. "Thank you, baby. Thank you for trusting me."

And for the first time, something warm stirred in his chest. A tiny bridge had formed between them. Fragile but real.