Chương 1: 01-1: Legacy, Hemp Rope, and Blood

The cold rain fell like a thousand tiny steel needles, stitching themselves into my face. Water slid down my temples, snaked along my neck, then burrowed under the cracks of my stiff, rotting leather armor—cold enough to make my whole body flinch. That creeping chill felt like a reminder of something I'd always known but refused to admit: I was no longer the kind of noble brat who could sit by a fireplace, reading books and complaining that his tea was too hot.

Beneath me, my old horse Bruce let out a thunderous snort, his breath blooming into white mist in the frigid air. Every step forward drove his hooves deep into the mud, then hauled them back out with labored effort—as if even this wasteland resented letting us pass. He was old. So was I. Man and horse together, we looked like two pieces of broken furniture swept out of some grand front hall, pathetically matching in our wretchedness.

Through the sound of rain, my mind drifted back to that suffocatingly warm castle hall from just a few days ago. The hearth had blazed. Silver candelabras held steady flames that painted every face with the same polished, elegant, immaculate light—every face except mine. My brothers and sisters stood arranged in a half-circle, watching like an audience at a play. When their eyes landed on me, there was no anger, no disgust. Something worse. Contempt.

The kind reserved for a sick dog kicked out of its den—but too stubborn to die. Standing at the front was my eldest brother. The heir apparent. Father's pride and joy. A man who seemed sculpted specifically to embody the word noble. He was even smiling. That gentle, composed, unhurried smile was so perfectly measured it made my stomach turn. He pressed a heavy cloth bundle into my arms with the courteous care of a man dropping coins into a beggar's palm.

Inside: a steel sword with rusted crossguard and chipped blade. Ten heavily worn silver coins. And a length of coarse, sturdy hemp rope—already knotted into a noose.

"This rope is for your final dignity, my dear brother." He patted my shoulder, tone as warm as a man sending off beloved family on a long journey.

"If you find yourself too hungry to bear in the wilderness, or too cold to hold back tears—remember to find a tree strong enough. After all, that's the only 'resting place' our domain is still willing to offer you." Someone in the hall laughed. Someone else laughed with their head bowed. And someone didn't bother pretending at all. I stood there, arms full of my so-called inheritance, like a fool sentenced to exile—swallowing every last shred of humiliation in one bitter gulp.

Now that rope hung from my saddle, tapping against my leg with Bruce's uneven gait. Each tap sounded exactly like my brother's voice, haunting me from somewhere just behind my ear. I wandered the wasteland for two days. Then, through the curtain of rain over a low depression ahead, a thread of dark smoke rose into the gray sky. A ruined monastery. The stone walls that had once stood tall had mostly collapsed. Charred beams lay like blackened bones.

The remaining arched windows stared hollow into the ashen sky—like a row of eyes burned blind. I could smell it before I got close. Scorched wood. Wet ash and mildew. The metallic reek of standing water. The sour stench of burned wool. And something thicker, sweeter, so cloying it made my stomach seize. That wasn't what burned timber smelled like. That was cloth, skin, fat—human flesh roasted by flame and left to rot. My throat tightened. My stomach lurched. Bruce tossed his head, ears pinned back.

He barely reacted when I fell face-first into mud pits—for him to react like this, even he could tell something here was deeply wrong. I kept tight grip on the reins and picked my way along the ruin's edge, looking for shelter where we could survive the night. I'd barely turned into a narrow stone alley when I heard voices ahead. Men's voices.

"This little bitch has sticky fingers, but look at those clean legs..." Then the sound of fabric being ripped. Low, ugly laughter slithered through the dead ruins like rats gnawing on a corpse. My feet stopped. Honestly? I should have kept walking. I had one old horse, one broken sword, ten silver coins, and a rope my family had thoughtfully provided for hanging myself. I didn't even know if I'd be alive tomorrow—what right did I have to mess with anyone else's fate? And yet. I looked.

At the end of the alley, three burly men had a girl pinned against the wall. The corner reeked of mud and stale piss. Her shoulders were crushed back, collar ripped open, pale skin showing in the cold gray light. She wasn't crying. Wasn't begging. She just glared at them—hard, wild, unyielding—like a feral cat backed into a corner. I cursed under my breath. And wrapped my fingers around the sword hilt. The crossguard was cold and rough. The rain-soaked leather grip slick as ice.

My hand was slick with sweat, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to claw its way out.

"Let her go." My voice shook. I couldn't tell if it was fury or fear. Honestly—both. The leader turned, sneer starting to form. My body moved before it finished. The textbook thrust my instructor had drilled into me a thousand times—shoulder back, elbow forward, wrist snap, straight for the chest. I'd always thought it was just noble boys showing off with blunted blades. Then the sword actually went into a man. Squelch. Nothing like I'd imagined. It didn't slide clean.

It jammed—like forcing a knife into thick, waterlogged wood, catching, biting, chewing its way through inch by inch. The impact rattled up my arm, fingers going numb, and heartbeats later hot blood exploded over my hand, my face, my cracked leather armor. The sudden heat made my gut clench. I nearly threw up. The man I'd stabbed stared with wide, stupid eyes—as if he couldn't believe he was dying to someone like me. Wet choking sounds bubbled in his throat as he sagged forward, nearly taking me down.

The other two froze, then roared and rushed me. What happened after... honestly, it's a blur. I remember swinging. Wild cuts left and right, clumsy blocks that rattled my bones, then lowering my shoulder and slamming forward. No form, no grace, nothing resembling elegant duels from stories. Every impact was dull and heavy—club smashing wet meat and bone, splitting skin between thumb and forefinger, numbing my arms. This wasn't a duel. This was the ugliest, dirtiest kind of fighting for your life.

Rain, curses, panting, screams—everything tangled into choking noise. Blood and mud mixed into dark, sticky mess underfoot. I had no idea if I was hurt. All I knew was ringing in my ears and every breath feeling like swallowing knives. At some point, the last man standing looked around and saw his companions sprawled in the mud. Whatever ferocity he'd had drained from his face. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

He glanced down at the dark patch spreading over his crotch, then pitched forward and scrambled away on all fours. He ran. The alley went silent. Only rain remained, and my own ragged gasps—loud and uneven, like a drowning man. I stood there, sword tip dripping. Blood fell drop by drop, spreading into tiny red flowers in the muddy water. My first blood. There was nothing noble about it. Nothing heroic. Just heat and stickiness and iron stink, clinging until I could barely stand.

The girl slumped against the wall was unnervingly calm. She straightened her torn collar first. Wiped the smear at her mouth—mud or blood, I couldn't tell. Only then lifted her head to look at me. Her eyes were bright, cutting through the overcast day like an animal's pupils. No gratitude there. No tremor of fear. Just wariness. And appraisal. Like a wolf that's just wrenched free from a trap. You can pry the jaws open if you want. That doesn't make you less of a hunter in its eyes.

"Hey. Stranger." She curled one corner of her mouth—thin and sharp as a blade.

"Why'd you stick your nose in?" Her voice was hoarse, but her tone was hard, prickly.

"Let's get this straight—I've got nothing to pay you back with. Don't expect me to throw myself into your arms like those bard stories say. Only idiots fall for that crap." I stared down at blood on my sword. My throat felt knotted. This was my first kill. First time I'd driven steel into a human body. First time I'd learned how hot blood really was. I wanted to say something, but the moment I opened my mouth, nausea surged.

In the end, I just forced the blade back into its scabbard, wrestled down the churning in my chest, and met her eyes.

"I thought it was right. So I did it." The second I said it, even I knew how stupid it sounded. But right then, that really was all I had. I turned away, took Bruce's reins, and walked back into the rain. Cold wind knifed at me, but I could still feel her gaze nailed between my shoulder blades. In that stare: confusion, contempt—and something else she probably didn't want to admit. Reevaluation. She was probably wondering: Is this soaked, half-frozen little lordling actually this stupid, or just insane?

Later, in the woods, I found barely-qualifying shelter and tried to start a fire. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time, flint spat a brief spark onto my carefully arranged kindling, and each time it died without so much as a whimper. I glared at the pile of half-rotten twigs. A vein throbbed at my temple. Tenth time. I could recite genealogies of seven ancient houses. Knew accession dates of over thirty kings. Could copy out some pompous dead poet's entire elegy from memory.

None of it was enough to coax a single flame. Knowledge doesn't burn. Names don't burn. Only now, crouched over damp wood like a beggar, did this exiled noble son finally understand. Just as I was setting my jaw for attempt eleven, quiet laughter reached me from behind. Soft, but precise as a needle, slipping through what little pride I had left. I spun around, hand flying to my sword. The girl from the ruins stood by a tree less than five paces away.

She leaned against the trunk, loose and lazy to the point of rudeness, like she'd been there enjoying the show. What chilled me was that I hadn't heard her approach at all. Neither had Bruce. The old horse just flicked his tail, as if he'd accepted her presence—maybe trusted her more than me. That stung.

"One look and I can tell—you're a little lord who's never seen the real world." She sauntered over and dropped onto the log opposite me, delivering that verdict like she was finishing my biography. I'd been about to protest, but the way she moved shut my mouth. Her weight stayed low, feet planted soundlessly, like she could spring or bolt at any moment. That wasn't court-bred poise. That was survivor's instinct. I watched her for a moment. Dusk was thickening, turning her almost into shadow.

Her outline was thin and sharp—like a knife wrapped in rags. If she hadn't moved, I might have mistaken her for darkness pooled under the trees. No one in the castle had moves like that. There, they taught you how to wear swords prettily, smile at banquets, lace insults so finely the victim had to thank you. No one taught you how to move silently in darkness, turn yourself into shadow, survive in refuse and blood and mud.

"Let me try." She held out her hand. Slim fingers, quick and nimble, nails stained with permanent grime. Not lady's hands—more like nimble paws used to climbing walls and slipping trinkets from under noses. The forest had gone fully dark. Wind whispered through branches, and somewhere a night bird called—short and sharp, raising hackles. I hesitated, then swallowed my thoroughly useless noble pride and surrendered the flint. She took it, flipped it with easy grace.

First kicked aside my soggy leaves with obvious disgust. Then produced dry hemp fiber from her clothes—no idea where she'd kept it dry in this weather.

"Watch carefully, little lordling." She didn't look up.

"Fire doesn't come because you beg it. You trick it into coming." Crack. Just once. Clean, crisp, with hint of showmanship. The spark dropped dead-center into the fiber. She bent close and blew—gentle, steady, with weird patience, like soothing an ill-tempered creature prone to tantrums. Orange flame licked up. Small. Pathetically small. But in this wet, cursed night, it might as well have been a miracle. Light painted her soot-streaked face in gold and shadow, lit up the crooked smirk in her eyes.

Honestly, that look was unsettling. And somehow, reassuring.... Ridiculous.

"There." She clapped her hands like she'd done nothing at all, and her gaze slid—as if by habit—straight to my waist, landing with unnerving precision where I'd hidden my coins. I tensed. She wasn't looking at a purse. She was looking at meat.

"Now let's talk about the entrance fee for tonight's campfire show." She smiled brightly.

"Or we could discuss how you plan to survive the night after killing one of the local boss's men."

"Entrance fee?" I stared, forgetting to warm my hands. It wasn't that I didn't understand the words. I'd just never met anyone who could make shameless ingratitude sound this righteous—and businesslike.

"I just saved you." I said through clenched teeth, hoping she might grow a conscience. She only shrugged.

"I never asked you to." Breezy, unbothered, that smile turning sharper in firelight.

"Besides—saving people is your hobby. Making fire is my skill. You do your thing, I do mine. You used my skills, you pay. Fair, isn't it?" I stared, genuinely unsure I'd heard right.

"You lit a fire and want a silver coin?" The day's exhaustion, humiliation, cold, and misery surged up my throat. My voice jumped without permission.

"Why don't you just rob me?"

"I do that too. But robbery's higher risk." She nodded, dead serious.... She really just admitted that. While I stood stunned, she'd already slipped around the fire in two catlike steps. Too close. Close enough I could smell her—rain's dampness, faint bitterness of cheap medicine, and underneath, the barely-there scent of a girl who'd been running, fighting, surviving. None of it refined. None of it pleasant, exactly. But so real —so undeniably real—it left me nowhere to hide.

"Hey, little lordling." Her voice dropped, words trailing just enough to feel like a feather drawn down my spine.

"You haven't... touched a woman before, have you?"

"I—" My brain crashed. Was that something people just said? How was this girl not dead already? She watched my stunned silence with widening delight, smile climbing higher.

"If money's tight, the change..." Perfect pause.

"... doesn't have to be paid in silver." And she actually reached for her skirt hem— Well. Calling it a skirt was generous. Two flaps of fabric that had lost the will to be clothes.

"What are you doing?!" I just about jumped out of my skin. Someone had rammed red-hot iron into my skull; all thought evaporated. I don't remember moving—just shoving her back on pure instinct. My face burned. Even my ears hurt. This was bad. No—this was catastrophe. I'd never felt this cornered and ridiculous.

"I—I'm a son of the Margrave of Rosa! Don't push your luck!" I practically screamed it. I knew that title was like a muddy cloak now—wearing it only made me more pitiful. But it was all I had left to cling to. Without that pathetic scrap of birth, what was I?

"Bastard son, to be precise." She slipped the knife in cheerfully. Clean. Effortless. Straight to the bone. I nearly spat blood. She clearly enjoyed watching me go scarlet and flounder, eyes gleaming with child's glee at a perfect prank. She wasn't scared of my anger. Because she'd seen through me. Seen through the ridiculous, vestigial propriety buried in my bones—knew that for all my shouting, I'd never actually lay hands on a girl. Even one who stole, swindled, and seemed born to drive people insane.

Being seen through like that—there's no worse feeling. Jaw tight, fingers shaking, I plunged my hand into my coat and yanked out a silver coin. Threw it as hard as if I could hurl all my frustration with it. The coin traced a cold white arc and landed in mud with a dull thud.

"Take it and get out." I turned my back.

"Don't let me see you again." My chest heaved. Firelight jumped in my vision but refused to feel warm. If someone had called me a clown stripped naked in the town square, I couldn't have argued. Moment of quiet behind me. Then: smack —soft sound of lips meeting silver. A vein in my forehead throbbed. Leaves rustled as she walked away. Quiet, quick. Already melting into darkness.

"Thanks, pure-hearted little lordling." Voice floating back, dripping satisfaction.

"Oh—keep that rope safe. Looks sturdy."

"..." I didn't turn around. I knew if I did, tonight would end with either her strangled or me dropping dead from rage. Her laughter followed her into deeper forest, fading until night swallowed it whole. Leaving me alone by the fire she'd lit, staring into flames and feeling like a complete fool.