Serelith's mother was dying, and her father was smiling.

The chamber smelled faintly of herbs and candle wax.

On the bed lay a woman, her lips pale, her chest rising weakly, like a tide retreating for the last time. At her side stood a little girl with wide, tear-filled eyes, clutching the hand of an old man. She was only six, and she had already learned what death looked like.

The old man—her grandfather—mourned in silence. But the young man by the wall smirked, his arms folded.

Count Elric Veylor. Her father.

And in his heart, a thought flickered like a spark in dry grass: At last. She is dead.

The dying woman was Serelith’s mother. She had come from humble roots, not from noble lineage like Lady Marlena—the mistress waiting in the wings to take her place.

Serelith clung to her mother’s cold hand, her voice breaking.

“Mother… mother!”

Her grandfather bent down, his voice low and tender, wrapping her trembling body in his arms.

“Don’t cry, my little flame. If you cry, your mother’s spirit will grieve. For her sake, be strong.”

But Serelith’s sobs only grew louder.

A month after the funeral, Lady Marlena became the new Countess of Veylor.

She was beautiful, poised, and graceful in public. But behind closed doors, her words carried venom. She had never liked Serelith. In her heart, Marlena feared that this little girl might someday threaten the future of her own daughter, Celene.

Celene, two years younger than Serelith, was spoiled, petty, and adored luxury—just like her mother.

The only warmth Serelith still had in the estate was her grandfather, Lord Tharald Veylor. The old Count was a pillar of wisdom, beloved by the people, and far gentler than the court demanded. He loved Serelith as fiercely as if she were his own daughter.

But even he could not protect her from everything.

One cold morning, Serelith walked the castle corridor and almost collided with Lady Marlena.

Marlena’s eyes, sharp as icicles, slid down to her. “Don’t you know when you meet your master, you should greet them properly?”

Serelith straightened, defiance burning in her eyes. “But you aren’t my master.”

Marlena’s lips curved into a sneer. “Such an insolent whore… just like your mother.”

Rage surged through Serelith’s tiny body. Her voice rang out, trembling but fierce. “My mother was neither a whore nor insolent!”

The answer earned her a sharp crack! across her cheek.

Her small body stumbled.

The sting blossoming hot.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“How dare you—” Marlena began.

But another voice cut through the air, stern as thunder.

“How dare you?”

Marlena stiffened. Behind her stood Lord Tharald. His eyes, usually kind, were dark with fury.

“My lord,” Marlena faltered, “I was simply teaching her etiquette—”

“Etiquette?” His brows furrowed like storm clouds. “Striking a child? Accusing her? And now daring to lecture me? This is no etiquette, Marlena. This is cruelty.”

“But—”

“Enough!” His voice echoed off the stone walls.

Serelith’s cheek burned, but for the first time since her mother’s death, she felt a flicker of safety. Her grandfather was watching.

The first time Serelith bled was not from a blade, but from the sharp ring of her stepmother’s hand.

That night, she slipped away, the echo of the quarrel still ringing in her ears. Her little legs carried her to the stables, where the hay smelled of earth and horses. She crouched behind a broken statue in the east wing, pressing her ribs, tears falling silently into her lap.

That was where he found her.

A boy of nine, dirt-smudged and wide-eyed, his dark hair sticking out in every direction. He stared at her, pale and silent in the dim light, as though she were some strange ghost haunting the stables.

“You look like a ghost,” he said bluntly. Then he tilted his head. “But I bet even ghosts get hungry.”

From his pocket, he pulled half a roll of bread and held it out. She refused, turning her face away.

He shrugged and sat down beside her, munching his half, waiting.

Minutes passed. The silence softened. Finally, she took the bread, nibbling at the edges.

The boy grinned, satisfied.

“I’m Shyamu,” he said. “Captain Shyamu the Bold."

He tilted his head. "Who are you?”

She blinked, hesitant, then whispered, “Serelith.”

“That’s too normal,” he said at once. “You need a better name. How about… Lady Silverwind?”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile. “Lady Silverwind,” she repeated.

And so it began.

In the quiet corners of Veylor’s estate, the two of them built kingdoms out of crates and hay bales. She was Lady Silverwind, he was Captain Shyamu the Bold. They fought imaginary dragons, saved imaginary villages, and crowned themselves rulers of a secret world where cruelty could not follow.

When the real world bruised her—with cold eyes, cruel words, sharp hands—he gave her warmth and mischief.

Sometimes her cheek bore red marks. Sometimes her eyes were swollen from crying. He never asked. He only brought her bread, or sticks to use as swords, or ridiculous jokes that made her laugh until she hiccupped.

They had nothing. Yet in those hidden corners, they had everything.

That day in the stable, when Serelith was six and Shyamu was nine, a thread was tied between them. Neither knew what storms would come. Neither knew how fragile their world would grow.

But for now, in the shadow of cruelty, Serelith had gained her first true friend.

Her first shield.

And that, for a little girl who had lost everything, was enough.