Azalea stood in the doorway, and the world around her slowly crumbled into ash. The clay bowl she had been holding just a moment ago fell to the floor with a dull thud, but it didn’t break. It simply rolled across the dusty floorboards. The towel slipped from her calloused fingers. Standing opposite her was a freckled girl, her cheeks flushed slightly from the cold. In her arms was a tiny bundle. A baby. His little face, in peaceful sleep, retained a stubborn arch of the eyebrows. Just like Albert’s.

Marie shifted from foot to foot, not knowing where to look, but her movements already betrayed the confidence of a woman protected by a man.

Albert cleared his throat. The sound was dry, like the crack of snapping branches.

“Marie will live with us. I have to take care of my child,” he said, looking off toward the window, just to avoid meeting the icy calm of his wife’s eyes.

“What…?” Azalea’s voice broke into a whisper. Barely audible, the question dissolved into the silence of the house.

She shifted her gaze from her husband to the sleeping bundle. In nearly a year of marriage, Azalea had still not been able to conceive. The household chores fell entirely to her. She diligently saved every coin from the budget allotted to her. She hadn’t even allowed herself to see a doctor when she caught a cold two months ago and fought through the illness while still working. Instead of the promised servants, after her husband’s promotion, she had received only calluses and back pain. Her skin was chapped from the icy winds of the frontier, her nails were broken from hard work, and her hands had grown as rough as the leather of an old uniform. And now the fruit of another man’s passion stood on her doorstep.

“All right…” Azalea slowly bent down and picked up the towel. “I’ll prepare a guest room for them.”

“Actually…” Albert interrupted her, a note of irritated firmness cutting through his voice. “It would be better if you went into that room. Marie needs a place for the baby. The bedroom is warmer and brighter. I don’t want Tristan to get cold.”

The days turned into a drawn-out haze of humiliation. To her horror, Azalea realized that all this time she hadn’t been able to afford an extra log for the fireplace or a pat of butter for her bread not because of poverty, but because Albert was spending the money on that woman. While Azalea mended old sheets, he was buying lace for Marie. She saw the things that woman was now putting away in her own closet. Azalea never received anything like that. Not once.

Azalea became a shadow. She would get up before dawn to stoke the stove and prepare breakfast for the “family.” Marie, on the other hand, quickly settled in. Feeling Albert’s silent support, she began to grow bold. She sat in the main room, endlessly rocking Tristan, and her voice, once timid, now sounded like a command.

“Tristan scattered his toys. Pick them up. And get out of here. The room is filthy. I can’t breathe because of all the dust,” Marie walked into the small, damp storage room she now called “Azalea’s room.” She didn’t even knock. “And Albert said we need to tend to the trees in the garden. I’m watching the baby, so I can’t help you.”

Azalea was about to remind her again that Marie could clean their room herself, but she didn’t. She wasn’t surprised. Marie didn’t help with anything. Not at all. Everything she “tried” to do immediately fell apart, broke, or turned into a pile of trash, just so she wouldn’t be forced to do anything anymore. Azalea didn’t force her, but Marie complained to Albert at every opportunity about his wife’s “heavy sighs” and “displeased face.”

Azalea’s fingers dug into the coarse fabric of her apron, her knuckles turning white. Marie gave a satisfied chuckle and walked out, swaying her hips. Albert, sitting at a nearby table, didn’t even look up from his papers, pointedly ignoring his mistress’s commanding tone.

That evening, as Azalea served dinner, Albert forcefully flung aside yet another letter from headquarters.

“Another rejection of my transfer to the capital,” he snapped, glaring at his wife. “You know, Azalea, I really hoped your name would help me climb the ranks. An aristocrat, a descendant of a noble family... But in reality? Your status here isn’t worth a damn. No one in the capital is going to help the husband of “troublesome” Berge. You turned out to be an exceptionally unprofitable acquisition.”

Albert slammed his fist on the table. The glass fell to the floor and shattered, spilling the unfinished wine. Marie jumped, startling the child. But Azalea... felt nothing.

“I just wasted money on you and paying off the debt to become the head of a useless family.”

Azalea snorted. The sound was short and sharp.

“Well… now you understand that you were simply deceived.”

She picked up the dirty dishes and carried them to the kitchen. Strangely, she smiled at that moment. Albert only clenched his fists tighter, while Marie hurried to calm him down, ignoring Tristan, who had started crying out of fear.

Azalea walked into the house well past midnight. Tending to the garden in such cold weather had drained her of all her strength, leaving her with nothing but a nagging ache in her back and an icy emptiness in her chest.

Walking into the kitchen, she saw only mountains of dirty dishes that Marie and Albert had “kindly” left for her, and empty plates. Azalea spotted the leftovers from dinner in the trash can. They hadn’t even left her a crust of bread. Her stomach growled plaintively and insistently with hunger. Azalea looked at her hands and clenched them into fists.

“Enough…” she whispered into the ringing silence of the house. “I’ve had enough!”

She yanked off her dirty apron and flung it into the pile of dishes.

Azalea didn’t bother packing her things. There was nothing in that house that truly belonged to her, except for pain and humiliation. She stepped resolutely outside and walked away, without a care for where she was going. She walked, guided only by the instinct to flee, until she realized she was far beyond the limits of their town, surrounded by a silent, dark forest.

“W-where am I?” Her voice sounded faint, turning into a thick cloud of steam.

Tears froze in the cold, tightening her skin. The first snowflake drifted down onto her pale palm, slowly swirling in the air.

“The first snow? So early?” Surprise momentarily pushed fear aside. She reached out, trying to catch the white flakes, which were growing thicker and thicker. After a moment, it was hard to see anything. Snow blanketed everything around her. The snowflakes landed on her skin with an icy sting.

Her body, exhausted by hunger and hard labor, began to give out. Azalea tried to get her bearings so she could find her way back, but the snowy haze had obscured all landmarks. Her legs grew heavy, and her movements became slow and unsteady.

Suddenly, the icy cold gave way to a strange, frightening sensation. Her voice was barely audible. She didn’t even have the strength to move her lips.

“It’s hot…” Azalea breathed, unbuttoning her collar and wrapping her arms around herself. “Why… is it so hot?”

It was a treacherous heat. Her strength finally abandoned her.

“I need… to rest a little… Just a little. And then…”

Azalea sank to the ground, feeling the soft layer of the first snow cradle her body. However, this bed was not cold. It warmed her. Her consciousness began to slowly fade, plunging her into a deep, motionless sleep.