Scars of the Past

Two weeks had passed since her father last set foot in the manor—two weeks of tense silence interrupted only by the arrival of his relentless letters. They contained little more than instructions and inquiries about the duchy, thinly veiled attempts to assert his control from afar. Olivia, no longer the trembling girl who feared his shadow, now stood before the fireplace, holding one such letter between her fingers. After a cursory glance, she let it fall into the flames. Watching the paper crumple and blacken in the fire became her ritual of defiance, a symbolic reclamation of a life she once thought was no longer hers.

Yet the fire, though it consumed his words, could not obliterate her memories. Instead, it seemed to resurrect them in their rawest form, replaying them with unrelenting clarity. Her mind pulled her back to the darkest corners of her past, unearthing wounds she had tried to bury.

The prison cell loomed large in her memory—a cold, suffocating place her father had often confined her to as punishment. She was just a child then, clutching the iron bars with trembling hands, her voice a broken whisper:

"Father... please! Let me out. It's too dark... too dark. I promise to be good. Please…"

Her pleas had always fallen on deaf ears. He ignored her cries as if they were nothing but the wind, sometimes leaving her under the watchful eyes of her younger sister, Catherine. Catherine, with her red hair and a smirk of quiet triumph, stood like a warden, her mere presence an added torment.

Another memory surfaced—a lesson in pain's boundless cruelty. She saw her father standing before her, his face a mask of cold fury, a whip in his hand.

"You failed to perform the dance properly," he snarled. "Take off your shoes... and dance on the glass!"

Her voice quavered with desperation:

"I can't… please, Father."

But mercy was never an option. One crack of the whip sent her sprawling to the ground, her cries echoing in the grand hall.

"Dance now," he commanded, "or I'll throw you back into the cell!"

Left with no choice, she obeyed. She slipped off her shoes and stepped onto the shards of broken glass scattered across the floor. Each step sent slivers piercing into her feet, the pain searing through her, but it was a lesser agony than the alternative. She danced until her legs gave way, her blood pooling beneath her. The last thing she remembered before succumbing to the darkness was his voice, cold and detached:

"Apply the healing salve to her feet. I want no scars left behind."

Another memory clawed its way to the surface—one of starvation. He had decreed she would go without food for an entire month because, in his eyes, she had gained too much weight. His words were daggers:

"You're an embarrassment. You don't deserve the title you carry."

He had always found her lacking, always compared her unfavorably to Catherine, the golden child who could do no wrong.

As Olivia stood before the fire, watching the last of his letters crumble into ash, tears welled in her eyes. She whispered, her voice barely audible:

"There were a thousand reasons to hate you, yet I still wanted to love you. I wanted you to be my family, to mend what you broke. But you only ever saw perfection in Catherine, and in me… a flaw you couldn't bear. Now… now that every trace of love I held for you has dried up, I won't spare you. You'll pay for every tear I shed."

She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, drawing in a long, shuddering breath, as if purging the remnants of her anguish.

"I swore I'd change," she murmured. "That I'd leave this wretched past behind me. So why does it still cling to me? My marriage is frozen in place, my husband a wall of ice who won't even come near me. My brother? He looks at me as if I'm a viper. How was it that in my previous life, these two people were the only ones who cared for me in the end?"

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Kira, her loyal maid, entered with hesitant steps. She curtsied, her voice laced with deference:

"Your Grace, may I speak?"

Olivia gestured for her to continue.

"My lady," Kira began, "Lady Isabella has asked me to inform you that the Duke will be leaving tonight for the province of Cartina. He will be away for fifteen days."

Olivia nodded with indifference.

"A safe journey to him," she said coolly, dismissing Kira with a wave of her hand.

But Kira didn't move. She remained rooted in place, her expression troubled. Olivia's sharp eyes caught it immediately.

"What's on your mind?" she asked, her tone edged with authority.

Kira lowered her gaze. "I… I thought you might bid him farewell, as you greeted him upon his return."

Olivia froze for a moment, then arched a brow in faint mockery.

"And why should I?"

"Your Grace… you're the lady of this manor, his wife. Isn't it customary to show him such respect?"

For a long moment, Olivia said nothing, weighing Kira's words. Then, with sudden resolve, she rose.

"Prepare me. I'll go."

The courtyard was alive with activity. Soldiers lined up in disciplined ranks, horses pawing the ground in anticipation. The soft glow of lanterns swayed in the gentle breeze. When Olivia appeared, draped in a royal blue gown and a light shawl, the murmurs of the crowd fell silent. Under the moonlight, with her golden hair cascading down her shoulders, she seemed ethereal—an apparition from a dream.

Her steps were measured, deliberate, as she approached the Duke.

"I wish you a safe journey, Your Grace," she said, her voice calm and steady.

For a fleeting moment, he looked genuinely surprised by her presence. Then, in a composed tone, he asked:

"Shall I bring you anything from there?"

A faint smile touched her lips.

"Your safe return is all I ask, Your Grace."

With that, the procession began its slow march. Olivia stood still, watching as they faded into the distance. She turned to leave, but Isabella caught her arm.

"Your Grace," Isabella said, "you must not turn your back until they're out of sight. It's tradition—a sign of hope for their safe return."

Without a word, Olivia stopped and complied. She remained there, her gaze fixed on her husband's retreating figure.

In that moment, the memories surged again. She saw herself in another lifetime, watching him being led away to his death. He had not turned back then—not once. He had left her in the shadows, abandoned without even a parting glance.

But now… he turned.

Her breath caught as his eyes briefly met hers. She raised a hand, almost instinctively, in a silent farewell. To the onlookers, it seemed a gesture of love. But in her heart, a single thought echoed

"This time, he turned. Perhaps… just perhaps, I can change his fate."