3. Where Girls Don't Have A Voice

The moment the maids also approached, Cessalie's breath caught sharp in her throat, her chest tightened like a fist was closing around her ribs. She stumbled a step back, eyes wide and head shaking.

"No," she whispered. It was barely a sound. It was a last plea for herself.

But they grabbed her anyway.

Their rough and unkind hands clamped around her arms becaused in their eyes she was a prisoner, not the Duke's daughter. Her body jerked and shock flooded through her as her gaze darted wildly around the room.

"No—!" She yanked one hand free desperately, but the other was locked too tight. Her heart lurched when the guard stepped in behind her. His palm pressed flat against her back, shoving her like unwanted trash.

All the fight bled out of her, leaving her limbs trembling and skin ice cold.

"I'm not going," her voice was pitiful and raw. "I will not agree to this. This marriage is vile. Let me go."

But they didn't.

One maid dug her fingers into Cessalie's wrist. Even her expressions were somber and pitying. The other yanked at her arm, dragging her forward. The guard's hand stayed at her back, steering her toward the doors like she was nothing but a stain they couldn't wait to scrub out of sight.

She looked at the her mother inside the room. Maybe she'd understand what it was to be paraded off like property and tto be told her life didn't belong to her.

But Elysande only watched with empty eyes and detached look. Cessalie's chest caved in tighter.

"Mama," her voice wobbled, breaking apart.

But Elysande wouldn't even meet her eyes. Her gaze flickered to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but her daughter being dragged away like livestock at auction.

"This isn't fair!" Cessalie's voice broke with hurt, as they pulled her toward the hall. "You never let me be anything—" she choked, coughing.

"You wouldn’t even let me—" her breath hitched, words catching in her throat, "hold a sword… because girls… shouldn’t…"

She swallowed hard, but it didn’t help.

"You said I was difficult… for wanting to be… something else…"

The dining hall faded behind them. The grand empty corridor stretched ahead. Her shoes scraped uselessly across the floor as she tried to resist but they kept dragging her like a corpse that refused to lie still.

"I don't want to be a wife," she cried, throat hurting. "I don't want to belong to anyone. I belong to myself!"

Cyrion didn't even glance in her direction. Rylan sat back down like nothing happened.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

And just like that… she was alone again.

They shoved her inside her chambers like she was some creature that needed to be caged.

The heavy door slammed behind her with a dull clang, the lock clicking into place before she even caught her balance.

She stumbled forward and caught herself on the edge of the bed, then spun around walkint back to door and pounding her fists against it.

"Let me out!" Her fists slammed into the wood, the sting jolting up her arms. "You can't keep me in here! You can't!"

No response came from outside.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" she screamed, slamming her palm so hard against the door that the skin burned. "I'm not a criminal. I just… I just don't want to marry a stranger!"

Her fists hit the door again and again, until her knuckles throbbed with every strike.

"I didn't ask to be born here," she whispered. Her voice cracked, eyes stinging. "I didn't ask for any of this."

The silence that followed was louder than her screams. It was suffocating.

Cessalie slumped against the door, breathing hard, her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape too.

It wasn't about marriage entirely. It was the fact that she was always the problem, always the disappointment.

Because she didn't have magic, because she didn't keep her mouth shut like a proper girl, because she dared to want more than being someone's beautiful little puppet.

She pressed her head against the cold wood, her hands still trembling.

"I just wanted a choice," she whispered, voice cracking. "Why is that too much?"

It wasn't long before footsteps approached from outside, heavier than a maid's.

Her body stiffened. She pushed herself upright fast, wiping at her eyes even though she wasn't crying anymore.

She knew those footsteps.

The door unlocked with a heavy click, swinging open slowly. Two guards stepped inside first, eyes avoiding hers. One of them looked regretful, the other didn't.

Behind them came Cyrion.

He didn't speak right away He stared at her with those sharp and cruel blue eyes pinning her in place. That silence made her skin crawl more than his words did.

"I have afforded you every chance, Cessalie," he said, his voice casual as though this were nothing more than a tiresome matter. "Every chance to bear yourself with dignity. And still, you choose to make a spectacle of yourself before your brother, before me… before this family."

Her mouth opened to argue but his finger lifted. She rlinch

"Not another word."

"Hold her."

She barely made it a step before one of the guards grabbed her by the arm and threw her back down. Her knees slammed into the marble floor with a sickening crack, pain shooting up her legs. Before she could recover, another guard knelt in front of her, yanking both her wrists down onto her lap, locking them in place with bruising force.

She fought uselessly. Her body twisted, legs kicked out, her voice hoarse with screams, curses tumbling from her lips. But it didn't matter.

They were used to this.

And disgustingly… so was she.

"I thought," Cyrion's venomous voice sliced through the room. His footsteps rang against the floor as he walked to the wall. The faint scrape of metal followed as he pulled a rope from its hook, and her stomach tightened at once. "you might've grown out of this pitiful rebllion."

The thick and flexible braided cord had hung in her bedroom for years. It was never washed or cleaned. After every beating, it was returned to its place with her blood still soaked into the fibers.

The stains had sunk so deep that its original color no longer showed. Dark patches spread unevenly along its length. Some wete stiff where the blood had dried, others were worn smooth with time. A faint, stale metallic scent always clung to it.

She could've thrown it out. She could've hidden it. But the paralyzing fear of it's sight always kept her fingers frozen.

Cyrion stopped in front of her, towering, his eyes dead and detached of any affection for his own daughter, winding the rope in his hand.

"But clearly," he sneered, "you still need reminding."

Cessalie thrashed harder, panic rising like acid in her throat. "Father, no–please–don't—" Her voice cracked and scrambled, broken beyond pride now. "Please—!"

The first strike landed across her back.

The crack of the rope tore into her mercilessly. Pain burst along her spine so violently that her breath vanished. She gasped, but the air wouldn't come. She fought to draw a breath but a sharp pit cratered at the base of her neck, the flesh pulling tight against her windpipe as if a vacuum were opening inside her chest.

Her body jerked backward but the guard’s grip on her arms forced her forward, her knees grinding harder into the cold floor.

A broken sound clawed out of her throat. Then the air rushed back in all at once and the pain came with it.

“Please—” her voice trembled, breathlessly, “please stop, I did nothing wrong… I did nothing wrong…”

The guard released her wrists and she immediately sagged. Her strength was slipping. She tried to lift herself, but her limbs felt unresponsive.

The second strike came before she could recover.

It lashed across her ribs, then her side. The rope tore through fabric with a vicious rip, biting into her skin beneath.

“I have not sinned!” she cried, the words breaking apart as they left her. “I have not done anything to deserve this, father, please—”

Another strike.

Her body folded forward, Her forehead nearly hit the floor. Tears blurred everything into shapeless light and shadow. She could not even see him properly anymore.

“I do not want that marriage,” she choked out, shaking her head weakly, even as her voice wavered under the strain. “D-don't do this. you cannot force me into this… I am your daughter, not something to trade away—”

The rope snapped across her thigh.

Her scream tore through the room, breaking into sobs before it even finished. The fabric of her dress split, and warmth spread down her leg in thin sticky lines of blood. The pain there throbbed in rhythm with the beat of her heart.

“Please…” her voice collapsed into a sob.

Her hand lifted instinctively, trembling as she raised it between them, palm half open like it could stop the next blow.

But Cyrion did not stop.

He stepped forward, as if her cries were nothing but noise. His hand shot out, jerking away her hand and fingers tangled into her hair, grip tight.

The sudden pull wrenched her head back.

A sharp cry escaped her as her neck arched painfully, her body forced upright despite the agony screaming through her. Her scalp burned under his grip.

“Look at me,” he gritted.

Her eyes struggled to focus, swimming through tears that would not stop, but they still found him.

Her father.

That word rose in her mind and hurt more than the wounds on her skin because there was nothing in his eyes, as such as love for her. He glared at hrr as if she was nothing standing before him.

Her lips trembled. Her chest rose and fell in uneven, desperate breaths. A cry broke through her. "F-father, no. S-stop...."

His grip tightened even more.

“Maybe next time,” he hissed, eyes filled with nothing but anger, “you will remember your place before shouting like a filthy market whore.”

He released her hair and shoved her away. Her body crashed onto the floor. She landed hard on her knees and elbow. The impact sent a jolt of pain up her arm.

A sharp cough tore out of her.

He straightened and rope came down again on her back. Her clothes shredded under it. Blood mingled with fabric, staining her torn dress as her body folded in on itself.

She bit down on the next scream, but it didn't matter. The sound got swallowed into her lungs, choking her from the inside out.

By the time he stopped, her skin burned in angry welts, blood trickling down her side and thigh, her limbs too weak to hold herself upright. Her knees throbbed against the marble. Her wrists trembled.

Cyrion tossed the blood streaked rope to one of the guards and he hung it back on the wall, with her blood still dripping down it. His face wae empty and unbothered like she wasn't even human and his daughter but just another creature to be broken.

He turned and walked out without any remorse.

Rylan passed him in the doorway.

He didn't stop and glance at Cyrion. But he looked at her, just once. His face tightened, expressions flickering but then he walked away. Cessalie collapsed forward. Her body gave out as she hit the floor on her stomach.

Her body shook violently, every inch of her burning. Blood spread beneath her, soaking and smearing against her skin.

Her vision blurred, dark at the edges. All she could see was red, just like that day in the snow.

A weak, wet cough left her, her body could barely move. She fell still again. Her cheek pressed against the cold floor, lying in her own blood.

The hallway was silent as they dragged her out, her feet scraping against the floor.

One guard held her arm in a bruising grip jerking her upright whenever she faltered. The other walked behind, close enough to grab her if she collapsed.

She stumbled.

Pain ripped through her back as the guard yanked her straight again, forcing a broken gasp out of her.

“Walk,” he shouted, jerking her whole body.

Each step burned the wounds on her back. They throbbed deeper with every movement, as if they were being torn open all over again.

How stupid.

When they reached the bathing chamber, the warm perfumed air hit Cessalie's skin like a mockery. It was too soft and gentle for someone who wasn't her.

The guards didn't even bother to look away as Gini, her personal maid, started taking off her dress. Their eyes were fixed greedily on her, making no attempt to hide it.

But Gini, the only person in this house with a shred of decency left, turned toward them with sharp eyes. "Out," she snapped. "This is not entertainment."

The guards exchanged a reluctant look. Their eyes lingered far longer than they should. especially one of them, his gaze traced Cessalie's bare shoulders, the angry red welts across her back, with lustful interest.

But even they weren't stupid enough to disobey completely. With thinly veiled frustration, they stepped out. the door clicked shut behind them.

Cessalie let her dress fall to the floor and sat on the cold stone bench, arms loose at her sides.

Gini knelt behind her with a basin of warm water. The woman said nothing as she soaked the cloth and began cleaning the broken skin along Cessalie's back.

Without the dress hiding her, the old marks across her body were impossible to miss. Faint spots and shallow scars scattered over her shoulders, arms, and down her legs and also remnants of the stubborn skin condition she had developed during puberty. The illness itself had faded years ago but the marks didn't.

Cessalie didn't flinch or hiss when the cloth touched the raw welts.

She didn't cry and....she just couldn't.

The bath steamed next to her.

They wanted her to soak, to clean off the blood, to look like nothing happened. That was the way of this house.

Once the wounds were clean, Gini set the cloth aside and nodded slightly. "Get in," she said softly.

Cessalie pushed to her feet, her body heavy and sore, and stepped into the bath.

The water was too hot. It stung every open wound, biting into her skin like punishment all over again. But she didn't wince.

She sank down, knees pulled up to her chest, the steam curling around her like a lie.

This was her life even though she never chose this. But they had decided she was only useful when silent and when married off like cattle to someone who'd treat her like an investment.

She rested her chin on her knees, breathing slow, empty eyes blank.

The door creaked.

She didn't lift her head. She already knew it wasn't Cyrion. He never checked. He punished, forgot and left the cleaning to the servants.

The boots were too light for a guard and too heavy for a maid.

Rylan.

She could feel his presence before she even turned. It was always like a blade pressed to her throat.

Cessalie turned her head slightly, just enough to see him standing there at the edge of the chamber. His eyes were on her back. On the angry red marks crossing her skin, the ones he hadn't put there but never stopped either.

"Come to make sure I learned my lesson?" She smirked, broken and lips trembling.

He stared at her for a long moment.

And then… he turned and walked away.

Coward.

She glared at the empty space he left behind, her heart pounding like a scream trapped in her chest. And finally, she pushed herself up, stepping out of the bath.

Her skin burned, hot water making every welt sting sharper. But still she didn't make a sound.

Ginj was ready with the salve now. She gently dabbed the cool ointment over the raw skin, bandaging the worst of the lashes.

When it was done, Gini helped her into a loose and soft long robe, covering the bandages and bruises.

After the bath cessaloe was sent back to her chambers. The door locked behind her with a soft click.

She sat on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in nothing but the long robe. Her skin itched where the bandages pressed too tight, but she didn't move to fix them.

What is even the point? She scoffed.

Her eyes drifted around the room. Every wall was the same dull beige. Every shelf was lined with the same damn books she'd already read a hundred times. Some of them she could probably quote word for word by now.

She used to love them but now they felt like cages made of paper and ink.

Days passed. She couldn't tell how many.

They brought food in, left it on the tray near the door. Sometimes it was Gini, sometimes someone else. None of them talked to her. They just slid the tray in and left before she could say anything.

Not that she tried. She didn't have the energy anymore.

She sat on the edge of her bed, gaze drifting without purpose. There was nowhere for it to land.

The canopy above her bed hung heavy, its dark red fabric was dull in the low light. Just beside her bed, the tall bookshelf wardrobe stood. Its shelves were filled, yet offering nothing new to read.

Across the room, the dressing table and dresser rested along the eastern wall.

To her left, the single window let in a thin stretch of light. The ledge beneath it was wide, she’d sat there often enough, but even that small habit felt pointless now.

Opposite her, the fireplace lay cold, the sofa before it had dust resting for days because nobody was allowed inside, even for cleaning.

There was nothing in the room she wanted, and too much space reminding her of it.

Most of the time, she lay on the bed, a book open beside her. Her eyes skimmed the same paragraph over and over, retaining nothing.

Sleep came and went, slipping in and out without rhythm. She'd wake without knowing if it was morning or night. She'd eat half of what they gave her. Some days, not even that.

Her body ached constantly from wounds and from pain of being forgotten. But she wasn't forgotten. They just didn't care.

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