The path to the manor felt endless. Mist clung to the ground, curling around the olive trees and hiding the terraces where my family’s crops struggled to grow. My father walked ahead, his hand gripping the edge of his cloak, his jaw tight. I kept my eyes lowered, following his slow, steady steps, but every part of me felt tense, as though the stones beneath my feet might give way.

I have always tried to be careful. My hair braided, my dress modest, my voice quiet. Still, the stares followed me — guards, villagers, even strangers passing through the fields. They see a girl who is fair and young, and they forget the rest. I have learned to bow my head, to smile faintly and speak only when spoken to. But sometimes it is never enough.

And now… after what happened, after years of careful vigilance, after the whispers, the hands too bold, the jests and leers, it had finally gone too far. The steward’s son thought he could take whatever he pleased. I tore myself away, but the shame, the fear, the bruises on my arms… they had followed me home, clinging like shadows I could not shake.

Father tried to seek justice first through the steward. He was laughed at. Told to forget it. Told to hold his tongue and his coin. And so now we walk uphill, to the manor itself, to the new lord, hoping that a man we have never met might do what the old ones would not.

The manor rose above us as we crested the final hill, pale and imposing against the gray sky. The wind tugged at the banners still hanging in mourning, and I could feel every eye along the walls of the courtyard as we passed beneath the gate. Servants stopped in their work, their voices falling to whispers, their hands pausing mid-task. Even the guards studied us longer than necessary.

I could feel my father’s hand tighten on my shoulder, trying to reassure me, but the touch was thin comfort against the weight of what I had endured. I wished, briefly and bitterly, that I had not been born so beautiful, for it had always made me visible, and that visibility had always been dangerous.

When the guards finally led us into the hall, it swallowed us whole. The ceilings were impossibly high, the stone floors cold beneath my feet, the air thick with smoke and wax. Shadows danced in the corners, and the faint echo of our footsteps seemed impossibly loud. I could see the new lord waiting at the far end, a figure framed in the pale light of the high windows, and I froze.

Father bowed deeply, and I stayed close, hands twisting in my apron, heart hammering in my chest. His voice trembled, but the words were clear:

“My lord,” he said, “my daughter seeks justice. A man of your house wronged her.”

I did not look up. My gaze stayed fixed on the stone floor, and I held my breath, every nerve alert. The hall seemed to wait with us, as though it, too, wanted to see how he would answer.