Chapter 3: Forgotten Promises
936 Words
Ten winters later, the chapel was gone.
Collapsed under snow and silence, just like the memory of that frozen boy.
Lucia stood on scraped knees, scrubbing beer sludge from the tavern floor. Her fingers were raw, her back sore. She'd grown taller, but hunger made her limbs hollow. Her breath fogged the dirty windows as laughter rose above her.
“Oi, Lucia!" the barkeep called. “You're washing the same spot for five minutes. You daydreamin' again?"
“No, sir," she muttered, eyes down. Always down.
She didn't dream. Not anymore.
But every blood‑red moon, she woke in cold sweat, heart racing. Hoofbeats echoing in her skull.
Always the same voice.
**"Lucia."**
Always the same hand on her wrist.
She shook her head. Nonsense. Just a dream.
“Girl!" a man barked from the doorway. “You deaf or just slow?"
Lucia wiped her hands on her apron and stepped into the street. The wind bit through her dress. Snow crusted over the rooftops, and the village square stank of rotting vegetables and tired goats.
“We're short one in the hunting party," the man growled. “You owe debt. You carry snares."
She hesitated. “The forest's restricted. You said—"
“Do you want to eat this week or not?"
Lucia tightened her jaw.
*Fine.*
She followed the group into the trees, frost cracking beneath worn boots. She'd traded her warmth for a handful of copper coins that wouldn't buy freedom papers, but maybe—just maybe—enough to buy a day without hunger.
The woods were too quiet. No birdsong. Just the sound of breathing and snapping twigs.
“You ever seen the royal crest?" a poacher asked beside her.
Lucia blinked. “What?"
“On a deer. If you do, you look away. That's death, girl. They're marked."
She didn't answer. Just kept moving.
An hour later, the arrow flew.
Too fast. Too loud.
**Thunk.**
The deer fell. Beautiful. Pale. Too pale.
Lucia's breath hitched.
On its ear: the silver king's crest.
The men swore.
“You i***t!" one hissed. “That's a royal hunt marker!"
The leader looked at Lucia. “You were closest. You fired."
“I didn't even—"
“Doesn't matter," he snapped. “They won't believe a word you say."
And then the horns sounded.
Far off, but drawing near.
Lucia turned to run, but heavy hands seized her arms.
“You'll live longer in shackles than in the snow," someone muttered. “Sorry."
Iron cuffs snapped shut around her wrists—too wide, clunky. Made for criminals twice her size.
She stumbled as they dragged her toward the road.
---
The journey north blurred past in cold and silence. Days passed. Nights froze.
Lucia clutched her torn shawl as the white towers of **White Fang City** rose beyond the valley—gleaming like knives in a stone sheath.
At the gates, soldiers in polished armor checked the prisoners. A clerk squinted at her.
“Name?"
“Lucia."
“Crime?"
“Wrong place. Wrong time."
The clerk chuckled, scribbled, then nodded. “She'll go with the smugglers' lot. For servitude."
Lucia's stomach sank. “Wait—I can work. I can pay."
“You will," the clerk said without looking up. “For the rest of your life."
Chains clinked. The gates shut behind her.
She inhaled.
The air tasted like iron and snow.
---
In the servant's corridor, a sour-faced woman in a fur-lined vest handed Lucia a threadbare uniform.
“You're in the lowest shift. Kennel duty."
Lucia blinked. “The what?"
“The War Prince's hounds. You'll clean their mess, scrub their cages, keep your mouth shut."
The woman's eyes narrowed. “And don't look at him. If he comes through, you kneel. Head down."
Lucia swallowed. “Why?"
“He doesn't like to be seen. Or touched."
“Why—"
A slap silenced her.
“You ask too much."
Lucia took the uniform.
That night, as she scrubbed blood and fur off the stone floors beneath the barracks, she heard boots marching above. Loud. Precise. Familiar.
The walls trembled. A howl echoed through the courtyard.
Another servant shuddered. “Blood‑Moon's near."
Lucia froze.
“What?"
“You'll see," the girl whispered. “If you survive."
---
By midnight, an alarm bell rang. Doors flew open.
“Inspection!" someone yelled. “Kneel! Everyone down!"
Lucia barely dropped to her knees before the footsteps arrived. Heavy. Sharp. Closer.
Then—silence.
She kept her head bowed.
Boots stopped inches from her.
She dared not breathe.
A gloved hand gripped her chin.
She flinched.
Slowly, he lifted her face.
Eyes. Silver, burning, full of something terrible and ancient. They locked on hers—and for a moment, the world cracked.
Lucia gasped.
The man—no, **the prince**—stared as if he saw a ghost.
Pain flickered across his expression.
Then he dropped his hand and turned away.
He looked back once. Then again.
And then he was gone.
Lucia sat trembling.
The kennel mistress hissed beside her. “You dared look up."
“I—he—"
“You'll learn your place."
Lucia's scream died in her throat as a hot iron brand seared into her palm. She bit her lip until blood bloomed.
The mistress leaned close. “That's your mark now. Property. Don't forget it."
Lucia stared at the blistering scar.
She didn't cry.
Not for pain.
But because something in the prince's gaze had cracked open a door she thought was long buried.
And whatever was behind it… had not forgotten her.
- Writer
