Chapter 4: Chapter 3 – A Promise in the Dust

Chapter 3 – A Promise in the Dust

There was a time when Seraphina had no title, no uniform, no duty in a gilded palace. Before she became Seraphina, personal maid of Lady Lysandra, she was simply Seraphina—a dirt-covered girl from a forgotten village near the Empire’s farthest borders.

Now, standing in the cold hallways of the Imperial Palace, quietly preparing Princess Aurelia’s meager breakfast, those memories still lived within her—tucked away like pressed flowers in an old book.

She was only thirteen when she first met Lysandra.

At the time, Lysandra was a young lady of sixteen—beautiful, a little ambitious, and kind-hearted. She had recently arrived in Valeburne seeking favor and opportunity. She had stumbled into the city with nothing but determination in her eyes and a borrowed leather bag over her shoulders.

She hadn’t come chasing dreams.

She had come chasing money.

Seraphina still remembered those days.

The wind rustled through the thin wooden shutters of a cottage that had stood longer than anyone remembered. Its thatched roof creaked with the weight of dew, and the cold stone floor did little to stop the chill that clung to the walls. The stars were fading, and the morning sun had not yet broken the horizon.

Seraphina sat beside the firepit, absently poking ashes with a twig.

She had been awake for hours.

The single-room cottage was quiet except for the shallow breathing behind her. Her sister lay curled beneath a faded blanket, her skin so pale that the black, pimple-like sores stood out like spilled ink. Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed—strained from constant pain. She hadn’t eaten properly in days.

Seraphina stared down at her own hands—rough, blistered, covered in scars from firewood and farmwork. Her fingers gripped the edge of her skirt tightly, trying to steady the storm in her chest.

It wasn’t fair.

Her sister had always been the kind one. The gentle one. The one who sang to her under the stars when they were younger, who shielded her from their drunkard uncle after their parents passed, who gave up food so Seraphina could eat on the worst of nights. She didn’t deserve this—this sickness that no healer could name.

The villagers had stopped visiting weeks ago.

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At first, they brought herbs and broth. Then rumors spread—the kind that always do in places where hope is in short supply. Some whispered it was a curse, that the illness was punishment from the gods. Others muttered that the girl should be sent away.

Only one person stood beside them.

Father Arlo, the old village priest, was the kind of man who lit incense with trembling hands and forgot half his chants during mass. But his heart had never wavered. He came every day with a crust of bread, a story, or a blessing. He had sat with Seraphina after her sister collapsed in the fields, and he was the one who finally spoke the truth.

“I can’t heal her, child,” he had said gently. “This illness… it’s beyond me. Beyond most. Maybe—just maybe—an archbishop could purge it with a divine miracle. But…”

But that cost money.

More than Seraphina could imagine.

What was left now was nothing but a choice. One Seraphina had made in the dark, curled up in bed beside her sister’s fevered body. She could stay and wait for death to come—or she could leave and try to drag life back, no matter what it cost.

Even if she had to sell herself, her hands, her voice, her body—she would do it.

Because no one else would save her sister.

She was the only one left.

She packed before the first crow of the rooster. A worn satchel slung over her shoulder held everything she owned: two pieces of bread, a waterskin, her sister’s favorite scarf, and a small kitchen knife with a chipped handle.

“Leaving already?”

The voice stopped her like a command. She turned to find Father Arlo standing, hands folded into the sleeves of his robe. His old face was drawn with sleep, and he looked as though he hadn’t blinked all night.

“I didn’t want you to try stopping me,” Seraphina said quietly.

“I should,” he muttered. “But I know I can’t.”

He stepped forward and studied her—her torn shoes, her clenched fists, the stubborn fire in her eyes. Then he sighed, long and slow.

“You have no idea how cruel the world is to girls like you.”

Seraphina’s jaw tightened. “Then it’ll match how cruel this world’s been to her.”

His expression wavered. The girl in front of him wasn’t a child anymore. She was still thin, her hands scarred, her voice shaky—but there was something unbending in her. Something fierce.

He didn’t argue again.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said. “For as long as you’re gone.”

Seraphina nodded, struggling not to cry. “I’ll return in three or four months. Just… hold on until then. She’ll be fine once I have the money.”

He pressed a small pendant into her hand—a wooden sun, smoothed from years of use.

“It’s not protection,” he said, “but it’ll remind you someone is praying for your return.”

Seraphina clutched it tightly, swallowed hard, and nodded again. “Thank you.”

She leaned forward, brushed a loose strand of hair from her sister’s damp forehead, and pressed a trembling kiss to it. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. She had cried enough already—last night, hidden behind the cottage, kneeling in the grass until her knees bled.

There was no room for crying now.

Only for walking.

As she stepped outside, the early dawn mist greeted her like a shroud. The village was still sleeping. Smoke hadn’t risen from the chimneys yet, and no dogs barked. She walked down the narrow dirt path in silence, the pendant swinging gently against her chest with each step.

At the edge of the village, Father Arlo stood waiting in his worn robes, holding a walking staff and a small pouch.

“I put some dried berries in here,” he said, handing it to her. “And ten silver coins for travel. Not much, but… it might help.”

“Thank you,” Seraphina murmured. “For… everything.”

The priest nodded, then hesitated.

“You may face harsh things in the city. They won’t treat you kindly—not all of them. But remember this: your kindness is not weakness, and your pain does not make you small. You're strong, Seraphina. Don’t let the world take that from you.”

She bowed her head, fighting the lump in her throat.

He reached forward and touched her shoulder, a final blessing whispered under his breath.

Then she turned.

And walked.

The forest path loomed ahead, damp and uneven, branches brushing against the sky like skeletal fingers. She didn’t look back. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to leave.

Her journey had begun.

She had no idea that beyond those four days of walking waited a young noble girl named Lysandra Valessia, who would change her life. That a child named Aurelia would one day call her family. That an empire would one day forget her name.

But Seraphina didn’t care about destiny. Or nobility. Or empire.

She walked because she had made a promise.

And she would keep it.

No matter the cost.