Chapter 1
The Kingdom of Romero wasn't exactly known for its bustling metropolises, but the remote village of Oakhaven was sleepy even by those standards.
Twelve-year-old Roya trudged through the dirt paths of the village market, her small hand loosely held by her mother, Elara. Around them, merchants hollered about fresh turnips and cheap fabrics, but Roya's attention was elsewhere.
She watched a burly blacksmith lift his giggling daughter onto his shoulders, handing her a stick of honey candy.
(Must be nice,) Roya thought, her eyes lingering on the amber glow of the sugar. (To have a father who stays. To have a father whose hands are for holding you, not for crushing herbs he can't afford to use.)
She remembered her own father, Julian. He had been a man with a gentle smile and hands that were always stained with ink. He had desperately wanted to study medicine, to become a true healer.
But dreams didn't pay for bread. And they certainly didn't pay for the medicine he needed when a sudden illness took him five years ago.
Less than two months after Julian's passing, Elara remarried. Roya didn't like it, but she was a child. What could she do? Her mother was all the family she had left.
Unfortunately, her new stepfather, Garrick, was a man whose primary skills included losing at dice and smelling like cheap ale.
A few months ago, after a particularly bad losing streak, he had come home in a blind rage and struck Roya across the cheek.
Elara had stepped in and stopped him, but she hadn't yelled or thrown him out. They were simply too poor to afford a broken home.
Later that night, in silence, her mother had gently patched up Roya's bruised face.
(You're doing it again, Mom,) Roya thought as her mother's cold fingers touched her cheek in the present. (You're patching the wound but ignoring the person who caused it. Is this what love looks like when you're poor? Just... silence?)
Winter arrived with a bitter, biting wind.
Roya was sitting by the dim fireplace, tracing the intricate diagrams of the human body in one of her father's old medical books.
THUD.
The sound echoed from the kitchen. Roya dropped the heavy book and scrambled across the floorboards.
"Mom?!"
Elara was collapsed on the stone floor, her skin a terrifying shade of pale blue. When Roya touched her arm, she gasped. Her mother was freezing—colder than the winter air outside.
Panicking, Roya managed to drag her mother's dead weight onto the bed, burying her under every blanket they owned.
When Garrick stumbled through the door that evening—miraculously sober for once—he took one look at the unlit stove and clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"Is the stew not ready?" he grumbled, watching Roya desperately press hot towels to her mother's forehead. "If you sleep all day, Elara, who's making the food? I didn't marry a corpse!"
(A corpse?) Roya's hands tightened on the hot towel. (She's dying in front of you, and you're worried about your stomach? If I were older... if I were stronger... I'd show you what a corpse looks like.)
The next morning, Garrick dragged in a doctor from a neighboring village. The traveling physician felt Elara's icy hands and shook his head gravely.
"It's the Frost-Vein affliction," the doctor muttered, eager to pack his bag. "There is no cure. Her body temperature will continue to drop. Eventually, the cold will reach her heart. Prepare yourselves."
Garrick didn't yell. He just looked disappointed. He collected his few belongings and headed for the door.
"Wait!" Roya cried, tears spilling over as she grabbed his coat. "Where are you going? You can't just leave us!"
Garrick yanked his coat free. "I can't afford to feed a dead woman and another man's kid," he grunted, slamming the door.
Roya sat on the floor, the silence of the cold house ringing in her ears. Her eyes drifted to a small, charcoal portrait of her father. She remembered a sunny afternoon, sitting on his lap.
"In the capital, there are great doctors... but common folks like us couldn't afford them. That's why I need to learn."
Something clicked inside Roya's mind. A spark ignited, burning away the despair.
(If I can't afford a doctor,) Roya thought, wiping her eyes fiercely, (then I will become one. )
( I won't let what happened five years ago happen again!)
The First Market Visit (Age 12)
A week later, Roya walked into the market alone. She stopped at Silas's vegetable stall, her eyes wide and rimmed with red.
Silas, the merchant, saw her coming and his stomach turned.
(Oh great, here comes the Julian girl,) Silas thought, his eyes darting to the other villagers nearby. (If I don't give her something, the old ladies will gossip for a month. But if I give her too much, I'm throwing my own dinner into a black hole.)
"Please, Master Silas," Roya said, her voice small. "My mother is sick. I need some cabbage and carrots."
"Right, right," Silas sighed, tossing three wilted carrots and a bruised cabbage into her bag with a theatrical flourish. "Here. Take it. It's... on the house today, little one. Silas isn't a monster, you see?"
(Look at me,) Silas thought proudly. (I'm practically a local hero for helping the poor.)
Roya bowed deeply.
(I can see the rot on the cabbage, Silas,) Roya thought, staring at the dirt. (You're not a saint; you're just cleaning your trash and buying a "good man" reputation for the price of a copper. )
(One day, I won't have to bow to people like you.)
Two Years Later
"Silas. Look me in the eye and tell me you think this is a cabbage."
Fourteen-year-old Roya stood before the stall. She was taller now, her face a mask of terrifying calm.
"I-It's a fine cabbage, Roya!" Silas stammered.
(Dammit, why am I sweating?) Silas thought, wiping his brow. (She's fourteen, but those eyes... it's like she's looking at my heart and deciding if it's worth the price of a turnip.)
"Three coppers for the lot, Silas. Or I tell the baker you've been mixing sawdust into your premium flour again."
"Fine! Take it!"
Roya smiled radiantly. "Thank you for your generosity, Uncle Silas!"
As she walked away, the surrounding shop owners let out a collective sigh of relief. She was no longer a child to be pitied; she was known as the "Little Miser."
She worked part-time at Madame Clara's tailor shop for scraps of silver, and every coin was squeezed for its maximum value.
As she adjusted her bag, she noticed him. Finn, the baker's son. He was a few years older, leaning against a post, trying to look cool.
(She's so... sharp,) Finn thought, his heart hammering as he watched her. (Like a knife made of silver. I want her to notice that I grew an inch this summer. If I could just get her to smile at me, just once...)
Roya gave him a brief, polite nod.
(He's still there,) she analyzed, her internal voice cold. (Finn. Baker's son. A potential source of extra calories if the winter gets worse. I should be nicer to him... purely for the sake of the grain supply.)
She hurried home, her smile disappearing the moment the door closed. The house was bone-chillingly cold, despite it being mid-summer.
"Mom? I'm home," Roya called out softly.
"Welcome back... bird..." Elara whispered. She was buried under a mountain of quilts. Her skin was translucent, her breath visible in the freezing air.
"I got us some great vegetables today. Silas practically gave them away!" Roya lied smoothly, putting on her cheerful mask.
She moved to her "clinic" corner.
Stacks of her father's medical texts were piled high, covered in her own desperate notes. For two years, she had managed to keep her mother alive through sheer stubbornness, using experimental herbal brews and wraps to slow the freezing process.
But Roya wasn't foolish. She was a practical student of medicine. The temperature drop was accelerating. Her mother had three months left. At most.
That evening, after feeding her mother broth, Roya sat on the floor, pulling her father's heavy trunk from under the floorboards. She violently tossed aside old tunics.
"Come on, Dad... tell me how!" she whispered fiercely.
THUMP.
She found a hollow panel and pried it up. Hidden beneath was a small, worn leather diary.
(What did you hide, Dad?) Roya thought, her pulse jumping in her throat. (Whatever it takes... Mom isn't dying on my watch.)
She opened the first page.