1
ADINA VAZIDOR
For once, terror’s wrath fails to claim my thoughts. No malicious spirit haunts the twisted, shadowy depths of my mind, sinking claws into my misery. Just…silence.
Because it’s over.
Over 10 years, I learnt one thing. Freedom is a privilege —a gift never to be taken for granted. And now, after a decade of waiting in the dark, freedom comes tomorrow.
I press my palm to the window pane, savouring the bitter chill of the glass, and the silver radiance of the full moon. It hangs low and luminous, like a pearl adrift in an ocean of obsidian.
Tomorrow, I will no longer be staying in a storage room marked with peeling wallpaper and grime crawling up the ceiling. I won’t have to force myself to sleep on a thin, rigid mattress with nothing but a bedsheet to keep me from freezing. I don’t know where I’ll be by tomorrow’s dusk, but anywhere is better than this cage I’ve been forced to live in.
I stand up, smoothing out my cotton nightgown as I cautiously step over the creaky boards on the worn floor. In the corner of the small space, sits my wooden chest, carved with intricate swirls. It’s no larger than a set of hardback books, but it holds my only possessions. I lift and unhook the latch to reveal the few items I own. A hand mirror, with a rich gold shade and floral designs on the handle, though slightly worn from time. Matching with my hairbrush, which is the identical colour and marked with the same patterns. I brush my fingers over the bristles, recalling the day I was first given these. A gift that my mother worked hard to earn, but at that time, I didn’t know why I couldn’t have more than just a few beauty essentials. But looking back, I realise. The whole continent was ensnared in a war. Started just months after I turned 5, and supposedly ceased another 6 years later. They called it peace, but everyone knows it never truly ended.
Darlia, our neighbouring kingdom and most trusted ally, had it the worst. In the final battle, their next heir to the throne had gone to fight on the field, and never came back. A huge heartbreak, even here in Riardan. It was when I was 11, and was the only time I was allowed to leave this house. To attend Darlia’s lost prince’s memorial and show our support. The whole of the kingdom had attended that event, and I finally got to see the world again, before my own eyes, and not from a mere window.
It was different in many ways. Jagged mountains stood tall on a carpet of lush, green grass. However, Riardan still bore the marks of the siege from Blaithen- the center of the whole dilemma. Some stone arches were still in the process of being rebuilt, the west wing of the Hall of Justice was still under construction and the Grand library was only half reformed. Riardan still holds much to restore even now, is what I’ve heard, but the progress in only half a decade is remarkable.
I place the items back into the chest exactly as they were before. My fingers find my most precious belonging and close around its body—a smooth, pearly white hilt adorned with deep blue and gold blossoms. I trace the intricate designs with my fingertips before they ascend to the steel blade. They glide along the sharp edge, then return to the hilt. The only thing left of my father—a constant reminder of the person he wanted me to become. A warrior.
He began training me when I was six, teaching me to throw knives before I could even tie my boots properly. It started small—wooden daggers hitting targets painted onto tree bark. Every day we practiced, until my small hands could grip real knives. Blunt edges, sharp points, a hiss of air before the blade buried itself in its mark. When I mastered my dominant hand, he made me learn with my left. There were no shortcuts, no excuses. Only precision.
The training ended a year later.
But even after my parents’ deaths, I kept practicing. I smuggled the dagger among the few belongings I had left, clutching it through sleepless nights. It became more than a weapon—it was a piece of home, a memory of discipline and love disguised as steel. Whenever I hold it, I feel a flicker of strength in this malevolent house, as if my father’s hand still guides mine.
Eventually, I make it back to the mattress, pull the sheet up to my neck, and turn onto my side. The thin fabric does little to keep me warm, especially in this unbearable cold. Right now, it’s toward the end of March, and we’re deep in the heart of winter. I hug my knees to my chest, trying to conserve what little warmth I have.
The Winter Solstice is nearing—four days away. The longest night of the year, and one of the grandest celebrations across all seven kingdoms. Elaborate feasts, flickering candles, gifts exchanged, and offerings made to the less fortunate. I’ve always loved the idea of it—the warmth, the light, the sense of unity it seems to bring. Our world moves strangely; the first 6 months belong to winter and autumn, and the rest to summer and spring. And when summer comes, the Solstice is celebrated again, only brighter—music, color, life everywhere.
But it’s the winter one I dream of most. Maybe because it feels like hope itself.
Every year I imagine what it must feel like to stand beneath the glow of those fires, surrounded by laughter instead of silence. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe, this year, I’ll finally get to see it for myself.
The moon dips lower, shadows stretching thin across the worn floorboards. I lie on my mattress, eyes tracing the intricate patterns of the ceiling, though sleep eludes me. My chest rises and falls with careful, shallow breaths, but excitement fights the ache of fatigue. Hours tick by painfully slow.
Outside, the world is silent. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. For a moment, I let myself imagine stepping beyond this house, and never having to return to this place I’ve been since I was 7.
An abandoned shack is where I’d been found 10 years ago. Shivering and soaked, my small body curled into a ball as it racked with sobs. I was an *orphan*. Who’d seen my parents be murdered by imperialists. That memory sits in my mind, as clear as glass.
I remember running through lashing rain, through the woods, my blue dress was drenched, my brown hair dripping. I remember their screams, the ones that still haunt my sleep. And blood. So much blood.
In the morning, a middle-aged farmer, who must have heard my cries, found me. He had wrapped me in his cloak and took me to the court of justice. Yes, everything political was crumbling, but the court was legally required to give every child sanctuary, including me. And apparently, I had relatives living in the North of Riardan. An uncle and aunt. I’d been told that they agreed to take me in, and amidst the grief and pain, I felt a sense of warmth. Maybe I would be okay.
Looking back on it, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Days later, I had packed my rucksack. Via- the Childwarden, accompanied me on the carriage ride to the North. She was a sweet, young woman, with golden hair and warm, honey-brown eyes. Just like one of mine.
The journey there was an hour long, but it felt like it went on for days. Sunlight streamed through the windows as the carriage trundled down the road, the horses moving in a steady walk. We sat side by side, and I kept my eyes focused on the new summer dress she had made for me. It was simple, but truly beautiful, a pale pink shade with a white ribbon sash at the waist. I traced the lace on the hem of the skirt until the carriage had come to a halt.
Once it did, an enormous wave of anticipation washed over me. Via took my little hand in hers, and led me to through the neighbourhood. The standard houses were made from rich, brown bricks, oak window frames, and a cedar-coloured roof. The front garden was a miniature field, with trimmed grass guarded by a wooden gate. She opens the gate carefully, holding it for me. I attempt a smile, and we walk the path to the front door, her thumb brushing against my knuckles. She turns to me, crouching. “You ready, Adina?” she whispers.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just nod.
She smiles, then rises, placing a comforting hand on my back. She raps on the door, and I hold my breath, heart thumping against my chest so so fast and so hard and-
Footsteps, shuffling, and the door creaks open.
The woman wears the face of my mother like a ghost. Hair so dark it almost looks black, it hangs in ringlets that stops just below her shoulders. Her skin is tanned, and shows the first, subtle signs of aging. Her eyes brown, but darker than mother’s. Her eyebrows raise for a split second, and intrigue flashes through her features.
Via is the first to speak, “Hello, you must be Elena.” she says with a friendly smile.
“My name is Via, I’ve been taking care of Adina for the past couple of days. She’s a lovely girl.”
The woman -Elena- takes her hand with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her expression not cordial
but not hostile either. “Via,” she nods a greeting, “Unfortunately, my husband is not here to meet you, as he’s working.” She then refers to me. “Alara always said you were like your father…” she drawls, the last word sounding almost bitter on her tongue.
Via places the rucksack handle into my palm with a gentle smile, and I curl my fingers around it. Her other hand moves from my back to stroke my hair.
“Alright, it’s time for me to get going, darling. You’ll be happy here in your new home.” she says softly.
I nod, blinking back unshed tears. “Mhm.”
Via kisses the top of my head. “You’ll be okay. You’re strong.”
I sniffle, wipe my eyes, “O-okay. Thank you for the pretty dress, Via. For everything.” I reply eventually.
“Goodbye, Adina.” She makes her way to the gate, pulls her fancy hat on, and waves before reentering the carriage.
I watch the horses trot away, and swallow the aching tightness in my throat. I turn to my aunt, who’s still standing on the doorstep.
“Um…thank you for…letting me stay with you.” I say quietly once I’ve found my voice.
For a moment, pain glints in her eyes.
She holds the door fully open, stepping aside to let me pass. “Right, come in.”
She had given me a bath, and some new clothes, allowing me to stay in her room and entertain myself with chess pieces while she worked on a suit. I had figured out she was a tailor when I saw the rolls of fabric stored in a cupboard, and the small nicks on her fingertips.
Occasionally, I would watch her steady hands and focused expression as she continued the repetitive motion of sewing, until a knock on the front door broke the silence. I observed the way her jaw clenched, the corners of her mouth turning downwards into a frown.
She placed the needle, string still attached, back on the table, and told me to wait at the stairs.
I wait at the third step down, just enough to see the door being open. She holds the door open and the man steps in heavily, grumbling. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, around early 40s. He has a bristly black beared, with small, greying patches, and a crease between his eyebrows.
This is my uncle.
He reeks of something acrid and bitter—the stench stabs at my nostrils.
“Dominic-“ his wife begins.
“What?” he snaps.
“*She’s* here” she says softly.
“What? Who?” he asks, “Spit it out, woman!”
“Alara’s daughter,” she mutters. “Our niece.”
“She’s here? Now?”
“Yes.”
“Well, bring her here.”
The woman tilts her head at me to approach. I do, slowly, the creaks of the stairs filling the piercing silence. I keep my head down until I’m standing right before him. I can hear his heavy breathing, and God, he stinks, so much my head starts to ache.
“Look at me, girl.” he commands.
I lift my head to meet his bloodshot eyes. He studies my face for seconds before spitting out, “She looks like her bastard father. And what the hell is wrong with her eyes?”
“Dominic-“ my aunt begins,
He bangs his fist on the wall adjacent to her head. “No one asked you to speak. Get lost!”
She hesitates, then walks away, lingering for just a moment before disappearing down the hall.
The scary man turns his attention back to me, “Listen here, girl. I’m in charge of this house, you hear me? I own you now. You obey me, and if you defy me, I won’t be this lenient. Understood?”
I nod, terrified. “Y-yes. I understand.”
His eyes gleam with malice. “Good,” he reaches in his pocket, and throws a handkerchief at me, “Now, clean my shoes. They better be spotless.” he demands, kicks his shoes off, and strides down the hall.
I stare at the shoes for a moment, black leather dulled by dried mud and dust. Spotless, he said. The word rings in my head like a bell, sharp and impossible to ignore. My hands tremble as I pick up the handkerchief, rough and damp with his smell. I kneel, lowering myself until my knees touch the cold floor. The first swipe smears the dirt instead of cleaning it, and panic twists in my stomach. I scrub harder. My eyes sting — from the stench, or maybe the tears I refuse to shed.
Eventually, I manage to somehow make them shine, though my fingers are raw and my throat burns from holding back tears. The handkerchief is smeared brown and black, and I can still smell the bitterness of him clinging to it. I set the shoes neatly by the wall, careful not to make a sound. My eyes dart around, not sure where to go, so I just sit against the wall, staring at my pale hands and fidgeting with my long hair.
“Adina?” my aunt calls out.
She comes out the kitchen, drying her hands with a small towel, my uncle follows behind.
“Come, I’ll show you to your room.” she says.
“Which room?” he asks.
“The spare room-“
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so. She can have the storage room.”
“Why should she? It’s covered in grime-“ she protests.
“DO WHAT I TELL YOU.” he barks.
He grabs my arm roughly, his fingers digging into the flesh as he yanks me forward. “She’ll have that room, and if she complains, I’ll sort her out.” He turns to me, “Isn’t that right?”
I nod, quick and desperate.
He finally releases me with a shove toward the stairs.
My aunt’s takes me to my room, not saying a single word, even as I take in the dirty walls, dusty windows, and a single mattress that takes up most the space.
“I’ll have your clothes brought up soon.” she mutters quietly, and turns to leave.
“Thank you for the room.” the whispered, genuine words slip out before I can even process them.
She pauses for a mere second and says so so quietly it might’ve been my imagination, “I’m sorry.”
Then closes the door behind her.
Sometime, the past creeps in without warning — in a smell, a sound, the way a door slams or a voice hardens. It all comes back in pieces: the shouting, the trembling, the nights I counted breaths just to stay quiet, the days I forgot what sunlight felt like. They blur together now, but the fear never really left; it settled somewhere deep.
No matter how hard I try to forget the memories, I never can.
Because they’re painted onto my skin. Every single one from these 10 years.
Even the thought of them makes me pull my nightgown tighter around my thighs. Everything about them disgust me to the core. The way they look, jagged slits, some much larger than others. I despise the feeling of them, the rough scars against the small spaces of soft, untouched skin, a reminder of how I’ll never truly be free from this hellhole.
Sometimes even I feel sorry for myself.
My rumination is interrupted by the distant ring of the wind chime that travels through the air, signalling that the sun has risen.
