The village lay quiet in the shallow valley, smoke curling from chimneys, the smell of bread and firewood drifting lazily through the narrow streets.
The sun hung low, bathing the rooftops in gold, while the distant hills faded into a soft, hazy blue.
I carried Atarae carefully, swaddled in a thick cloak that did little to hide the small, fragile curve of her body.
Her hair, loose and pale, peeked from beneath the hood. Though she slept, her presence demanded attention—delicate, luminous, impossible to mistake for any ordinary child.
The household waited at the door. A couple, a man and woman, exchanged a quick, almost nervous glance before stepping forward.
Beside them, their daughter—no older than ten—stood silently, her dark eyes wide, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
Her expression was a mixture of hurt and agitation, as if she knew someone had taken something precious and given it to a stranger.
I knelt carefully, setting Atarae down.
“She’s yours now,” I said softly. “Take care of her, alright?”
The woman nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she reached out to touch Atarae’s shoulder.
“We… we will,” she said, voice soft, almost reverent. “We understand the responsibility.”
The man’s brow furrowed, his hands clenching at his sides. “She… she’s small. So young. Are you sure—?”
“She’s more than that,” I interrupted, my voice firm but low. “She’s strong. Smart. Pay attention to her, and she will pay attention to you. Don’t make mistakes, and she will teach you more than you imagine.”
Their eyes flickered between me and Atarae, unsure whether I was speaking kindly or issuing a warning. I ignored their hesitation.
The little girl at their side shifted, her eyes fixed on Atarae. She didn’t speak, didn’t move closer, but her silent glare was sharp and accusing. I glanced at her briefly. Even children sense injustice, I thought grimly.
I pulled a small, folded note from my coat. “Leave this for her. When she wakes… it’s for her alone,” I said, handing it to the woman.
The couple exchanged a nervous glance again. “A note… for her? What…?”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” I said with a faint smirk. “Just make sure she reads it when she wakes. Don’t lose it. Don’t let her wander off before then. Understood?”
They nodded quickly, the woman clutching the note as if it were sacred.
I turned toward the little girl, kneeling slightly to meet her eyes. She didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, just held my gaze with quiet suspicion. I offered a small smile. “You’ll have a sister now. Be patient with her."
The girl’s eyes flickered toward her parents, then back at Atarae, and finally away.
Silent.
Angry.
Hurt.
And I knew she would watch the girl like a sentinel, whether she liked it or not.
I straightened, giving a brief nod to the couple. “I’ll come by often. Make sure she’s safe. No harm comes to her under your roof. You understand?”
“Yes,” the woman said softly. “We will do our best.”
“Yes,” the man added more firmly, gripping the little girl’s shoulder lightly.
A guard accompanying me stepped forward, frowning. “Sir… why send her to a village? She’s the heir—future of the empire. Why here?”
I spun toward him, my patience snapping. “Mind your own business. Follow orders without questioning. If you want to live, stick to the plan.”
The guard opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him another chance.
“Now. Move along. She is safe. That is all you need to know,” I said, letting the weight of the words sink in.
I turned back to the house one last time. Atarae lay on the bed, small and fragile, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.
Her pale fingers curled lightly over the blanket, unconscious of the world, unaware of the danger she had escaped and the memory they had taken from her.
I gave a small nod, more promise than farewell. “I’ll see her again,” I whispered, quietly enough that only the wind could hear.
The little girl’s dark eyes followed me to the edge of the garden, silent accusation still lingering.
I wondered if she would forgive me one day—or if she would ever understand the necessity.
Boots crunching in the dirt, I walked away, my cloak swaying behind me.
Distance stretched between us, but the weight of responsibility remained.
No matter how far. No matter how lost her memories.
I would protect her. Always.
Even if the world did not care.
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