2nd Week of January 1460

  His father’s fist struck fast and hard, smashing into his nose and sending a hot burst of blood over his lips, dazing him. The world shrank to the ringing in his ears and the sharp taste of iron on his tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” Stefanos muttered under his breath, the words tumbling out on instinct. They were a familiar shield, his last, flimsy line of defense against the onslaught, two words he had spoken so often they no longer felt like his own voice. They almost never helped.

  “You’re sorry? Our one good plough is broken!” his father roared. “All because you put the bull through the paces! I told you to guide it steady! Too fast and the plough will break!” His voice cracked with fury. He was a thin man with a wiry, whipcord strength, the kind born from years of hard work and harder anger. His crooked yellow teeth flashed between cracked lips as he shouted, dark, thinning hair plastered to his sweaty brow.

  “I’m sorry.” Stefanos’s voice shook. In truth, he had rushed because his father had commanded him to finish plowing the whole field that day, winter-hard soil and all. If he hadn’t met the target, that would have been yet another excuse for a beating, another failure to throw in his face. Either way, the blows would come. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, as much to himself as to his father.

  “I don’t care about your excuses!” his father roared, his face darkening to a purplish red. The next strikes came relentless, each one lighting a new flare of pain. By the time it was done, Stefanos could barely move. His limbs felt distant, heavy, like they belonged to someone else. A new touch landed on him, light as a feather, brushing his bruised cheek.

  “Are you okay, Stefanos?” his mother asked softly. Her voice trembled. Stefanos blinked, his vision swimming, unable to move his neck properly to nod. He had to be strong. He always told himself that.

  “I’m sorry, child. I’m sorry. It is all my fault,” she sobbed quietly into his chest, her shoulders shaking. She had had him out of wedlock, and his father had never forgiven her for that. Nor did he forgive Stefanos. The guilt clung to her like a second skin.

  “It’s all right, Mother. I will be strong for you,” Stefanos whispered, finding the words from somewhere deep inside where the pain hadn’t yet reached. It was a promise he had made so many times in his heart that it felt carved into his bones.

  “You already are so strong. I’m so proud of you,” she whispered through broken teeth. Her breath warmed his bruised skin. Stefanos could feel himself growing hot, hot with shame of his failure to protect her. Hot with the pain blossoming in his chest.

  “You are?” Stefanos muttered weakly, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He hardly dared to believe her.

  “Yes, I’m so proud of you, son.”

  Her voice deepened and roughened, turning gravelly as she spoke. His mother’s light hair blurred in his mind’s eye, the soft curls darkening, thickening, twisting into black, oily strands.

  Sergeant Orestis kneeled beside him, grabbing hold of his hand with desperate strength. They were no longer in the cottage but among hay, blood and refuse.

  The stink of sweat and iron thick in the air.

  “So please,” Orestis whispered, his voice breaking. “You must live.” The words rasped inside Stefanos’s head, scraping along his thoughts like rough stone.

  A dark shadow crept from the corner of his vision, coiling like smoke.

  “You should have died, little one.” It was a formless thing, black and sinister, emerging from the soiled haybed he lay in.

  “You are not meant to be here.” Fever burned beneath his skin and his body felt pinned by invisible weights. “Twice now you’ve escaped me.” He was unable to move, unable to turn away, unable even to close his eyes.

  “I’ve taken one of your arms,” it ground out, the sound like a deep rumbling from the bottom of a pit, dark and foreboding. “I’ll take the rest soon enough.”

  Stefanos tried to unhear it, to shove the words back into the darkness they had crawled from. But the voices kept coming, circling him like carrion birds.

  “You’re pathetic,” his father echoed, his tone dripping with contempt.

  “I never should have had you,” his mother sobbed, guilt twisting her words into something sharp and cruel.

  A dark, horrible symphony swelled inside his skull, every remembered insult and fear layering over the next until it was almost unbearable. And through it all, a single, stubborn, hopeful note.

  “Live,” Orestis begged. The shrill word cut through the chorus, ringing in his head in a painful explosion.

  He woke up drenched in sweat.

  His shirt clung to his back, and his breath came quick and shallow.

  Demetrios was by his side, sitting close, his hand wrapped around Stefanos’s. He watched him with brows furrowed in concern, dark eyes searching Stefanos’s face for answers.

  “Morning,” Stefanos said, forcing a smile onto trembling lips as he eased his hand away from Demetrios, suddenly acutely aware of the damp sheets and his own shaking. He’d had bed terrors. Again. “I hope I didn’t wake you during the night.”

  “Nonsense, of course you didn’t,” Demetrios said. His voice was light, almost casual. Stefanos could hear the lie in it clearly.

  The old servant rose from Stefanos’s bedside with a soft rustle of wool and linen, the movement sending a fleeting echo of the Sergeant’s desperate grip through Stefanos’s mind. Demetrios’s gaze lingered on his face for a heartbeat too long. “Do you need help to dress?” he asked.

  “I haven’t needed it for some time now, Demetrios.” The words came out sharper than he intended. Losing a limb affected you in ways that weren’t immediately obvious to anyone else. Even the simplest movements cost more effort than people guessed. It wasn’t just the awkwardness of doing everything with one hand, or the strange, itchy ghosts of fingers that were no longer there. It was the way every act - tying a belt, buttoning a collar - reminded you of what you’d lost.

  “It’s never bad to ask for help,” Demetrios answered kindly. He watched without comment as Stefanos swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself upright, jaw tight against the flare of stiffness. “Nor to let thoughts off of your chest before they crush you beneath them.” He patted Stefanos’s good shoulder, the weight steady and familiar. Stefanos had come to think of that weight as reassuring. Demetrios had helped in more ways than one ever since Stefanos had been dragged from his life at the farm and thrust into the polished, sharp-edged world of noble service.

  “Thank you, Demetrios.” Stefanos forced a smile to reach his eyes, the expression feeling like a mask he’d worn too often. “Maybe some other time.” He knew the old servant supported Master Theodorus’s plan for Cassandra, and Stefanos couldn’t quite bear to discuss such things now.

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  Demetrios smiled, a small, knowing curve of the lips that said he understood more than Stefanos wished he did. He moved to the peg by the door and took his jacket, plucking up one of the nomadic honeyed sweets he favored, the little folded treat glistening faintly with hardened syrup.

  “Well, off I go.” He shrugged into his jacket with practiced ease and left the room they shared between themselves. The door closed with a soft click. It was one of the perks of being a high-end servant. To have space, privacy, a door that actually shut. Stefanos would never have imagined that he’d one day have a room nearly to himself.

  Stefanos dressed as quickly as he could manage, each movement deliberate. He tugged on his undershirt and tunic, using his teeth and knee where a second hand should have been, and fashioned his clothing into something presentable. With care, he folded the empty sleeve where his arm used to lay, smoothing it so it lay flat and unremarkable. As Master Theodorus’s attendant, he had to look pristine and project confidence. He was an extension of the Lord’s influence, Demetrios would say. It was something Stefanos would usually take pride in. Today, the thought felt hollow.

  Stefanos nonetheless walked through the corridors with his head held high, his posture straight and confident, his steps brisk and measured. The stone underfoot was cold, leeching the warmth from his soles. Once, the steps had felt clumsy, and his missing arm had troubled his balance. Now, after months of practice, the rhythm of the walk came almost as second nature. The mask of composed assurance settled over him as easily as his cloak.

  He reached the kitchens and spotted his target almost at once. Agape was on her knees, scrubbing the floor near the hearth, shoulders hunched, trying to make herself look as tiny and forgettable as possible.

  “Agape,” Stefanos murmured, slipping up behind her with a practiced, quiet step. She yelped and jumped in a startle. He bit back a laugh. “Good morning.”

  She turned to him with an offended expression, cheeks flushing. A loose strand of hair had escaped her kerchief and stuck to her damp forehead. “Do you always have to sneak up on me?” she muttered.

  “I am training your senses to be highly attuned,” Stefanos answered, schooling his features into seriousness. And training my stealth for when it is ever necessary, he added inwardly. Master Theodorus had insisted on such unorthodox skills: silence, observation, the art of not being noticed until it was too late.

  “You can train them on someone else occasionally,” Agape muttered, turning back to her work. She attacked the flagstones with renewed vigor, the bristles rasping harshly, but her motions were far more controlled than when she’d first arrived at the castle.

  “Who says I don’t?” Stefanos quipped in a light tone. “Don’t look so tense,” he added, his voice dropping into something more serious.

  Agape quirked an eyebrow at him without pausing her work.

  “Sometimes a servant who tries hardest to look nondescript is the one who stands out the most,” Stefanos said, quoting something Demetrios had taught him. He still found it ironic that he’d been tasked with mentoring Agape in skills he himself was still learning, with Demetrios’s watchful supervision of course. But Master Theodorus had said that struggling to explain something to someone else would help Stefanos deepen his own understanding. “Just do your job, and keep your ears open. No need to complicate things.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Agape said, rolling her eyes, but some of the tightness left her frame.

  “Good, what have you learned?"

  Agape leaned in conspirationally, looking highly suspicious to anyone paying any attention. "I heard the maids whisper that Hypatius has been absent more times than once. He used to be a menace in the kitchen arranging every dinner to the Lord's tastes. Now he is rarely seen." She leaned in closer and whispered. "They say he is outside the castle plenty as of late.

  Stefanos nodded at the information. "I'll let the Lord know." He turned to leave. "Oh and Agape?" He lowered his tone into the harsh whisper Agape had used. "You don't need to whisper every information, this is not a romance. You only look suspicious doing so." Stefanos said in way of parting, ignoring Agape's silent fuming.

  He reached for a basket, quietly stealing a few loaves of fresh bread and a wedge of cheese from the kitchen stores, as was his morning habit, and headed toward the great hall where Theodorus was to break his fast.

  He arrived before his Lord or Demetrios did, the great hall already beginning to wake and bustle. Sergeants and nobles filed in, cloaks pulled tight, rubbing their hands for warmth and muttering about the cold that seeped in through the high arrow slits. A great fireplace roared to life at the far end, flames dancing and crackling, but the heat had not yet chased the chill from the vast stone chamber.

  Stefanos did not mind the cold much. Winter was a quiet season, and that suited him just fine. He did not feel its bite as keenly as others, and the numbness of cold helped dull the bruises and aches left by his father’s strikes.

  Stefanos noticed her the moment she stepped into the great hall.

  Lady Cassandra entered with her small retinue of maids, their muted chatter a gentle hum against the low rumble of soldiers and nobles. Her copper hair caught the early light from the high windows and the flicker of the hearth, gleaming like polished bronze. She moved with the easy assurance of someone born to be watched, every step measured, every gesture graceful. Even the way she turned her head to listen to a maid seemed deliberate and attentive to Stefano’s eyes.

  A young maid in her gaggle, a slight girl barely into her teens, stumbled under the weight of a folded cloak and a bundle of embroidery frames. Cassandra slowed and reached out at once, steadying the girl and murmuring something too soft for Stefanos to catch. The girl relaxed and smiled in relief, as did Stefanos. Cassandra took one of the frames herself, as if it weighed nothing, and passed it to another maid with an apologetic smile, never once letting irritation touch her face.

  Stefanos realized he was staring. Admiring. He studied the gentle line of her jaw, the faint dusting of freckles at the bridge of her nose, the way she kept her chin high without seeming haughty.

  Then her eyes found him.

  “Good morning, Stefanos,” she said, breaking from her attendants and striding toward him with an unhurried, confident grace. She remembered his name and always used it. The simple, direct address sent an unexpected jolt through Stefanos’s chest.

  “Good morning, my Lady,” he replied. His voice was steady, but he suddenly felt very aware of himself, regretting not spending more time combing his hair. He wished, absurdly, that he had taken another moment at the basin, to not smell so much of sweat near the lady.

  “How are your letters coming along?” Cassandra asked. Her tone was light, but there was genuine interest in her eyes. She remembered some small detail of a conversation from days or weeks before and brought it up as if it mattered. Stefanos knew he ought not feel special. That she did this with everyone. But he still did.

  “I can read most common words now,” Stefanos said, allowing himself a small smile. “But writing them has proved to be a hurdle I’ve yet to overcome. I can trace most letters with a quill, but tying them together into anything legible is still past me.” He let out a quiet laugh, hoping to keep the mood light and hide how much the struggle bothered him. Nights hunched over parchment with his left hand cramping, ink splattering, lines tilting downhill.

  “I’m sure it can’t be easy to write with your left hand,” Cassandra said gently, her gaze flicking, just for a heartbeat, to the empty, neatly folded sleeve at his side.

  “I manage, my Lady,” Stefanos replied.

  “Keep going strong, Stefanos,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. And maybe one day we could even write poetry together - so I can see how far you’ve improved.”

  “That would be splendid, my Lady,” Stefanos answered, striving for calm. His tone stayed even, almost casual, but inside his heart soared.

  “When is Theodorus arriving?” Cassandra asked a moment later, glancing past him toward the entrance of the hall.

  The flutter inside Stefanos died out in an instant. It was as though a draft of cold air had swept straight through him.

  “He should be arriving shortly, do not worry,” Stefanos said, forcing his voice into the smooth, competent assurance expected of an attendant.

  “Thank you, Stefanos.” She offered him a grateful smile that didn’t belong to him and added, “When he does, please let him know where I will be seated.”

  “Yes, my Lady,” Stefanos said, forcing a smile through the hollowness that had opened in his chest.

  Theodorus arrived not long after, cloak dusted with frost, his expression set in its usual composed, distant calm. Stefanos stepped forward at once, as duty demanded, and guided him toward Cassandra’s table, murmuring the necessary courtesies. Then he moved back, as he always did, to the edge of the hall, taking up his place near a column where he could see without being seen.

  From there, he watched as Theodorus greeted Lady Cassandra and her eyes brightened as he spoke, leaning in. Theodorus’s answering smile was perfectly measured, courteous and charming, his tone smooth as ever.

  Stefanos felt envy coil inside him. It pained him to watch, knowing that what made his own heart race - every remembered word, every passing smile - barely stirred anything in his lord. For Theodorus, she was a piece to be moved and manipulated.

  For Stefanos, she was more.

  But he was just a servant, barely worth a glance. He should give up on his fantasies. But a faint part of himself kept thinking about the poetry, and about the dream.

  He'd cheated death enough to know his time might be short. So perhaps, he thought, he'd like to do more than just coast through life. He'd like to live.

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