WYRS 1

Chapter 1

When the front door opened, the rain poured down so heavily that it was impossible to see ahead. Blake reached out his hand toward the torrent with an indifferent face. Raindrops bounced off his palm as if dancing.

Pop—

A black umbrella spread open in the air. Holding the large umbrella above him, Blake slowly walked down the stone path leading to the back gate.

Beyond the back gate, after walking for about ten minutes, a gentle hill appeared—a place where the wealthy residents of Brihill often went for picnics.

That woman is heading toward the hill.

When Hagen first reported it, Blake didn’t believe him. The woman he knew wasn’t the sort to wander outside in the middle of the night through a storm. She was the type to scold a coachman for splashing rainwater on her dress.

But when he saw her frantically climbing the muddy hill, Blake realized he’d been wrong.

A woman who shone even in darkness. It was unmistakable. She was the one he had so desperately wanted to make his own.

My heart…

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this kind of thrill. Blake placed a hand on his rapidly beating chest and allowed himself a faint smile. The curtain was finally rising on the play he had prepared for so long.

Pushing aside a large branch hanging before his eyes, he could clearly see the top of the hill. And there, at its center, was the woman—on her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

Her long slip, which should have been pure white like first snow, was soiled with mud beyond recognition. At her pitiful state, Blake felt an almost pleasant satisfaction.

Soon enough, her life too would be driven into the mire, just like that expensive dress.

“Aaahhh!”

The woman’s cries had already turned into screams of anguish. Blake strode toward her, uncaring that mud was splattering onto his polished shoes.

Exhausted from weeping, she began retching. No one would believe that this broken figure was the only daughter of a prestigious count’s family.

The splashing of rain beneath his shoes echoed in his ears.

“If you stay there much longer, you might catch a cold.”

Her unfocused eyes turned toward him. The moment Blake met those pale green eyes, shimmering with rain, his hand trembled.

Nothing had changed. She was still, damnably, beautiful.

And that was a relief in its own way. In his play, it was best if she remained that arrogant noble girl from his childhood.

“You are…”

The moment he shielded her with his umbrella, her strength gave out. Without resistance, she collapsed into Blake’s arms. Her body, so small it seemed like a handful, was as cold as a corpse.

Blake tilted the umbrella to keep her from getting wet. If she were to fall ill, his plans would be ruined.

His own shoulders grew steadily soaked, his shirt heavy with water—but even that felt like happiness.

His eyes traced her long lashes, her soft nose. Through the clinging wet slip, her pale skin showed unguarded.

Blake stared greedily at the intoxicating sight and whispered, almost like a curse:

“You should never have smiled as though you were happy there… Freya Swan.”

*

On the outskirts of the village of Leonosia stood the Swan family’s villa, surrounded by a serene lake and vast forests.

Because the mansion’s reflection shimmered so perfectly in the water, people often called it the Mirror Manor.

For years, it had gone unused except for a caretaker and a few gardeners. But today was different.

“There’s still dust there! Do you have any idea how particular the countess is?”

“The desserts are ready, right? Lady Freya loves milk with honey most of all.”

“Didn’t I tell you last week to throw out this carpet?”

For the past few weeks, Joyce—a maid sent down from the Swan estate—had been bustling about the Mirror Manor. As the countess’s closest attendant, she carried herself with her chin arrogantly raised, as if she were the lady of the house herself.

“Everything must be spotless! Remember, nothing is more important than the young lady’s recovery.”

Atul quietly placed a bouquet of roses into a vase while listening to Joyce’s shrill voice. Then he slipped out the back door, doing his best to avoid her.

Unlike Leonosia, where people of all origins lived together, in other regions outsiders like him were despised.

He had long since realized it was better to swallow his pride than to risk losing his livelihood by offending someone.

“Atul! Come here and clear these branches!”

His father, Sanchez, tapped the pile of branches at his feet. Atul hurried over and gathered them in his arms.

Sanchez carefully pruned the already-trimmed tree once more, his expression unusually solemn. Watching sweat bead on his father’s forehead, Atul muttered sullenly:

“Out of all the villas, why this one? They’re impossibly picky…”

Sanchez paused at his son’s complaint, then smiled kindly.

“Don’t say such things. They are the ones who make sure we don’t go hungry.”

“We’re not living for free, are we? You care for this entire garden by yourself. It’s only fair we’re paid properly.”

“What garden is so big about this? Back in Abbas, my laboratory was larger. And remember, Atul—nothing in this world comes free.”

He plucked a tender new leaf and held it up.

“The more you take something for granted, the easier it is to lose it. Everything has a price. Just as my hand swells with poison for harming this little leaf.”

Atul clamped his lips shut as he stared at the redness spreading across his father’s hand.

He wanted to ask: What price was it when Mother died on our flight from war? But he swallowed the words, knowing how much pain it would cause his father.

Sanchez ruffled his son’s hair before climbing down the ladder. Slinging his tools over his shoulder, he started walking. Atul followed quietly.

“By next year, you’ll be given your name. Have you thought of one you’d like?”

“Not yet.”

“Then what about the name your mother had chosen for you?”

“What is it?”

“It was your grandfather’s name. He was said to be a brave man… Volda! Hold on! That’s the wrong way with the cart!”

He broke off, calling out to a worker. While Sanchez busied himself, Atul dumped his bundle of branches onto the woodpile and dusted off his hands.

A name…

In his homeland, the Principality of Abbas, there was a unique custom: children received their names only at twelve.

A name carried great meaning—it meant one had come of age and vowed to fulfill one’s duties as a citizen. Because of its weight, names were chosen carefully, often deliberated on for a year beforehand. And once chosen, a name could never be changed.

Until then, children were called by nicknames. In Atul’s case, he had always been called “Atul,” meaning captain, by other children—so that became his placeholder name.

But what’s the point…

Atul didn’t care if he ended up with a miserable name. The principality had already fallen. Surely such traditions would vanish soon too.

He wished he could be like the people of Elvador, who were given names from birth, often chosen without deep meaning—like naming a child “blacksmith’s son” if the father was a blacksmith.

So perhaps he could be given a name meaning “gardener’s son.” Maybe then, he would seem more like the others, and the stares he endured would fade.

“Atul! Over here!”

Still pondering what word might mean gardener, Atul hurried back to his father’s side.

*

A week later, the Countess Swan and her only daughter arrived at Mirror Manor. A carriage painted with elegant swan motifs stopped at the entrance. All the servants lined up on both sides to greet their masters.

Those from Elvador stood in the front, while foreigners were made to stand farther away from the main path.

Atul bowed low, standing beside Sanchez. As he counted the grains of dirt beneath him, the carriage door opened and the swish of a dress brushing the ground reached his ears.

“Joyce, you’ve done well.”

“Not at all, Lady Elena. I’m simply glad you arrived safely.”

Atul couldn’t help but glance up at the gentle, even-toned voice.

So that is a noblewoman…

His eyes widened in shock. Elena wasn’t a breathtaking beauty, yet she had a dignified grace that commanded attention.

The way her fingers moved, the steady timbre of her voice, the elegant straightness of her back—all spoke of someone who had never bowed to anyone.

“Freya, come out now.”

Still entranced by Elena, Atul froze as another figure stepped carefully onto the ground.

It was light itself—light was walking toward them.

“What a beautiful young lady,” Sanchez murmured under his breath in awe.

Long platinum hair cascaded below her shoulders, sparkling so brightly under the summer sun that even the sapphires studding her headband seemed dull.

Within her small face were set large green eyes, a straight nose, and lips as red and smooth as summer cherries.

Holding tightly to her pale-blue dress, the girl radiated a maturity far beyond her eight years.

Though rumors said she was ill, Freya showed no trace of sickness. Like a smaller mirror of Elena herself, she held her head high, regal and unyielding.