Aislin's calloused fingers gently rake through my hair as she runs the carved bone comb from root to tip. The strands have grown considerably longer since Erik first trimmed them, now cascading in soft golden waves past my shoulders. I tilt my head back to peer up at her careworn features.

"Felix sit dies natalis tuus, carissima mater!" I chirp, flashing her a bright smile.

Aislin's brow furrows in confusion. "Where did ye learn to speak such words, lamb?"

Hmm, perhaps I shouldn't have shown off my Latin skills so brazenly. Best to play dumb. "Father Brogan and Timothy taught me at the church," I reply innocently, widening my eyes for full childlike effect.

Aislin's expression softens and she leans down to plant a tender kiss on my brow. "Ah, ye clever wee thing. I love ye so, poppet."

She straightens, resuming her combing motions. "We'll be headin' to the church later to celebrate the new year. Ye can drink some o' the sacramental wine and holy wine with me."

Wine? Now there's an intriguing prospect! I perk up at the thought of sampling those sacred, undoubtedly potent vintages. Perhaps a few swigs will help dull this maddening existence for a little while.

"And ye'll get to choose one item from our home for the priests to bless," Aislin continues. "What would ye like, lamb?"

I don't even need to ponder my choice. "The ring Cathal gave me!" I declare eagerly.

Aislin chuckles, the sound warm and indulgent. "Aye, ye've a fondness for that bonny wee trinket, don't ye? Such a good girl."

She resumes her ministrations, the comb's tines scraping lightly against my scalp in a soothing rhythm. Suddenly, a single droplet of icy water lands on the nape of my neck and I shiver involuntarily.

Glancing up, I notice a fresh trickle seeping through the thatched roof overhead. "Oisin missed a spot when he patched the leaks," I remark, unable to keep the accusatory tone from my voice.

But Aislin simply sighs. "Now now, don't judge yer father too harshly, poppet. He's tryin' his best since Sean gave him that proper thrashin'."

I can't resist rolling my eyes dramatically at her words. Oh Aislin, ever the faithful wife making excuses for that drunken wretch! If only she knew the full extent of his depraved scheming and cruelty.

Still, I suppose I should count my blessings for once. At least Oisin is cowering in fear of further reprisals from Sean, giving us a brief respite from his usual foul temper. I'll take what little mercy I can get in this wretched existence.

Aislin turns me around to face her, her pale blue eyes meeting my bright yellow gaze. "Ye see, poppet?" she says, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "Yer father is behavin' far better since yer uncle Sean gave him a proper thrashin'. Nothin' motivates a stubborn fool quicker than harsh lessons carved into his very flesh."

I nod solemnly, doing my best to appear the picture of childlike innocence even as my adult mind whirs with dark amusement. Harsh lessons carved in flesh, eh? If only you knew the half of it, dear Aislin!

"I miss Uncle Sean," I pipe up, widening my eyes for full effect. "And all his fun stories 'bout fightin' monsters. D'you think the brave warrior might come back to celebrate both yer birthdays together?"

Aislin's brow furrows slightly as she shakes her head. "Nay, I fear not this season, lamb. The church keeps its witch hunters and holy men o'ermuch busy battlin' the fell beasts that stalk our lands. Sean likely has little time for merrymakin' and feasts."

As she speaks, I watch her closely, noting the subtle downturn of her lips and the way her shoulders seem to slump ever so slightly. A flicker of disappointment, quickly masked but not quite banished. Interesting...

"But fret not, poppet," Aislin continues, forcing a bright smile. "For ye shall soon have a visitor of yer own to lift yer spirits! Yer aunt Maeve is to arrive at our humble hovel ere long."

I perk up at that, unable to resist a mischievous grin. "Truly? When does the lady arrive, before or after we attend church?"

"Soon, lamb. Maeve should be here afore the morn is much older." Aislin pauses, giving me an appraising look. "And ye'll mind yer manners when she arrives, won't ye? Be on yer best behavior for yer poor aunt."

I nod obediently, but can't resist probing further. "Is it really my aunt, though? Yer own flesh and blood sister?"

Aislin's face clouds over briefly before she lets out a soft sigh. Crouching down, she meets my gaze directly and pulls me into a gentle embrace. "Aye, poppet...Maeve is truly the sister I lost to this cruel world so many years ago. My own twin's daughter, returned to me at last."

I return the hug stiffly, my mind racing. So this Maeve is indeed Aislin's long-lost kin, not just some random wench Oisin purchased to sate his baser urges. How...fascinating.

Pulling back, I tilt my head and ask in my most innocent tones, "But how did Uncle Sean allow such a thing, mama? Didn't he try to stop it?"

Aislin's expression darkens somewhat as she releases me from the hug. "Aye, the brave fool did attempt to intervene. But alas, he was halted in his quest by that...that pale lady ere he could do any true damage."

I shudder inwardly at the mention of the crimson-eyed creature, memories of that horrific night flooding back unbidden. Dumitra's lithe form dragging Sean's unconscious bulk along the dirt path, his golden hair trailing in the mud like a fallen hero of legend...

"Pay it no mind, lamb," Aislin soothes, clearly misinterpreting my reaction. "Lord Eamonn and the church have like as not already seen fit to punish Sean for the chaos he wrought those months past. Best we tend to our own flock and leave such troubles be, hmm?"

I simply nod, feigning a childish pout even as I ponder the implications of Aislin's words. So the boorish Lord Eamonn moved to discipline Sean for his transgressions, did he? Well, isn't that just delightfully ironic - the supposed holy man punishing one of his own warriors for daring to defend a woman's honor against the cruelty of men.

Sometimes the sheer depths of hypocrisy in this primitive backwater never cease to amaze me. Though I suppose beggars can't be choosers when it comes to finding even the barest slivers of justice…

Aislin settles onto the rough wooden bench, her sallow features etched with weariness. "I understand now why your father acts as he does," she begins, wringing her calloused hands. "Lord Eamonn demands each household provide at least one son for his soldiering. Else we'll be taxed so heavily, we shan't be able to afford even meager food."

A crease forms between my brows as I process her words. So that's the bastard's grand scheme - breed an entire generation of cannon fodder to sate that greedy pig's thirst for power!

Before I can voice my thoughts, Aislin suddenly claps a hand over her mouth and scrambles towards the corner, retching violently into a battered wooden bucket. I watch with morbid fascination as her slender frame convulses, spewing streams of foul-smelling vomit.

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Hmm, morning sickness already? I tilt my head, studying the putrid mess curiously. I wonder whose spawn is responsible for churning her guts so - that drunken wretch Oisin's, or my supposed betrothed Erik's? Only time will tell, I suppose.

Aislin wipes her mouth shakily with a scrap of linen, her pale eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I've been blessed," she murmurs, resting a trembling hand on her flat belly. "Another babe comes to us."

I can't resist rolling my eyes at her pious words. Blessed, she calls it? What a peculiar way to view her current condition!

"Please, Lord," Aislin continues, bowing her head in fervent prayer. "Grant me a sturdy son this time, I beg of you. Let him draw breath and survive the birthing bed."

Ugh, more of that insufferable God-babbling. I tune out her droning pleas, idly scuffing the toe of my soft leather boot against the packed dirt floor.

"Mama?" I pipe up, widening my eyes in an exaggerated expression of childlike innocence. "If it's a boy, can he be my new playmate? I wanna play with him lots and lots!"

Aislin manages a wan smile at that. "Aye, poppet - I pray to the Heavenly Father it's a son this time. Then your father Oisin will finally have naught to complain about."

The words are barely out of her mouth before I let out a snort of derision. Oh Aislin, you poor, deluded wretch - as if anything could ever satisfy that miserable bastard's endless list of grievances!

Yes, yes, Aislin prattles on about this supposed "son" being the answer to all her woes. But the real issue here has nothing to do with her battered birth canal expelling yet another squalling brat into this cesspit of an existence.

No, the true problem lies in her ravaged reproductive system's ability to even survive another brutal pregnancy and parturition. The dumb fucking woman is deluding herself if she thinks her weary, abused body can endure much more.

Let's examine the facts, shall we? Aislin is approximately nineteen years of age currently. She birthed me a mere five years ago, and from what I can gather, that was her third successful labor after who knows how many miscarriages and stillbirths.

Her pelvis and pelvic floor have already endured the trauma of passing not one, but three infant skulls through that narrow, unforgiving bony ring. Each birth undoubtedly left her with new tears, fissures, and irreparable damage to her poor, overtaxed cervix and vaginal vault.

And now she dares tempt fate once more by actively trying to conceive again? Aislin's uterus must be a veritable war zone by now - a tattered, fibrous wasteland of scar tissue and adhesions from the repeated cycles of enduring an infant's passage, only to involute and prepare for the next onslaught.

Factoring in her youth, overall depleted health from poverty and abuse, and the sheer number of prior pregnancies...I'd estimate Aislin's chances of surviving another full-term birth at a dismal 27%. Maybe even lower, given the appalling lack of pre and postnatal care available to peasant women in this primitive backwater.

No, the odds are firmly stacked against the foolish woman, as much as it pains me to admit it. Her pious prattling about being "blessed" is nothing more than the desperate, self-deluding fantasy of someone too beaten down to face the harsh reality of their situation.

If Aislin does indeed proceed with this ill-advised pregnancy, she'll be playing a perilous game of Russian roulette with her very life. One wrong move, one unlucky complication, and her overstressed, overtaxed body will simply give out for good this time.

Then where will that leave me, the unwitting bystander in this impending carnage? Trapped in the clutches of that drunken wretch Oisin with no buffer against his cruelty? Or worse, passed off to whatever fresh hell awaits at the hands of Erik and his schemes?

No...as callous as it sounds, a small part of me can't help but hope this pregnancy ends in the merciful oblivion of another miscarriage. Aislin has suffered enough for ten lifetimes. Surely she deserves to be spared this final, potentially fatal indignity?

Or perhaps I'm overthinking this, as usual. Maybe the universe will simply snuff her out during the birthing bed, granting the poor wretch a swift end to her torment rather than dragging out the agony. One can only hope, I suppose.

Either way, I'd better start steeling myself for whatever fresh tragedies await on the horizon. Because in this wretched existence, the only sure thing is that suffering lies ahead, no matter how you slice it.

"Mama?" I ask, tilting my head innocently. "Does Lord Eamonn give us anything for promising him our sons?"

Aislin looks up from her sewing, her pale eyes meeting my bright gaze. "Aye, poppet," she replies, a weary smile tugging at her thin lips. "For each babe boy we offer to soldierin', Lord Eamonn sees us provided with grains, salted meats, and even a ewe or two come lambin' season."

I nod slowly, unable to suppress a childish giggle at her words. So that's how the old bastard plays it - dangling financial carrots to incentivize these poor fools into breeding him fresh cannon fodder! My lips twist into a frown as I consider the implications.

Do these deluded peasants truly believe they can simply will themselves to spit out sons on command? As if the miracle of childbirth were some trifling matter, a mere transaction of flesh rendered for sustenance? I shake my head, marveling at the utter ignorance surrounding me.

Still, I must say that Lord Eamonn's statecraft is well designed, kind of, give your boys out to soldiering and you get rewarded with boons, don't...? This whole "breed me cannon fodder or pay up" racket is a pretty slick protection scheme, I'll give the old bastard that much. Dangling those juicy grain and livestock carrots to incentivize these poor saps into popping out fresh batches of expendable manpower - it's an ingenious way to keep the peasant families pumping out sons for his ranks without having to resort to, y'know, actual governance or fair taxation or whatever.

And you would pay exorbitant taxes, most likely to cover the lapse in the soldiers that the families didn't give - but in tax money, guy has to cover his ass somehow amirite? Of course, for those unlucky fools who can't seem to churn out the requisite number of strapping young lads, Eamonn's gotta recoup those costs somehow. Crank up those tax rates to absolutely backbreaking levels until the poor wretches are forking over every last copper just to avoid getting tossed in the dungeon! Gotta keep that military-industrial baby-making complex well-oiled and operational, am I right?

Still, the families that get fucked by the taxes won't just... say no to them? Yeah, fat chance of that happening! These downtrodden peasant schmucks have had any last shred of defiance beaten out of them generations ago. They'll just keep bending over and taking it like the good little tax-mules they are, praying to avoid the lash while their bellies growl. Probably not, but once their bellies stay empty I doubt they will turn the other cheek and bend over, oh well, this is most likely why the Walshes left the village?

Ooh, now there's an interesting thought! The Walshes were always a bit too uppity for their own good. I can totally see them getting a wild hair up their collective asses and deciding to take their chances on the lam rather than keep slaving away to support Lord Tightpants Eamonn's little empire. Probably got a few too many looks at the business end of the tax collector's cudgel and said "fuck this shit, we're out!"

But where would serfs even go? Solid question! It's not like they can just up and leave whenever they feel like it. Those poor bastards are bound tighter than a Victorian corset to whatever landed gentry happens to "own" them. They would still be properties of Lord Eamonn no matter what village they go to, perhaps they went to live in the forests? Oooh, now there's a grim thought! Abandoning what little security the village offers to go feral out in the untamed wilderness? Braving starvation, exposure, and all manner of Grimm's Fairy Tales-grade beasties just for a shot at something better than serfdom? Damn, those Walshes must have been pretty fucking desperate!

Better there than here? Out there with no protection from the church and witch hunters from supernatural monsters? Ehhh, I wouldn't be so sure about that one. At least in the village, you've got those doughty witch hunter lads like my dear uncle Sean to keep the bogeyman at bay. Out in the forest, it's a total monster's ball - werewolves, vampires, demons, you name it! Unless the Walshes are secretly a badass family of monster slayers in disguise, I give them maybe a week tops before something drags their twitching corpses back to the village for the church to burn.

Only God knows at this point. Well, God and whatever poor bastards had the misfortune of crossing paths with the Walshes out in the wild! I'm sure we'll find out their grisly fates eventually. Either they come crawling back with their tails between their legs, or some hunter brings back their gnawed-on remains as a warning for anyone else thinking about going rogue. Ah, the sweet enticements of peasant life!

A faint knock at the door stirs me from my brooding thoughts. It's so hesitant that I initially mistake it for branches scraping against the wood. Aislin stands up from the bench, pausing with one hand hovering near the latch.

"Who goes there?" she calls out cautiously.

A soft female voice answers from the other side. "Maeve."

With trembling fingers, Aislin lifts the hatch and swings the warped door inward. Outside stands the most stunningly beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on in this miserable backwater.

Maeve is slender yet curved in all the right places, her hips swaying hypnotically with each step. Her raven tresses cascade in lustrous waves past her shoulders, framing a face of ethereal beauty - high cheekbones, full crimson lips, and striking amber eyes that seem to smolder with an inner fire. Even her simple linen shift and bodice can't conceal the lush swell of her breasts straining against the fabric.

I gulp audibly, feeling an unfamiliar stirring in my loins as I drink in Maeve's exquisite form. Surely no mere mortal woman should possess such preternatural allure!

Aislin guides the raven-haired beauty inside, gesturing for her to sit on the bench opposite me. As Maeve lowers herself gracefully onto the rough plank seat, I can't tear my gaze away from the gentle sway of her full hips.[...]