The next morning dawned gray and gloomy. No different from her mind.

Those first mornings of the seasons of silence were always the hardest. They demanded acceptance, forcing her to reckon with the sameness of it all. Nothing had shifted. Nothing had improved. She was right where she’d always been, caught in the slow orbit of a life that refused to move forward. Another cycle of just existing, drifting through each day in quiet, bitter anticipation that maybe—just maybe—the next time, things might be different.

A next time that wouldn’t come for another long few months.

There had been a time when mornings like these were softened by the knock of a maid at her door, her presence a gentle reminder that the world beyond her room still moved and breathed. A quiet voice would greet her, hands deftly helping her into her dress, lacing her up tight as though she were a parcel being prepared for delivery. But Emberlyth had cast those habits aside long ago, along with the noble airs that once dictated every corner of her life.

Those rituals had been another shackle, another way to keep her tethered to a role she had never wanted. The noble daughter. The proper Draekart heir. Waking at dawn, eating precisely at midday, speaking only when spoken to—Ember had grown to despise every hollow tradition.

Now, her mornings were her own, even if they were bleak and empty. She rummaged through her chaotic closet, tugging free a loose shirt and a pair of well-worn trousers, tossing them onto her bed without a second thought. Socks? Unnecessary. The chill of the stone floors was nothing compared to the satisfaction of her quiet rebellion.

It amused her, imagining the scandalized looks her family would wear if they could see her now. Lady Efrain would no doubt faint dead away at the sight of Ember’s half-buttoned shirt and her hair, tangled and barely tied back. The old woman had always tutted about appearances, her sharp eyes cutting like knives. But Lady Efrain was gone, and Ember had only the memory of her gasps and disapproving frowns to keep her company.

She smiled faintly as she tugged on her clothes, the act itself a small, imagined defiance. Not that it mattered. No one was left to care what she wore or how she looked. The estate had grown quiet, its halls empty save for the distant echoes of her own footsteps.

Rebellion was only a small ember in her heart, either way. Trousers and a loose shirt were simply more practical for sword practice than the gowns her family had once favored. Jane had taught her that long ago, back when the estate still buzzed with life. The guard captain had been a wiry, battle-hardened woman with a voice like gravel and eyes like flint. She’d shown Ember how to move, how to fight, how to live unbound by silk and lace.

Jane was gone now too, and the title of guard captain had become little more than a meaningless label passed from one unremarkable figure to the next.

Emberlyth glanced down at her bare feet, wiggling her toes against the cold stone floor. Shoes were a luxury she didn’t care for today. She wasn’t planning to venture far. Where could she even go? The estate’s sprawling grounds, its high walls and dense forests, might as well have been the bars of her cage.

Loosely dressed for the occasion, hair tied up in a lazy knot, Emberlyth stifled a yawn. A half-shuddered one. The chill crept in faster this morning, seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt. Not that she bothered dressing warmer. It wasn’t that kind of cold—the sort to make her skin prickle, to remind her she was alive.

She crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, her bare feet whispering against the stone floor. The door was an option, of course, but where was the charm in that? She reached for the heavy drapes and pulled them back, revealing the gray world beyond. Rain tapped against the glass, steady and soft. There was something about that sound, a quiet rhythm that felt like a secret shared just between her and the morning.

She pressed her hand to the cold glass, letting the chill bite into her skin.

For all its simplicity, the ritual felt like a small adventure. The only kind she allowed herself these days. And she would cling to it fiercely, as though holding fast to this routine could keep her from drowning in the monotony of it all.

With a flick of her wrist, she unlatched the window. The panes swung open, inviting the rain to stain the sill. She cared little for the puddles gathering there; she could wipe them away later—if she felt like it. Right now, her attention was fixed on the grounds below. The lawn and hedges stretched out in neat rows, damp and glistening in the dim light.

The ghostly gardener, as she’d come to think of him, was rarely seen but often felt. A misplaced spade, a rake leaning against the hedge, the faint scent of fresh earth in the air—these were his calling cards. And though the estate had grown emptier with each passing season, the grass had never looked so well-kept. Not since he’d taken over the grounds some month or so ago. It was a curious thing, she thought, to see something so mundane maintained in a place where so few remained to care.

Her eyes flicked over the scene below, ensuring no stray tools lay in her path. Satisfied, she swung a leg over the windowsill and, with a practiced ease, let herself drop into the rain. Eight feet to the ground, her landing softened by an agile roll.

The wet wasted no time soaking through her shirt, clinging to her skin. But it wasn’t unpleasant. If anything, the coolness sharpened her senses, stifling the lingering threads of sleep that clung to her. She rose with a stretch, letting the rain wash over her, the droplets tracing paths down her arms and face.

Awake now, truly awake, Emberlyth strode toward the sprawling bush beneath her window. It was an old habit, hiding her practice sword there. The thought of trekking all the way to the armory each morning felt like an unnecessary ritual, one more chain she’d gladly broken.

She’d been wary when the new gardener had arrived, but it seemed her carefully worded note had worked. A simple request not to disturb its contents. She half-expected her makeshift storage to be discovered, her weapon spirited away. But the note had done its job. Her fingers slipped between the branches, and there it was—the smooth, familiar wood of her practice blade.

She let out a small breath of relief. Even now, it felt wrong to use her father’s sword for something as mundane as sparring. That blade was meant for more. Its edge had tasted real battle. To mar it on the rain-soaked hide of a practice dummy felt sacrilegious.

Wooden sword in hand, Emberlyth turned her gaze toward the old maple tree at the far end of the yard. Its thick branches stretched wide, offering a sparse canopy even on the gloomiest of days. Beneath it, the training dummy stood bound, a silent sentinel waiting for her.

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She approached with purpose, her bare feet splashing through shallow puddles. The sword came alive in her hands, cutting lazy arcs through the air as she warmed up her shoulders. The rain was steady now, a curtain of silver against the gray sky, but here, under the maple’s ancient boughs, the world felt quiet. Still.

And for a moment, she could pretend the bounds of her world stretched further than this lonely estate.

There were drills she could have done. Dozens of precise forms, each a dance of practiced movements. Strikes and parries, feints and ripostes. But it had been so long since anyone bothered to watch her, to point out where her blade faltered or her stance wavered, that those finer details felt like dust gathering in forgotten corners of her mind.

She didn’t want finesse today. She wanted something to break.

For the next hour, the dummy bore the brunt of her frustration. She struck not with grace, but with raw, unrelenting force. The rhythm of her blows was erratic, driven by a frustration that had no proper shape or name. Each strike sent a satisfying thud through the soaked cloth of the dummy, each impact a small release of the pressure building inside her.

Eventually, her fingers gave out before her fury did. The wooden sword slipped from her grasp, landing in the wet grass with a muted thump. “Damn it,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her arms ached, her palms throbbed, but the fire in her chest refused to be extinguished.

She stepped closer to the dummy, her hands curling into fists. “Surge,” she spat, and heat bloomed in her right hand as she drove it into the dummy’s blank, unremarkable face. The damp fabric sizzled and smoked but refused to catch. That was fine. The impact alone was enough to draw a ragged sigh of relief from her.

Again, she muttered, “Surge.” Her left fist followed, striking with equal force. Left, right, right, left, the rhythm of her punches quickening as the heat flickered and faded, each blow accompanied by a spark of flame that lasted only a heartbeat. The dummy bore it all in silence, its sodden stuffing darkening with each strike.

Finally, with a bellowed “Surge!” she spun, planting her heel into the dummy’s head. The impact sent it snapping back, the makeshift face ripping free from its bindings and tumbling to the ground. Emberlyth stood over it, panting, rain running down her face in thin rivulets.

For a moment, she felt the faintest flicker of satisfaction. Then the cold crept back in, and she turned her face to the sky, letting the rain wash over her.

The morning was still young, and already she’d wrung herself dry—marks dimmed, limbs heavy. What better way to greet the first dawn of the season of suffering? Now there was only the long stretch of hours ahead. Days and months would blur, each one quietly consumed by the hope that the next time she saw her family, something, anything, had happened to shift the balance.

She sucked in a breath, jaw clenched, not to steady her body but to silence the steady, gnawing ache in her chest—and a yet forgotten bruise to her side. It wasn’t fatigue that made her shoulders slump as she trudged to retrieve her sword. The dummy’s severed head she left lying in the grass, a chore for a version of herself that might someday care. The sword, however, she hurled back into the thorny embrace of the bush. Let future Ember deal with the scratches and scrapes. A distraction, a tangible pain she could sink her teeth into when the dullness of waiting became unbearable again.

“What a beautiful morning this is.” She let the cold rain streak her face. “Perfect for my beautiful life.”

Her eyes lifted to the window she’d leapt from, now looming high above. The ivy clinging to the stone looked freshly pruned, neat and vibrant in a way that made her hesitate. Another little miracle courtesy of the ghostly gardener. It seemed a shame to ruin it with muddy handprints and scuffed soles. Not to mention the climb seemed more effort than it was worth in her current state.

With a resigned sigh, she brushed a few damp strands of hair from her face, tying them back as best she could. Barefoot and sodden, she began her long, meandering walk around the estate. The grass was soft beneath her toes, the earth cool and yielding. For a fleeting moment, it stirred the memory of a different girl—a younger, freer Ember, running wild through the grounds. She could almost hear the echo of her laughter, the carefree sound of a child oblivious to the invisible chains rising around her.

“Breakfast,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. Her stomach grumbled faintly in agreement. “I need food. If I don’t eat, this miserable mood of mine might just dig its way into my bones.”

Bright thoughts. At least the kitchen was on her way.

----------------------------------------

Even through the rain, with morning light spilling weak and watery through the windows, the kitchen felt less oppressive than it had the night before. Not that it had returned to the pleasant clamor of the previous morning, though, when two dozen bodies bustled about, stirring pots and packing provisions. Now, only one figure remained.

Old Toad McGinnis sat hunched by the rain-streaked window, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. His broad, bulbous nose glistened like a wet stone, and a crudely carved pipe dangled from his lips. He fit perfectly with the melancholia that seemed to settle over the estate like a second layer of mist. Yesterday, his face had been flushed, sweat beading on his brow as he barked orders at anyone within earshot. His voice, gravelly and impatient, had filled the kitchen like the clang of pots and knives. And yet, there had been something more then—a faint, twitching vitality in the corners of his mouth, a spark that defied the grim season that lay on the horizon.

Now, as he drew in a slow breath from the pipe, smoke curled and billowed from his nostrils, thick as fog and twice as stubborn. It spread through the room in lazy tendrils, touching everything. The ladle resting in a pot of simmering stew gave a gentle stir as if nudged by unseen hands. The smoke coiled around jars of pickled herbs, brushed against a half-loaf of stale bread, and finally reached the tips of Emberlyth’s bare toes.

McGinnis stirred then, lifting his eyes with the slow inevitability of someone surfacing from deep water. His gaze was heavy, distant, the sort of look that said he was seeing something behind her rather than her herself.

“The thief returns to the scene of the crime,” he croaked, voice thick with smoke and phlegm. He raised a hand just in time to catch a hacking cough, his knotted fingers coming away stained black with soot and bile. Ginnis had been a younger man when he arrived at the estate, years ago, his face fuller, his step lighter. He hadn’t smoked reed’s bark back then—only old men and dying ones did that.

This place had aged him. It had stolen the crooked, gap-toothed grin he used to flash her when she found the extra caramel chocolates tucked beneath her plate. Back then, he’d been a conspirator in her small rebellions, winking as if they shared some grand secret. A simpler time. One they both surely missed, in their own quiet ways.

Now he was just another worn-out relic of a place that seemed determined to grind the both of them into dust.

“Eye for an eye,” Emberlyth said, crossing her arms where she stood, leaving a small puddle of rainwater on the floor. “You forgot my dinner.”

“Did not,” McGinnis countered without even looking up. “Double serving of turkey legs and thrice-fried mash. Your favorite, sitting right there on the counter.” He gestured vaguely with the stem of his pipe. “Made extra. Figured you’d want it.”

“Nothing was there last night,” Emberlyth said, her eyes flicking to the counter. It was as barren now as it had been then.

“Oh, please, lass.” McGinnis huffed and rubbed his eyes with two knobby knuckles. “You saying Izbeth took it? That woman barely eats more than a cracker in a day. Or maybe one of the guards, after you’ve yelled them out of the house a dozen times?” He shook his head, slow and deliberate, as though the weight of her accusation was a physical burden. “If the portions I give you aren’t enough, just say so. That ham was meant for tonight’s supper. Now I’m stuck throwing together a soup from scraps, as if this miserable rain wasn’t dreary enough on its own.”

“There was no plate,” Emberlyth murmured, her resolve wilting. Last night, her thoughts had been a foggy mess of frustration and hunger. Had she missed it? Ginnis wasn’t one to lie. Had she truly raided the pantry of the last man who still cared, all for nothing? She blinked, stomach knotting. Thrice-fried mash was her favorite.

“And who drowned this cat, then?” McGinnis grunted, gesturing toward her with a rough wave. “If you keep looking like that, I’ll start feeling guilty for being mad. Here.” He sighed, reaching beneath the counter. “Was going to keep this from you as punishment, but it looks like you’re suffering enough on your own.”

He set a plate on the table, its contents plain but hearty: stale bread, beans swimming in sauce, and a few sausages, sliced and roasted.

“Take it,” he said, his voice softer now. “And for the love of all the saints, get yourself changed before you catch your death. You’re grown, lass. You can’t keep walking around like the world owes you pity. Even if I occasionally spare you some.” He jabbed a finger toward her dripping sleeves. “Go on, before you stain my floors any worse!”

Emberlyth took the plate with fumbling hands, the heat of it unfamiliar after so much cold. Before she could stammer a reply, Ginnis was ushering her toward the door, grumbling curses under his breath.

“And next time you steal without saying a word,” he called after her, “I’ll make sure you go hungry for a week!”

Emberlyth hesitated in the hall, plate in hand. She wanted to turn back, to protest, to shout, But there was no plate! But the words caught in her throat, snared on a net of doubt.

Or was there?

What other ghosts were there to steal from their kitchen but Ember herself.