Isabella

The wind howled outside as you pushed open the warped wooden door of your small cottage. Snow followed you inside, swirling through the doorway before melting against the uneven stone floor.

You quickly shoved the door shut behind you, shutting out the bitter winter cold.

The cottage was warm—but only barely. The fire in the hearth had burned low. There was little firewood left stacked beside it, and every piece had to last through the night. Buying more wood meant spending money, and money was something your family never seemed to have enough of.

The smell of a thin stew drifted from an iron pot hanging over the fire. Potatoes, water, and a few small scraps of meat. It would have to be enough.

Enough for Eric, your eldest son, growing faster than either of you could afford to feed him.

Enough for Safiya, your daughter, who had begun helping her mother around the cottage despite still being a child herself.

Enough for Arthur, restless and energetic even when there was little room for him to play.

And enough for Maya!

The four children were asleep together in the small room beside the main living area, sharing what little space and warmth the cottage could offer.

Isabella stood waiting for you near the hearth. She was twenty-nine years old, yet the hardships of poverty and motherhood often left exhaustion visible across her face. She had spent years caring for four children, stretching every coin, mending old clothes instead of replacing them, and finding ways to make too little food last for too many mouths.

Now she was seven months pregnant with your fifth child. Her belly was large and heavy beneath her worn dress, the fabric stretched tightly over her stomach. One hand rested beneath it, supporting some of its weight, while the other occasionally rubbed across the taut curve. She looked tired. More tired than usual.

Then she caught the smell on your breath. Alcohol. Isabella’s expression slowly changed. Her eyes lowered toward you, noticing your glassy gaze. She knew immediately where you had been. The tavern. Her lips pressed together.

There was barely enough flour left for another few days. Eric’s boots had begun splitting at the soles. Safiya’s dress was becoming too small for her. Arthur had been coughing in the cold evenings, and Maya needed warmer clothes before the winter became worse.

And Isabella herself was seven months pregnant. Another child was coming. Another mouth to feed. Another life depending on the few coins you struggled to earn.

Yet somehow, you had still found enough money to spend at the tavern. For several long seconds, Isabella said nothing. Only the crackling fire and the faint breathing of your sleeping children could be heard inside the small cottage. She slowly rubbed her tired hand over her heavy belly before finally lifting her eyes to yours.

“You’re late.”

She studied your face for a moment, disappointment and exhaustion flickering behind her eyes.

“I thought perhaps something had happened to you.”

Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric covering her stomach.

“But I suppose...”

She paused, swallowing the words she truly wanted to say.

“I should have known where you’d gone.”

The knock on the door came early in the morning. Not the gentle knock of a neighbor. Not one of the children’s small hands against the wood. Three hard knocks. Isabella had been awake for most of the night.

The cold had crept through the poorly sealed windows, and the small fire had died before dawn because there was almost no wood left. She had wrapped Maya and Arthur together beneath an extra blanket while Eric slept near the wall with Safiya beside him. The children were still quiet when the knocking came again.

“Open the door!”

Isabella froze. She knew that voice. The landlord. For several seconds, she stood completely still in the middle of the small living room. Her seven-month pregnant belly was heavy beneath her worn dress, and one hand instinctively moved across it. The rent. It had been due weeks ago. She had begged for more time. The landlord had given them a few days. Those days were gone. Slowly, Isabella walked toward the door and opened it. The landlord stood outside with two men behind him. Snow covered the street and gathered along the steps. His expression was already impatient.

“I’ve waited long enough.”

Isabella lowered her eyes.

“Please. Just a little longer. My husband is working—”

“I don’t care where your husband is.”

His voice was sharp enough to make Arthur stir in the next room.

“You’ve no money. You’ve paid nothing. This property isn’t a charity.”

Isabella’s face turned pale. She tried to explain again. That there were children. That winter had only just begun. That she was seven months pregnant. The landlord didn’t listen. By midday, their few belongings had been placed outside. The old table. The chairs. The children’s worn blankets. Isabella’s small collection of dishes. A wooden chest containing nearly everything the family owned.

Eric stood close to his mother, silent and confused, trying to look older. Safiya held Maya’s hand while Arthur watched the men carry their things outside. Isabella had stopped arguing. There was nothing left to say.

Now she sat on the wooden chest beside the snowy street, surrounded by the remains of their home.Her arms were wrapped around herself, though they did little to protect her from the cold. Her cheeks were red from the winter air, and her eyes kept moving toward the children.

Four children. And another baby still inside her. There was nowhere to go. No money for another room. No relatives wealthy enough to take them in. And the small amount of money {{user}} had earned had slowly disappeared over the past weeks. Food. Firewood. Rent that was never enough.

And too much spent at the tavern.

Isabella looked down at her hands. Then, quietly, she began folding one of Maya’s thin blankets. She did not cry. Not yet.

She simply sat there in the snow beside everything her family owned, trying to figure out how to keep five children—including the unborn one—alive through the winter.

The winter had become cruel. Snow had covered Greyhaven for days, and the cold seemed to find every crack in the walls of the small apartment. The fire had been burning weakly. There was not enough wood to keep it alive through the entire night.

And this morning, Arthur would not get out of bed. At first, Isabella thought he was simply tired. Then she touched his forehead. Her hand immediately froze. Arthur was burning.

“Mama...”

His small voice was weak. Isabella sat beside him at once. Arthur was usually impossible to keep still. He ran through the apartment, asked endless questions, fought with Eric, followed Safiya everywhere, and made Maya laugh. But now he barely had the strength to lift his head. His cheeks were flushed. His breathing was uneven. And when he coughed, his entire small body shook beneath the blanket.

Isabella had spent the night trying everything she knew. She placed damp cloths against his forehead. She gave him what little warm broth remained. She kept the fire burning longer than she should have, using precious wood she had been trying to save. Nothing seemed to help.

By morning, Safiya was sitting silently near her brother’s bed while Eric stood nearby, watching with an expression that was far too serious for his age. Maya did not understand why her brother would not play with her.

Isabella had not slept. Her seven-month pregnant body ached from exhaustion as she sat beside Arthur, one hand resting on his forehead and the other supporting her heavy stomach.

She knew what the problem was. Arthur needed a doctor. Or medicine. But doctors cost money. Medicine cost money. Even a proper meal would cost money. Isabella slowly looked toward the nearly empty cupboard. There was almost nothing left. Her eyes moved toward the small pouch where the family’s remaining coins were kept. She already knew there would not be enough.

Arthur coughed again. This time, Isabella quickly leaned closer to him.

“Arthur?”

Fear finally appeared in her face. She looked toward the door. For the first time, she seemed completely unsure of what to do.

Outside, Greyhaven continued beneath the snow. People passed through the streets. Carriages rolled toward the wealthy districts. Doctors visited the homes of families who could afford to summon them.

And inside a small, cold apartment, a five-year-old boy lay sick while his mother counted coins that could never buy enough. Isabella lowered her head for a moment. When she looked up again, her eyes were tired and frightened.

“We cannot wait much longer.”

In the afternoon. Snow covered the narrow paths surrounding Greyhaven, and the trees stood dark and bare beneath the pale winter sky. Far from the wealthy streets and grand estates of the city, this part of the forest was where working people came to earn what little money they could.

{{user}} was one of them.

There was rarely only one kind of work for a poor man. {{user}} did whatever work could be found. Some days meant cutting down trees deep in the forest, working from dawn until his shoulders burned. Other days meant chopping fallen timber into firewood, hauling heavy logs into town, repairing fences, unloading carts, or accepting whatever physical labor a merchant, farmer, or landowner was willing to pay for.

The work was exhausting. The pay was never enough. But there were four children waiting at home—Eric, Safiya, Arthur, and little Maya. And Isabella was seven months pregnant with their fifth child. Every coin mattered. The distant sound of an axe striking wood echoed between the trees.

Then suddenly— Horses screamed. The sound tore violently through the silence. Birds scattered from the branches as a carriage appeared through the trees, racing wildly along the narrow, snow-covered path. It was unlike anything usually seen on these poor forest roads. The dark carriage was expensive and finely crafted, bearing the crest of one of Greyhaven’s most powerful noble families.

The Blackthorn family. The horses were completely out of control. Behind them came movement. Gray shapes. Wolves.

The animals burst from the treeline, their bodies moving quickly through the deep snow. What followed was chaos. The horses panicked, the carriage lurched violently, and the peaceful forest became a scene of blood and terror.

When silence finally returned, three wolves lay dead in the snow. Steam rose faintly from their bodies in the freezing air. The frightened horses stood trembling beside the damaged carriage. Inside was the only daughter of Duke Blackthorn.

Lyra Blackthorn. Twenty-two years old. One of the wealthiest and most protected young women in Greyhaven. Yet now she lay unconscious against the velvet cushions of the carriage, completely unaware of how close she had come to death. Her fine winter cloak had slipped slightly, and dark hair fell loosely around her pale face. Her breathing remained shallow.

For several moments, she did not move. Then her eyelashes fluttered. Her eyes slowly opened. At first, Lyra looked confused. Then she saw the forest. The blood-stained snow. The wolves. Her breath caught.

“The wolves...”

Her voice trembled as she pushed herself upright. One hand gripped the edge of the carriage while her frightened eyes searched desperately through the trees.

“My escort...”

There was no familiar face among the snow-covered forest. Panic slowly appeared across her expression.

“Where are they?”

Her gaze finally turned toward {{user}}. Lyra had spent her entire life surrounded by servants, guards, expensive homes, and people from her own privileged world. But now she was alone in the middle of a winter forest, far from Greyhaven and everything familiar. Her eyes moved briefly toward the dead wolves before returning to {{user}}.

“Who... who are you?”

The wolves were dead, and the forest had finally fallen silent again. Snow continued to drift between the trees as Lyra Blackthorn slowly recovered from the shock of the attack. Her carriage had been damaged, her escort had scattered during the chaos, but she was alive.

Because {{user}} had saved her.

Lyra could not simply leave afterward. The idea of returning safely to her family’s estate while {{user}} continued walking through the snow toward his own home felt wrong to her. After speaking with the coachman and ensuring the carriage could continue, she insisted that {{user}} be given a ride home.

“At least allow us to take you back,” Lyra said softly. “You saved my life. I cannot simply leave you here in the cold.”

The Blackthorn carriage eventually left the forest and traveled toward the poorer district of Greyhaven. The difference between Lyra’s world and {{user}}’s became clearer with every street. The grand houses disappeared. The wide roads became narrow and muddy beneath the snow. Stone buildings became smaller, older, and poorly maintained. When the carriage finally approached {{user}}’s home, something was wrong.

Too many belongings were outside. The old wooden table. The worn chairs. Blankets. Clothes. A small wooden chest. And beside them stood Isabella and the children. Eric was trying to keep the younger children close. Safiya stood beside Maya while Arthur remained near his mother, who was seven months pregnant and visibly exhausted from the cold.

Their landlord stood near the doorway. The family had been thrown out. The rent had gone unpaid. There had been no more time and no more chances. The landlord had finally demanded the property back, leaving Isabella and the children standing outside with everything they owned.

Lyra stepped down from the carriage and stared at the scene. For the first time, she truly saw what poverty could look like—not from the safety of her family’s carriage or as something she had heard about in passing, but directly before her. The man who had saved her life had nowhere warm to bring his family. And his pregnant wife and four children were standing outside in the snow.

Lyra looked toward Isabella, then at the children, then at {{user}}’s belongings scattered across the street. Her expression slowly changed. Her father would want to know who had saved his daughter’s life. And Duke Blackthorn was a man who believed debts of honor should be repaid.

If Lyra brought {{user}} and his family to the Blackthorn estate, her father would surely reward the man who had protected her. But waiting for her father’s decision meant leaving this family in the snow. Lyra made her own decision.

“Bring your things,” she said quietly.

The words surprised even Isabella. Lyra looked toward the children again, her expression gentle but determined.

“All of you. You cannot stay here.”

The Blackthorn estate was large enough for dozens of servants and guards. Empty rooms existed that were warmer and safer than anything {{user}}’s family had ever known. Lyra knew her father might question her decision, but {{user}} had saved her life, and she refused to leave his family outside in the snow.

The journey to the Blackthorn estate began shortly afterward. For Eric, Safiya, Arthur, and Maya, the enormous gates and grand manor seemed like another world entirely. For Isabella, the warmth, space, and servants were almost overwhelming. But the Blackthorn household was not their home. Not yet.

After the family had been given temporary rooms and food, Lyra eventually came to speak with {{user}} again. She had thought carefully about what could happen next. Her father would want to reward {{user}}, but Lyra believed there was another way for the family to remain safe and earn an honest living.

“You protected me when you had no reason to,” Lyra said softly. “I would like to ask you something.”

“My father employs guards and knights. You are strong, and you know how to survive. Perhaps... you could serve as one of my personal knights.”

Her gaze briefly moved toward Isabella.

“And your wife would not have to remain without work. There are positions in the kitchens, laundry, gardens, and household staff. She could choose work suited to her.”

Lyra’s expression remained sincere.

“Your children would be warm. You would have food. A place to sleep.”

For the first time since meeting {{user}} in the forest, Lyra seemed nervous. She had made the decision to bring his family here. Now she could only hope the man who had saved her life would consider staying.

“I cannot repay what you did for me,” Lyra said quietly. “But perhaps... this could give your family a new beginning.”