It wasn't there yesterday. Aisling Marielle Rutherford was absolutely sure. How could she miss something tucked away in *this* room? Her father's room. A dusty tomb of what used to be, filled with towers of bills higher than any building in Westmarch, proving just how far the Rutherfords had fallen.
The Rutherford name used to mean everything here. Money, respect, land that stretched further than you could see. Now? Just broken-down houses, people banging on the door asking for money, and Aisling herself scrubbing floors servants used to shine. She knelt on the rough wooden floor, her dress rumpled like old laundry, trying to bring just a bit of order to the mess. Dust stuck to her skin like a second layer, and she'd just hit her elbow on something under the bed that smelled suspiciously like stale wine.
"If this gives me some horrible sickness, I'm haunting Father first," she grumbled, rubbing her arm. Her mother, Caiomhe, had died from a fever years ago. It had shattered their family and sent her father down the path that led them here. Pushing aside junk under a huge, old chest – a fancy box now filled with useless papers of debts – Aisling saw it.
A thin scroll of paper, peeking out like a snake hiding.
With a groan that was half pain, half pure misery, she reached for it. Her fingers brushed the edge, and because the day clearly hated her, she got a paper cut. "Perfect. Just what I needed."
She pulled the letter free, squinting at the front in the weak light from the dirty window. Her heart pounded, a frantic drum against the heavy silence of the room. It wasn't for her father, Lord Rutherford, Master of Debts.
It was for her. Miss Aisling Marielle Rutherford.
Her full name, written in ink so thin and fancy it looked less like writing and more like… bleeding. As if the ink itself had cried onto the paper, etched by a dead hand that still knew how to hold a pen. The letters seemed to pulse, looking wet and wounded.
Then she saw the seal.
Deep red. Not just red, but crimson. Like fresh blood spilled on snow. The wax gleamed darkly, shaped like a wolf's head caught mid-snarl, teeth bared in a silent scream of rage and hunger. It looked wet, shiny, like it had just been pressed moments ago, maybe still warm.
She reached out, touching it with her thumb. A shiver, cold and sharp, ran down her back. It wasn't the cold of wax; it was the cold of a ghost standing right behind you, breathing on your neck.
Standing up, she smacked her head on the bed frame. "Ow—seriously, am I cursed?"
Clutching the letter like it might suddenly burst into flames, Aisling stumbled out of the room. She walked through the empty warzone that was their living room – a place that sounded grand but was just four cracked walls, a dying fireplace, and furniture that smelled of failure. The curtains drooped like they'd given up on everything. The torn leather chair sighed loudly as she collapsed into it.
She didn't care. Her heart was beating like a war drum.
Taking a shaky breath, then another, she broke the seal. The wax snapped like a small bone. A smell came out, dark roses mixed with something sharp, metallic. She sniffed. "What the hell... is that iron?"
Her stomach twisted. Who puts perfume on a letter? And who makes it smell like… blood? Every part of her screamed don't read this. Which, of course, meant she had to read it.
Unfolding the paper, her green eyes scanned the thin writing.
To the Honored Miss Rutherford,
Your name stirs memory like music played on the edge of a knife.
I need your hand in marriage.
For this, I offer to erase every debt your family has piled up.
Your father will be safe.
Your brother will be free from sickness.
You only need to sign.
Baron Kylian Hawkrige.
Aisling stopped breathing. Her eyes went wide, fixed on the name, the offer, the terrifying promise of freedom bought with her. The meaning hit her like a wave of ice, instantly followed by a hot rush of pure rage. Her hand squeezed the paper, crushing it. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a silent snarl.
"Father!" she shrieked, the sound ripping from her throat, raw and sharp. "FATHER!"
She didn't wait, didn't expect an answer. She exploded from the chair, the letter tight in her hand, and stormed through the quiet, dying house. "FATHER!" she screamed again, her voice bouncing off the high ceilings, echoing back from empty rooms. "Where are you, you cowardly fool?! Get out here!"
She checked the drawing-room, furniture hidden under dusty white sheets like ghosts. Empty. The library, rows of books gathering dust like forgotten dreams. Empty. The dining room, the long table cold and bare. Empty. Her anger grew with every empty space, every time he didn't answer. Where was he?! How dare he be gone now, when this… this monstrous thing had arrived?
Panting, her red hair wild around her face, Aisling stumbled back into the living room, the study she'd been cleaning. She held the crumpled letter, her knuckles white, and clawed at her head, her mind racing, trying to understand the impossible. Baron Kylian Hawkrige. The name itself felt cursed. Not a lord losing his fortune like her father, no. Baron Hawkrige was powerful, feared, his family name dark and twisted, linked to ancient wars and whispers of evil deals. He wanted her?
She sank back onto the floor, the cold wood seeping through her dress, her body shaking not from cold, but from the sheer force of her trapped rage and growing panic. She buried her face in her hands, muffling a choked cry.
"Aisling?" A soft voice cut through her mess of feelings.
She snapped her head up. Liam stood in the doorway, his small shape dark against the lighter hall. His red hair was a mess of curls, his usually calm green eyes wide with worry, mirroring the fear and confusion she must look like.
"Liam," she gasped, scrambling back onto her knees. "He's not here. Father's not here."
Liam moved closer, slowly, carefully. "I heard you calling. And… shouting. What is it? What's happened?" His voice was gentle, like a soothing balm on her raw nerves, but she was too far gone.
"This!" she practically yelled, shoving the crumpled letter at him. "This arrived! It was in his room! Under the chest! I found it cleaning!" Her words spilled out, rough and fast, a flood of fear and anger. "It's from Baron Hawkrige! Kylian Hawkrige! He wants—he needs my hand in marriage! For our debts! For your health! He says—he says Father will be safe, you won't get sick, if I just sign!"
Liam didn't take the letter right away. He just looked at her, his eyes steady. "Aisling. Breathe."
"Breathe?! Liam, did you hear me? Kylian Hawkrige! Marriage! He wants to marry me!"
"I heard you," Liam said softly, his voice patient, steady. He stepped closer, reaching out a thin hand to gently take hers. "Your hands are shaking. Just… breathe with me. Slow."
He held her gaze, his calm presence a quiet strength against the storm inside her. Slowly, unwillingly, Aisling took a shaky, rattling breath, trying to copy his slow, steady inhale and exhale. She did it again, and again, the wild pounding in her chest starting to slow down.
"Good," Liam whispered. "Now. Tell me again. Calmly this time."
Aisling swallowed, her throat tight. She loosened her grip, smoothing the crumpled paper a little before holding it out to him. Liam took it, his fingers brushing hers.
"I was cleaning Father's room," she began, her voice still tight but not screaming anymore. "Dusting under the chest… and I found this. Hidden away. It wasn't there yesterday, I know it." She told him about the envelope, the strange, bleeding ink, the chilling red seal with the wolf crest that felt so cold and wrong. She watched his face as he opened the letter and read, the small line between his brows, the flicker in his usually peaceful eyes.
"He says… he needs my hand in marriage," she repeated, the words tasting like dirt. "For all our debts. For your health. For Father's safety." She looked at Liam, her eyes begging. "Baron Hawkrige, Liam. The one they whisper about. The one whose grandfather—"
"I know," Liam cut in gently, his eyes lifting from the letter to meet hers. "I know who he is." He folded the paper slowly, carefully. "Father hid it."
"Hid it?"
"Yes. It was under the chest, you said. Tucked away. If it was a new offer he was thinking about… why hide it? Why wouldn't he tell you right away? Or try to talk to you?" Liam's voice was thoughtful, making sense. "Aisling… maybe this is an old letter. Maybe it came a while ago, Father read it, was horrified, and just hid it away and tried to forget it. That would explain why he hasn't said anything. He's clearly not considering it now."
He reached out again, taking her hands firmly this time. "He wouldn't do this to you, Aisling. He might be lost in his sadness and his mistakes, but he wouldn't give you away to him. Not like this."
A tiny spark of hope flickered in Aisling's chest, quickly swallowed by her anger. "Old or new, it's still here. And it's from him. Offering to buy me like property." She snatched the letter back, her earlier fury returning, calmer now, like a hot coal instead of a fire. "Well, I won't let him."
She pushed herself up, moving towards the cold fireplace. Liam watched her, his face soft but understanding. "Aisling, what are you doing?"
"What has to be done," she said, her voice low and fierce. She dug through the mess near the fireplace, finding a tinderbox and a piece of old cloth. With steady hands, she struck the flint, making a small flame catch onto the cloth. The tiny fire flickered to life, casting dancing shadows on the grim walls.
She held the crumpled paper above the starting flame. "To hell with your knife-edge music," she whispered, her eyes narrow, "and your forgiveness."
Liam stood beside her, watching silently. Aisling lowered the letter, letting the edges touch the fire. The old paper burned quickly, curling inward, the thin writing turning black then to ash. The deep red wax seal seemed to squirm, the wolf crest twisting in the heat, before melting into a dark, bubbling puddle that cooled into a black, ugly scab on the stone.
Aisling watched until only a few glowing bits were left, the smell of burning paper and strange wax hanging in the air. She felt a grim satisfaction, a small win in taking back a tiny piece of control.
"That's that," she murmured, watching the last sparks die.
But as the final ember faded, leaving only darkness and the lingering smell, a cold dread wrapped around her. The wolf on the seal might be gone, but the hunger it represented felt closer than ever.
It was not over. Not even close.