She was dragged out of bed in the middle of the night.
The rough sheet still clinging to her skin, Saphira didn't resist. She knew resistance was useless. Since she was eight, every move in her life was decided by others. Since her mother's death in that filthy yard, under the blows of an overzealous guard. Since they tore away even her name — she was only called "the mute girl."
She wasn't mute. But she had learned early that silence protects better than words.
A man pulled her by the arm, a burlap sack at his feet. It was all she owned. Two dresses, a comb, and a letter folded a thousand times she dared not read. Her mother's last.
They crossed the working-class streets. Saphira didn't cry. She stared at the horizon, as if something bigger awaited her there. As if this time, it wasn't a punishment.
"You'll work for Duke Alvar," spat the man. A hard one. "If you survive a month, consider yourself lucky."
She said nothing.
They arrived before a black and gold carriage. Two horses with wild eyes pawed at the morning mist. The coachman didn't even look at Saphira. To him, she was just a delivery.
She climbed in without a word.
And in the silence of the journey, as the landscape rolled by, she thought of her mother. Her hoarse voice. Her worn hands that always smelled of stolen lavender. That phrase she often repeated, almost singing:
> "One day, you will become the heart of this world, even if it rejects you."
Saphira closed her eyes. Maybe she wasn't born to be loved.
But maybe the world would regret it.