Chapter 3

~Serah POV~

The rain had eased by dawn, leaving the streets slick with mud, my gown clung heavy and wet, the hem torn where I'd stumbled over cobblestones. I hadn't slept, I hadn't eaten, but I kept moving.

I whispered to my stomach as though the child could hear me. "We'll survive this somehow."

The tavern keeper at the city's edge sneered when I begged for shelter. "No coin, no roof, get out!" He slammed the door in my face.

So I walked through alleys and markets where merchants jeered, through crowds that parted like I had carried the plague by nightfall, I collapsed on the riverbank, the world tilting around me.

"Pathetic sight, isn't it?" a voice drawled. I jerked upright and saw a tall man leaned against a tree, half-hidden in shadowy black cloak, eyes gleaming red in the moonlight like a predator's gaze.

I stumbled back. "Stay away from me!"

He smirked. "If I wanted you dead, little bride, you'd already be bleeding."

His words chilled me. "Wait, you… know who I am?"

"Oh, everyone knows the discarded wife of Lord Jethro banished with his so-called child." He tilted his head. "Tell me, is it true that he chose your stepsister over you?"

My hands flew protectively to my stomach. "It's none of your concern!"

That earned a low chuckle. "Brave, I like that."

"Who are you?" I demanded.

He stepped forward, moonlight catching on the scar across his jaw. "Tristan, exiled prince of the Night-borne."

The name sent a jolt through me even though I raised in the sheltered halls of my family estate, knew it. A rival clan, enemies of Jethro's house, are dangerous and ruthless.

I exhale. "If you've come to finish me, do it, but please spare my child."

Something flickered in his eyes like curiosity. "You're bold and also stupid." He crouched in front of me, gaze searching. "Tell me, Serah, do you want revenge?"

My breath ceased. "Revenge?"

"Yes." His voice dropped, smooth and dark.

"You want him on his knees, don't you? Begging, bleeding, regretting every word he spat in your face."

The image made my heart pound, Jethro's cold sneer replaced with desperation, his hands reaching for me as I turned away.

"I… I just want peace for my child," I whispered.

Tristan smirked. "Peace is bought with power and power you don't have but power I can give."

I narrowed my eyes. "And what would you ask in return?"

He leaned closer, lips curling. "Your loyalty, nothing more."

My gut twisted trading one tyrant for another? Yet something in his eyes sharp, calculating gaze wasn't lust or cruelty, it was strategy. He didn't want me broken; he wanted me useful.

I hesitated. "Why me?"

"Because," Tristan said softly, "a woman scorned is the sharpest weapon of all and Jethro Veylen has made a grave mistake."

The river roared beside us and my heart roared inside me. Finally, I whispered, "What must I do?"

Tristan smiled as the moon itself had bent in his favor. "First, you must survive then, you learn how to crush your enemy and when the time comes…" His red eyes gleamed. "You strike."

Tristan arranged discreet shelter in the ruins outside the city and his people's mercenaries, rogues, those cast aside by noble houses watched me with wary eyes but obeyed his orders.

At night, he taught me how to listen and move silently when dealing with enemies, how to wear strength even when shattered inside and how to be brave even when I'm weak. I should always choose myself first and be selfish.

"Hold your head higher," he ordered one evening as I stumbled through a mock introduction.

I scowled. "Easy for you because no one spat on your name like mine."

He smirked. "They spat on it years ago, but I learned to make the spit into a crown."

Despite my worried heart, a laugh escaped from my mouth. "That's disgusting."

"It was effective," he corrected.

Sometimes, he was cruel in his methods, forcing me to stand until my legs shook, making me repeat words until my throat burned. But he never struck me, never sneered, and his harshness was iron, not poison.

One night, as I clutched my stomach, he noticed a wince. "The child troubles you?"

"Morning sickness," I muttered. "Though it seems worse at night."

He studied me then, surprisingly, he brought herbs, bitter tea that steadied my stomach.

"You really cared about me," I teased weakly.

He arched a brow. "If the child dies, you lose your leverage and I lose my weapon." Cold words, yet when he turned away, I thought I saw something softer in his eyes.

Weeks passed, then whispers reached us that Jethro was flaunting Lydia at balls, declaring his marriage to me annulled, calling me a liar before the court. Each rumor cut like a blade, but each time, Tristan's voice hardened me. "Let him continue, the higher he climbs, the farther he'll fall."

I clung to that thought and to the child inside me, the ember of vengeance that slowly grew into fire. One night, under a blood-red moon, Tristan placed a dagger in my hand.

"Tonight, you learn to fight."

I stared at the blade. "I've never held one before."

"Then you'll start by holding it steady." He guided my grip, his hand firm over mine.

"Revenge waits for no trembling hand."

I looked up at him, heart pounding. "And if I fail?"

He smirked. "Then you die, but at least you'll die trying and if I were you, I wouldn't fail, because I need this to destroy the enemy that humiliates me in front of everyone." A shiver ran through me, not of fear but awakening.

For the first time, I wasn't just a cast-off bride, or a desperate daughter, or a discarded sh*t as he said. I was something new, a mother, a fighter and a woman who would one day stand over Jethro Veylen's broken pride and say, You should have never let me go. And as Tristan's eyes held mine, sharp and unyielding, I knew he believed it too.