The Kingdom of Romero wasn't exactly known for its bustling metropolises, but the remote village of Oakhaven was sleepy even by those low standards.
Twelve-year-old Roya trudged through the muddy dirt paths of the village market, her small hand held loosely by her mother, Elara. All around them, merchants hollered about fresh turnips and cheap fabrics, but Roya's attention was elsewhere.
She watched a burly blacksmith lift his giggling daughter onto his shoulders, handing her a stick of honey candy.
(Must be nice,) Roya thought, her eyes lingering on the warm amber glow of the sugar. (To have a father who stays. To have a father whose hands are meant for holding you, not for crushing herbs he can't even afford to use.)
She remembered her own father, Julian. He had been a man with a gentle smile and hands that were perpetually stained with dark ink. He had desperately wanted to study medicine, to travel to the capital and become a true healer.
But dreams didn't pay for bread. And they certainly didn't pay for the medicine he needed when a sudden, violent illness took him five years ago.
Less than two months after Julian's passing, Elara remarried. Roya didn't like it, but she was a child. What could she do? Her mother was the only family she had left.
Unfortunately, her new stepfather, Garret, was a man whose primary skills included losing at dice and smelling like cheap, sour ale.
A few months ago, after a particularly bad losing streak at the tavern, he had come home in a blind rage and struck Roya across the cheek.
Elara had stepped in and stopped him, but she hadn't yelled. She hadn't thrown him out into the rain. They were simply too poor to afford a broken home.
Later that night, sitting in complete silence, her mother had gently patched up Roya's bruised face.
(You're doing it again, Mom,) Roya had thought, staring at her mother's tired eyes. (You're patching the wound but completely ignoring the person who caused it. Is this what love looks like when you have no money? Just... silence?)
Winter arrived with a bitter, biting wind that rattled the wooden frames of their small house.
Roya was sitting on the floor by the dim fireplace, tracing the intricate diagrams of the human body in one of her father's old, dusty medical books.
THUD.
The heavy sound echoed from the kitchen. Roya dropped the massive book and scrambled across the floorboards.
"Mom?!"
Elara had collapsed onto the stone floor. Her skin was a terrifying, unnatural shade of pale blue. When Roya touched her arm, she gasped, jerking her hand back. Her mother was freezing—somehow even colder than the harsh winter air outside.
Panicking, Roya grabbed her under the arms and managed to drag her mother's dead weight onto the bed, burying her under every ragged blanket they owned.
When Garret stumbled through the door that evening—miraculously sober for once—he took one look at the unlit stove and clicked his tongue in deep annoyance.
"Is the stew not ready?" he grumbled, watching Roya desperately press hot towels to her mother's forehead. "If you sleep all day, Elara, who's making the food? I didn't marry a corpse!"
(A corpse?) Roya's small hands tightened fiercely around the hot towel. (She's dying right in front of you, and you're worried about your stomach? If I were older... if I were stronger... I'd show you exactly what a corpse looks like.)
The next morning, Garret dragged in a doctor from a neighboring village. The traveling physician placed two fingers against Elara's icy wrist and shook his head gravely.
"It's the Frost-Vein affliction," the doctor muttered, eager to pack his bag and get away from the unnerving cold radiating from the bed. "There is no cure. Her body temperature will continue to drop.
Eventually, the cold will reach her heart. Prepare yourselves."
Garret didn't yell. He didn't cry. He just looked profoundly inconvenienced. He walked to the corner, collected his few meager belongings, and headed for the door.
"Wait!" Roya cried, tears finally spilling over as she grabbed the edge of his heavy coat. "Where are you going? You can't just leave us!"
Garret violently yanked his coat free, sending Roya stumbling backward. "I can't afford to feed a dead woman and another man's kid," he grunted, slamming the door behind him.
Roya sat on the cold floor, the heavy silence of the house ringing in her ears. Her tear-filled eyes drifted to a small, charcoal portrait of her father resting on the shelf. She remembered a sunny afternoon, sitting on his lap while he read.
"In the capital, there are great doctors... but common folks like us couldn't afford them. That's why I need to learn."
Something snapped inside Roya's mind. The terrified, abandoned twelve-year-old girl vanished, replaced by a spark of absolute iron will.
(If I can't afford a doctor,) Roya thought, wiping her eyes fiercely, smearing dirt across her cheek. (Then I will become one. I won't let what happened to Dad happen again!)
One Week Later
Roya walked into the bustling market alone. She stopped at Silas's vegetable stall, her eyes wide and rimmed with red from crying.
Silas, the merchant, saw her coming and his stomach turned.
(Oh great, here comes the Julian girl,) Silas thought, his eyes darting to the other villagers lingering nearby. (If I don't give her something, the old ladies will gossip about me for a month. But if I give her too much, I'm throwing my own dinner into a black hole.)
"Please, Master Silas," Roya said, her voice small and trembling. "My mother is very sick. I need some cabbage and carrots."
"Right, right," Silas sighed loudly, putting on a theatrical display. He reached into the back of his cart, tossing three wilted carrots and a heavily bruised cabbage into her bag. "Here. Take it. It's... on the house today, little one. Silas isn't a monster, you see?"
(Look at me,) Silas thought proudly, puffing out his chest. (I'm practically a local hero for helping the poor.)
Roya bowed deeply.
(I can see the rot on the bottom of the cabbage, Silas,) Roya thought, staring blankly at the dirt beneath her boots. (You're not a saint. You're just cleaning out your trash and buying a "good man" reputation for the price of a single copper. One day, I won't have to bow to people like you.)
Two Years Later
"Silas. Look me in the eye and tell me you think this is a cabbage."
Fourteen-year-old Roya stood before the exact same stall. She was taller now, her childhood awkwardness replaced by a mask of terrifying, calculating calm.
"I-It's a fine cabbage, Roya!" Silas stammered, gripping the edge of his wooden cart.
(Dammit, why am I sweating?) Silas thought, nervously wiping his brow. (She's only fourteen, but those eyes... it's like she's looking right through my chest and deciding if my heart is worth the price of a turnip.)
"Three coppers for the lot, Silas," Roya said smoothly, leaning closer. "Or I walk over there and tell the baker you've been mixing sawdust into your premium flour sacks again."
Silas flinched. "Fine! Take it!"
Roya smiled radiantly, a picture of perfect innocence. "Thank you for your generosity, Uncle Silas!"
As she walked away with a heavy bag of fresh, perfectly ripe vegetables, the surrounding shop owners let out a collective sigh of relief. She was no longer a weeping child to be pitied. With her ruthless bargaining and relentless focus on saving every copper, she had rightfully earned a new reputation in the village—they quietly called her the "Little Miser."
She worked part-time at Madame Clara's tailor shop for scraps of silver, and every single coin she earned was mercilessly squeezed for its absolute maximum value.
As she adjusted the strap of her bag, she noticed him.
Finn, the baker's son. He was sixteen now, leaning casually against a wooden post, trying far too hard to look cool.
(She's so... sharp,) Finn thought, his heart hammering against his ribs as he watched her walk. (Like a knife made of silver. I want her to notice that I grew an inch this summer. If I could just get her to smile at me, just once...)
Roya caught his stare and gave him a brief, perfectly polite nod.
(He's still standing there,) she analyzed, her internal voice cold and mechanical. (Finn. Baker's son. He has access to fresh bread. A potential source of extra calories if the winter gets worse. I should be nicer to him... purely to secure the grain supply.)
She hurried away from the market, her fake smile dropping the absolute second her front door closed behind her. The house was unnaturally cold, a heavy chill hanging in the air despite it being the middle of summer.
"Mom? I'm home," Roya called out softly.
"Welcome back... Roya..." Elara whispered. She was buried under a mountain of heavy quilts. Her skin was nearly translucent, her breath visible in the freezing room.
"I got us some great vegetables today. Silas practically gave them away!" Roya lied smoothly, putting her cheerful mask back on for her mother's sake.
She moved to her "clinic" corner. Stacks of her father's medical texts were piled high, the pages completely covered in her own desperate, frantic notes. For two grueling years, she had managed to keep her mother alive through sheer, unadulterated stubbornness, using experimental herbal brews and heated wraps to slow the freezing process.
But Roya wasn't foolish. She could read the symptoms perfectly. The temperature drop was accelerating. The herbs were losing their effect.
Her mother had three months left. At most.
That evening, after feeding her mother a warm broth, Roya sat on the floorboards in the dark. She pulled her father's heavy trunk from under the bed, violently tossing aside old tunics and rusted tools.
"Come on, Dad... tell me how!" she whispered fiercely, tears of frustration pricking her eyes. "There has to be something!"
THUMP.
Her hand hit a loose piece of wood at the bottom of the trunk. She paused, running her fingers over the edge, and forcefully pried the hollow panel up.
Hidden beneath the wood was a small, worn leather diary. It looked incredibly old.
(What did you hide, Dad?) Roya thought, her pulse suddenly jumping in her throat as she brushed the dust from the cover. (Whatever it is... whatever it takes... Mom isn't dying on my watch.)
She opened the first page.