Awakening In The Dirt

"Lady Isolde has been locked in the firewood shed for three days now. There has not been a single peep from her. Do you think she..." a hushed voice drifted through the jagged gaps in the decaying wooden planks, mixing with the howling winter wind.

"Died?" Another voice finished the thought, carrying a sharp edge of disdain instead of concern. "If she is dead, she deserves it. Lady Cecily suffered in the harsh outside world for so many years. She finally returns to her rightful home, and what does Lady Isolde do? She makes a massive scene, refusing to even let the true daughter step through the front door."

"Exactly. I think we should leave her locked in there a bit longer. It will teach her a proper lesson."

Not a single trace of pity warmed their cruel whispers. The estate servants huddled in the biting chill outside the shed, rubbing their hands together. Their words revealed a fierce, unwavering loyalty to Cecily, calculating the potential demise of their former master without a shred of remorse.

Inside the freezing, dim shed, a sudden jolt shook a frail figure. Fifteen-year-old Isolde slammed against the unforgiving dirt floor. A hoarse, desperate scream tore from her raw throat.

"It wasn't me! I swear it wasn't me!"

She thrashed against a pile of splintered firewood. Mud coated her tangled hair, and the butterfly hairpin she once cherished was nowhere to be seen. Her pale pink jacket lay ruined, covered in a thick layer of grime and filth. Her chest heaved as she dragged in jagged breaths of the icy air. Wide, terror-filled eyes darted around the dark corners of the cramped space.

The sheer panic in her gaze slowly melted into profound confusion.

Had she not died?

The phantom pain of her brutal end still scorched her nerves. The memory remained a vicious scar in her mind. She remembered the blinding agony when her eldest brother, Cormac, sliced out her tongue to silence her pleas. She remembered her second brother, Sylvan, forcing toxic liquid down her throat as she choked on her own blood. She remembered Tobias shattering her legs, leaving her a crippled mess on the floor. Roland kicking her aside like trash. All of this, after she had foolishly thrown herself into the path of a deadly blade to save Cecily's life.

And in the end, her third brother Gideon tossing her broken, bleeding corpse into the freezing waters of the estate pond. The cold water filling her lungs. The suffocating darkness.

She looked down at her hands. Small. Trembling. Unbroken.

She drew a deep breath. The freezing air stung her lungs, proving she was drawing breath. She had been reborn in the very firewood shed of the Viceroy's estate where the nightmare of her torment first began. In her past life, this confinement lasted a grueling month, leaving her with severe rheumatism that haunted her every step for three agonizing years.

A bitter, hollow smile twisted her pale, dirt-streaked face.

She thought back to her fragile beginnings. A premature baby. A weak infant whose mother died in a grueling childbirth. The midwife had handed her to her father, Darius Lockhart, declaring she was the only survivor. He used to hold her and make grand, sweeping promises.

"Isolde, from now on, you have me and your five brothers to back you up," he used to declare with pride. "No one in the entire Oakhaven City will dare bully you! You are our prized little princess!"

Those suffocating affections had been a meticulously crafted illusion. The moment the long-lost Cecily arrived at the estate, that illusion shattered into a million unfixable pieces.

Isolde leaned her aching head against the rough wooden wall. Clarity washed over her shivering form. In her previous life, she chased those broken pieces, desperate to glue them back together. She let them bleed her dry until she died a gruesome, unmourned death.

Never again.

She resolved with steely determination to sever every toxic tie binding her to this family. She would stand on her own two feet, free from their judgment and their false love.

The harsh crunch of footsteps on frost-covered gravel approached the shed. The heavy iron latch rattled. The wooden door groaned open, letting in a blinding slice of gray winter light.

Her second brother, Sylvan, stood framed in the doorway. His tall silhouette cast a long, oppressive shadow across the dirt floor. In his hands, he carried a steaming herbal pot wrapped in thick cotton to keep the brew warm.

There was a time when he would sneak away from the Grand Healing Hall just to bring her medicine. He used to sit by her bed with genuine care, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Not anymore.

Sylvan stared down at her. His eyes glossed right over the angry, red allergic rashes flaring up along her wrists and neck. The damp, foul environment of the shed triggered her severe skin allergies, but he was blind to her suffering. His concern belonged exclusively to Cecily now. He only remembered to brew remedies for Cecily's minor stomach aches, forgetting Isolde’s fragile constitution.

His voice cut through the cold air, carrying a heavy detachment.

"Get up. Drink the medicine and go apologize to Cecily. Ask her to come back home."

Isolde remained on the ground. She stared at his boots, her cracked lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line.

Sylvan’s jaw tightened at her silence. "Father said if you do not apologize right now, he will throw you out. You will not be a daughter of the Lockhart family anymore."

In her past life, that ruthless ultimatum broke her spirit. She had cried until her vision blurred. She begged on her knees, clutching his robes. She even threatened to take her own life, hoping the sight of her desperation would spark a sliver of their past love. Instead, they branded her a hysterical madwoman. They mocked her tears. At Cecily’s grand recognition banquet, Isolde's reputation was destroyed, and she became the laughingstock of Oakhaven City.

Watching her stony silence now, Sylvan frowned deep into his brow. Frustration seeped into his sharp tone.

"What is this attitude?" he scolded, stepping further into the shed. "I told you to apologize, and you sit there acting like you do not care! Do you know what Cecily did for you?"

Isolde lowered her eyes and began rubbing her aching knees, refusing to give him the reaction he sought.

Sylvan’s voice rose. "She begged Father to let you out of the firewood shed. She knelt outside in the freezing wind for half an hour just to plead your case. She caught a cold because of it, and now she is suffering in bed! She is gentle and forgiving by nature. If you go to her right now and say you are sorry, she will surely forgive you. As long as she is willing to return to this family, I will personally ask Father to let you return to your room."

Isolde slowly raised her head. Her dark gaze pierced through the dim light, locking onto Sylvan’s face.

She remembered the sheer panic of her past life. The moment the family’s affections shifted overnight, she felt like a drowning victim. She watched her father, her brothers, and even her own fiancé flock to Cecily’s side, shielding the new daughter as if Isolde was a dangerous beast. Driven by a desperate need for survival, Isolde tried to mimic Cecily’s mannerisms. She tried to be gentle, to be quiet, to win back the scraps of love they once showered upon her.

But she never hurt Cecily. Not once.

The dramatic fall from the estate’s artificial mountain had been nothing but a staged act. Cecily threw herself down the decorative rocks, ensuring everyone witnessed Isolde standing at the top. The Lockharts believed the lie without a second thought.

Looking at Sylvan’s self-righteous expression, Isolde felt nothing but a vast, icy void in her chest. She refused to play with her life anymore. She refused to beg for the affection of people who would eventually butcher her. Just days ago, Darius held a lavish party to introduce Cecily to the world, deliberately leaving Isolde in the dark. When Isolde panicked and knelt in the snow to beg him to reconsider, he threw her in this shed.

Why bother fighting a predetermined verdict? If they wanted Cecily to be the flawless victim and Isolde to be the villain, they could have it.

"Fine," Isolde stated plainly. Her voice was raspy from disuse, yet devoid of any desperation. "I will go apologize to Cecily."

She had no intention of fighting for her place in this house. Admitting a fake fault meant nothing to her now. Her only burning desire was to set herself free and abandon this unworthy place. If they wanted Cecily, let them have her.

She ignored Sylvan’s imposing presence. She reached down into the pile of debris next to her and grabbed a rough wooden stick. Her joints screamed in protest as she leaned her weight onto the makeshift cane. With agonizing effort, she forced her battered, aching body to stand. The coarse wood dug into her palm. Her pale face remained a blank mask, showing no trace of pain or emotion.

Sylvan watched her stiff movements. He expected tears. He expected resistance, or at least a plea for understanding. Her cold, unnerving indifference sparked a sudden surge of raw anger within his chest. It felt wrong. It felt as though she was looking at a stranger.

He aggressively stepped forward. His broad shoulders blocked the narrow doorway, cutting off her path to the outside. The steaming medicine pot shook slightly in his firm grip. Heavy, accusatory disappointment laced his voice as he stared down at the sister he once pampered.

"Is it true that you pushed Cecily down the artificial mountain?"