Chapter 18- The Lavender Heir

Sasha meets William

Chapter 18

Sasha stumbled as she was shoved through the doorway, the stone floor bruising her knees. Before she could catch her breath, a gloved hand yanked her upright by the hair and forced her against the wall. The cold press of leather tightened around her throat, and she realized with horror it was a belt—pulled snug, cutting off air until black spots danced at the edges of her vision.

“Stop struggling,” the man hissed.

She froze, hands clawing uselessly at the belt. Across the room, a small boy shrank back into the shadows, clutching a threadbare blanket to his chest. His eyes were enormous, unblinking, as he watched her choke.

The man gave the belt a vicious tug, then eased it just enough for her to draw a ragged breath. “Listen carefully, girl. If you try to run, if you so much as scream, I’ll kill you both. Do you understand?”

Sasha nodded, her body trembling.

He jerked her forward into the center of the room and released the belt, though it still hung loosely around her neck like a leash. A bundle of folded clothes thudded onto the bed. “You will bathe the boy and dress him. Then yourself. Be ready for dinner when we return. If you’re not…” He let the unfinished threat hang in the air, his gaze cold and deliberate.

“Please,” Sasha rasped, but the man had already turned away.

The door slammed shut, the lock sliding home with a heavy click. Sasha stood frozen, the belt still biting into her skin, before she forced herself to look at the boy.

He was so small. Pale and feverish, with a wound she could see even through the ragged fabric of his shirt.

“I’m Sasha,” she whispered, crouching so she wasn’t towering over him. “What’s your name?”

“William,” he said softly, clutching the blanket tighter.

Sasha’s throat tightened. “It’s okay, William. I’m not going to hurt you. We… we just have to do what they say for now, alright? Then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

But even as she said the words, she wasn’t sure if she believed them.


—

Sasha forced her hands to steady as she guided William toward the washbasin in the corner of the room. The water was lukewarm at best, and the boy shivered as she peeled the filthy, torn shirt from his body.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she saw the wound at his side, the angry red edges of a fevered cut. She dabbed it carefully with a damp cloth, earning a tiny flinch.

“It’s alright,” William mumbled. He was so quiet, so resigned, it made Sasha’s chest ache.

As she worked, her eyes caught on a scar just below his collarbone—no, not a scar. She froze.

It was a brand.

A blackened mark burned into the boy’s pale skin, cruelly deliberate: a stylized raven clutching a sword.

Sasha’s breath hitched. She’d seen that symbol before, carved into the stones of Blackwater Castle, engraved on signet rings and family silver.

The mark of the de Burgh name.

“They… they branded you,” she whispered, unable to keep the horror from her voice.

William looked down, silent.

Her throat tightened as she traced the air near the mark, not daring to touch it. “You’re not property,” she said fiercely. “Do you hear me? You’re not theirs.”

He glanced up at her then, his wide eyes glistening. “But I have their name,” he said softly, almost apologetic.

Sasha swallowed the lump in her throat and forced a smile. “No. You have your name. William. That’s who you are. Not this,” she added, brushing the back of her hand near the brand. “Not them.”

When he nodded—just barely—it felt like a fragile victory.

She finished washing him and dressed him carefully in the clean clothes left behind: a starched white shirt and black trousers far too formal for a child. When he was ready, she scrubbed herself in silence, washing away the grime and fear, then pulled on the dress they’d provided for her. It was black silk, modest in cut but suffocating in its symbolism—like they were dressing her for her own funeral.


—

A sharp knock rattled the door. Sasha barely had time to gather William’s small hand in hers before the man from before entered. He took them wordlessly, one large hand clamped on Sasha’s arm, the other guiding William like a possession.

The corridors of Blackwater Castle stretched endlessly, cold and silent but for the echo of boots on stone. Sasha counted doors, stairwells, anything that might help her remember the way back. But the halls twisted and doubled back on themselves like a labyrinth, until she felt as lost as the boy beside her.

William clung to her hand the entire way, his small fingers trembling.

At last, they stopped before a pair of carved oak doors. The man pushed them open, and the scent of roasted meat and wine spilled out into the corridor.

Cian was waiting at the head of a long, candlelit table.

“Ah,” he said smoothly, rising to greet them. “Right on time.”

Sasha tightened her grip on William’s hand as they were led inside, every instinct screaming that this was only the beginning.


—

Cian motioned for them to sit. Sasha guided William to the chair beside her at the far end of the table, the sheer length of it making them feel miles away from the man at its head. The table was groaning with food—platters of roasted meat, bowls of steaming vegetables, bread still warm from the oven. But the sight only tightened Sasha’s stomach into knots.

Cian reached for a joint of meat with his bare hands, tearing it from the bone with brutal strength. Grease slicked his fingers and shone on his chin as he bit into it with relish. He looked every inch a king at his own feast, and the sound of his chewing filled the otherwise silent hall.

William’s wide eyes followed every bite, his small hands trembling on the edge of the table as if the food might vanish at any second. Sasha’s heart ached, but she didn’t dare move too quickly.

“Eat,” Cian said at last, gesturing toward the platters.

Sasha forced herself to pass William a slice of bread first, then filled his plate carefully with small portions he could manage. He began to eat in tiny, ravenous bites, almost afraid of the food.

Sasha’s own plate remained mostly untouched. She lifted the goblet of wine instead, letting the strong, bitter liquid burn down her throat. It steadied her enough to bring the fork to her lips, to chew slowly and swallow without choking on the fear that sat like a stone in her chest.

Cian leaned back in his chair, watching them as he wiped the grease from his hands with a linen cloth. “We’re going to go over the rules,” he said, his voice carrying easily in the cavernous hall. “You will both live here. You will share a room. You will obey the rules of this house without question.”

Sasha nodded once, silently.

“You,” he said, turning his gaze to her, “are responsible for William. His education, his manners, his health. You will school him properly, and you will ensure he is fit to bear the name De Burgh. If you succeed, you’ll both enjoy certain privileges. If you fail…” He let the threat hang in the air, his cold smile saying enough.

Sasha tightened her grip on William’s hand under the table. “I understand,” she said quietly.

“Good.” Cian pushed his plate away and rose from the table. He was finished, and so—Sasha understood—they were finished too.

The man who had brought them in appeared silently at the door. “Take them back,” Cian ordered.

Sasha stood, drawing William up with her, but she couldn’t resist one last glance at Cian. He was watching them, his pale eyes like shards of ice.

She nodded again, lowering her gaze. But as they were led away through the endless corridors, Sasha’s mind was racing. William’s small hand was hot with fever, and every step seemed to sap his strength further.

If she didn’t find a way to escape soon, he wouldn’t survive.


—

Their room was small and cold, but it felt almost like a sanctuary compared to the echoing corridors and Cian’s predatory gaze. Sasha helped William out of his clothes and into the narrow bed, pulling the blanket up around his thin shoulders.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked softly, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead.

He nodded, though his eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion. Fever heat radiated off his skin, and his breathing was shallow, uneven.

Sasha perched on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair until his trembling eased and his lashes fluttered shut. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

When she was sure he was asleep, Sasha rose and moved to the window. The glass was cold beneath her fingertips, and at first, all she saw was the darkness of the courtyard below. Then her breath caught.

Torches burned in the night.

Cian’s men were gathered in a circle, their shadows thrown long and flickering against the ancient stone walls. In the center of the courtyard, flames licked upward from a pyre. And within the fire…

Sasha’s hand flew to her mouth as recognition struck.

Megan and Eamon.

Their bodies were being reduced to ash before her eyes.

The world tilted. She stumbled backward from the window and collapsed to her knees, retching until there was nothing left in her stomach. Her whole body shook as the acrid smell of smoke drifted up through the glass.

It wasn’t just disposal. It was a warning.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she dragged herself back to the bed. She crawled beneath the covers and curled around William’s small body, clutching him to her as if she could shield him from the horrors outside.

Tears stung her eyes, but exhaustion pulled harder.

Sasha buried her face in the pillow, the image of the flames seared behind her eyelids, and at last she slipped into a restless, haunted sleep.