Prodigal Daughter

“You can change a life with a sword, but a blade cannot alter the desires of the heart. The mandate for happiness comes from the soul—without that you have but fragile tyranny.”

-Excerpt from “Of Love and Tyranny”

Elma staggered through the iron-wrought gates of the estate, soaked to the bone. Her cloak clung to her like dead weight, sodden and heavy from the relentless rain she had walked through since dawn. Her boots were caked in mud, the hem of her dress torn and trailing behind her like a wounded banner. The grand stone manor, her childhood home, loomed ahead, cold and unfamiliar in the stormlight.

The guards at the gate moved to intercept her, waving her off as a beggar until one squinted through the haze and gasped. "Gods, it's Lady Elma!" he exclaimed. The others froze and quickly fell into a tense formation around her. Though they didn’t touch her, their presence penned her in like livestock. A runner was dispatched to fetch her father, and the heavy gate groaned shut behind her.

She said nothing as she walked across the courtyard, flanked by armored men. Her legs trembled with every step, but she refused to stumble. The head butler met her at the door. His expression remained carefully neutral as he bowed. "Lady Elma. Right this way."

He guided her up the grand staircase and through the long, familiar corridor to her chambers. A maid was already inside, hands folded in front of her, waiting. She curtsied. "Shall I draw your bath, my lady?"

Elma nodded faintly. The hours blurred together. Her dirty clothes were stripped away and her skin scrubbed raw with rose-scented soaps. Afterward, she was dressed in a fine sky-blue gown, her hair braided and pinned. She sat in silence, staring at the rain-slicked window, until a knock came at her door.

"Your father is ready to see you now," the butler said.

The walk to his study felt longer than it should have. Each step echoed in her ears. When she entered, she found her father, Duke Rydan Ahlríon standing beside the fire, hands clasped behind his back. His silver hair was combed neatly, his posture rigid. He turned slowly.

Relief flickered across his face before it hardened into stern disapproval. "You look well enough, considering the scandal you've caused," he said.

Elma curtsied, but her spine remained straight. "I needed time to think."

"Think? Think about what? About abandoning your duty? About dragging our house's name through the mud?"

"No," she said calmly. "About how I could make you listen to me."

His brow twitched. "You could have spoken to me at any time."

"I did try," she said, voice tightening. "But you never heard me."

He opened his mouth to respond, but she pressed on.

"You announced my engagement without asking me. You ignored every protest I made. And then, when I told you what kind of man Count Cannáed truly is, you dismissed me."

Her father’s face reddened. "You said he tore your sleeve! A meaningless thing—perhaps you tripped or caught it on something. The count is a nobleman, Elma. A good match."

Elma took a sharp breath. "Do you remember the night of the announcement?"

She didn’t wait for his answer, the scene playing back in her mind.

The ballroom shimmered with candlelight, and music drifted like a breeze through the gathered crowd. Courtiers in glittering garb raised crystal goblets in her honor, applauding the engagement of the Ahlríon heir to the powerful Count Cannáed. She smiled, bowed, and danced.

But beneath her gown, her hands trembled.

She avoided the count most of the night, feigning fatigue, stepping into conversations where he could not follow. But when the party thinned and the music quieted, he found her in the garden.

"You looked stunning tonight," he said, his voice low, heavy with wine.

"Thank you, my lord."

"My wife," he said, stepping close. "Soon."

He reached for her arm, brushing her sleeve back. His fingers caught the delicate silk and pulled. The fabric tore with a sickening rip.

Elma gasped, stepping back, but he only smiled. "So fragile. But I do love breaking fragile things."

She ran.

Tears streaking her cheeks, she found her father in his study, recounting what happened between gasping sobs. He barely looked up from his documents.

"You must have snagged the dress," he said. "Cannáed is a man of status. He knows better than to touch you before the vows."

"He's cruel!" she shouted. "He’s not a good man!"

"Enough," her father snapped. "This union is essential. The peace between our houses depends on it."

Elma took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was back in the present, her father watching her with curious, angry eyes.

"You said I had to marry a man who frightens me to protect your alliances. What about me? What about my life?"

He sighed deeply, rubbing his brow. "If I had known you would react so… dramatically, I might have handled it differently. But the announcement was public. We cannot retract it without shame."

"So you're just going to go through with it anyway."

He didn't answer at first. Then, "The wedding is being expedited. You'll be wed before the week's end."

The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. "You're giving me no choice."

"There is no choice," he said. "You are the daughter-heir of House Ahlríon. Your duty is not to yourself."

Elma clenched her jaw, fury welling up behind her eyes. "You only care about honor. Not me. Not my happiness."

"You think you’re the first noble to marry for politics instead of love? Do you think your mother loved me when we wed? We made it work."

She stared at him, heart pounding. "And did she die happy?"

An expression like thunder flashed across his face for a moment, but quickly passed, replaced with disappointment, or perhaps shame.

Her father stood and walked around the desk, placing a hand on her shoulder as though the conversation had been amicable. “You’ll remain in your rooms until the ceremony. I’ll assign guards to ensure you don’t disappear again. I won’t allow you to embarrass this family a second time.”

Elma flinched at his touch but didn’t pull away. There was no point. The fire in her chest that had carried her through the night, through the rain and the mud and the dark roads back to this place, now felt like little more than smoldering ash.

“I see,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

He took her silence as compliance. “Good. You’ll find your time here more comfortable if you cooperate. Don’t force my hand, Elma. I’m trying to do what’s best—for you, and our family.”

She nodded, and he called for a servant to escort her back. Two guards followed discreetly behind, their presence a constant reminder that she was no longer a resident in her home, but a prisoner.

Back in her chambers, the door closed with a heavy click, the lock turned on the outside.

Elma stood still in the center of the room, surrounded by the opulence of silk drapes and marble floors, a gilded mirror catching her reflection in the dim light. Her hair was clean, her gown elegant, her skin perfumed, but she had never felt so powerless.

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window beyond the sheer curtains. The sky was grey, clouds hanging heavy like the weight in her chest.

She had come back to face her problems. She had tried to speak, to demand agency over her own life. And still, no one listened.

The door remained locked. And the only sounds were the ticking of the ornate clock on the wall, and the soft hush of the wind outside—free, unlike her.

All hope felt lost.