Medieval Love, Modern Revenge

The great hall blazed with torchlight and laughter, the entire camp gathered for the monthly feast. I stood in the shadows near the servants' entrance, my hands still trembling from the bitter herbs Stefan had forced down my throat three days ago. The cramping had finally stopped, along with the life that had been growing inside me.

My body felt hollow, scraped clean of hope.

"Attention, everyone!" Commander Silva's voice boomed across the hall, silencing the revelry. "My daughter has wonderful news to share."

Rosalia rose gracefully from the high table, her silk gown catching the firelight like spun gold. Stefan sat beside her, his hand resting possessively on her lower back. The sight of his touch—so tender, so protective—sent ice through my veins.

"Thank you, Father." Rosalia's voice carried the musical quality that had enchanted Stefan so completely. She placed both hands over her still-flat stomach, a gesture I recognized with sickening clarity. "I am blessed to announce that I carry the child of our brave strategist, Stefan Mitchell."

The hall erupted in cheers and applause. Men raised their tankards in toast while women rushed forward with congratulations. Stefan stood, accepting the backslaps and well-wishes with a smile that reached his eyes—a smile I hadn't seen since before his supposed memory loss.

"When is the blessed event?" called out Captain Morris.

"Late spring," Rosalia replied, her eyes finding mine across the crowded hall. The triumph in her gaze was unmistakable. "We couldn't be happier."

I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, fighting the urge to vomit. The timeline was impossible to ignore—she must have conceived around the same time I did. While Stefan was visiting me with polite concern, claiming confusion about our past, he was bedding the deputy commander's daughter with full knowledge of what he was doing.

Gifts began appearing on the high table: carved wooden toys, soft blankets, precious stones. The camp's blacksmith presented a tiny silver rattle that caught the torchlight. Stefan examined each offering with genuine pleasure, his face glowing with paternal pride.

"A child born of true love," someone shouted, and the crowd cheered again.

True love. The words twisted in my chest like a blade.

Rosalia's eyes met mine again, and this time she smiled—a cold, calculating expression that revealed the truth I'd been too naive to see. This wasn't coincidence or cruel fate. This was orchestrated.

"Eleanor." A rough hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. Commander Silva's aide, Marcus, looked down at me with disgust. "Lady Rosalia requires your service."

I followed him through the celebrating crowd, past the high table where Stefan was now feeding Rosalia delicate morsels from his own plate. She laughed at something he whispered in her ear, then looked directly at me as I passed.

"The mad girl who claims to know my beloved," she said loudly enough for nearby tables to hear. "How tragic that battle-fever can so scramble one's wits."

Stefan glanced at me with what looked like pity, but I caught something else flickering behind his eyes—guilt, perhaps, or annoyance at being reminded of his deception.

Marcus led me to a small chamber off the main hall where buckets of water and cleaning rags waited. "Lady Rosalia's quarters need attention. The celebration has left quite a mess."

I stared at the supplies, understanding washing over me like a tide of humiliation. "You want me to clean her rooms?"

"You'll do as you're told," Marcus snapped. "Your delusions about being anyone of importance are over. Lady Rosalia has been generous enough to offer you employment as her personal servant. Consider yourself fortunate."

The chamber spun around me. From Stefan's lover to Rosalia's servant in the span of weeks—it was a fall so complete, so devastating, that I could barely comprehend it.

"The arrangement is already approved by the commander," Marcus continued. "You'll move your belongings to the servants' quarters tonight. Lady Rosalia expects her chambers spotless before she retires."

Back in the great hall, the celebration continued. Stefan had his arm around Rosalia's shoulders as she accepted more congratulations, her hand never leaving her stomach. The sight of their happiness—built on the ashes of my own—was more than I could bear.

I picked up the cleaning supplies with hands that shook with more than exhaustion. As I walked toward the stairs leading to Rosalia's chambers, I heard Stefan's laughter ring out above the crowd. Rich, genuine, completely unburdened by guilt or memory of what we'd shared.

The man I'd loved, the man I'd nearly died to save, was gone. In his place sat a stranger who'd used my sacrifice as a stepping stone to a better life, leaving me to scrub the floors of his new love's chambers.

I climbed the stone steps, each one taking me further from the woman I'd been and closer to whatever I was becoming.