Erin's breath hitched as she traced the cracks with a trembling finger. She was nineteen, though the weight of her years felt closer to ninety. Her mother's face flickered in her mindpale, smiling, then fading into the gray haze of memory. Five years ago, fever had stolen her away, leaving Erin alone with a stepfather who stank of ale and spite. He'd sold her to this manor to settle his debts, bartering her life for a few coins and a cask of wine. "You're worth less than a mule," he'd slurred, shoving her into the arms of the manor's steward. That was her beginning here: a maid, a shadow, a thing to be used.
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