‡Chapter Seventeen‡
MARTINA
I lay on my back, the thin sheet draped over me barely offering warmth. Beneath it, layers of rough fabric clung to my skin, but no amount of clothing could shield me from the cold ache burrowed deep into my bones. Every inch of me throbbed. Every slight movement — a twitch of my fingers, a shift of my legs — sent a sharp, breathtaking pain radiating through my body. It hurt to breathe.
The room was silent, but the weight of their presence was suffocating. The soldiers hadn’t left — they stood like statues by the doorway and in each corner of the infirmary, their eyes never straying far from me. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel them watching.
I took a heavy, shuddering sigh, and as I did, my grandmother’s voice echoed in my mind — stern, sharp, always carrying that quiet, unyielding judgment. Her eyes never failed to pierce right through me. Even when she said nothing, her gaze alone spoke of disappointment. At least Adelheid has convinced her to actually leave me alone for awhile, I don't know what to do if she keeps squeezing answer out of my tiny battered brain.
I don’t remember anything.....
That thought clawed at me, over and over. My mind was a haze — scattered fragments, broken and blurred. It felt like waking from a coma, the world moving too fast around me while I struggled to catch up. There were too many questions and not enough answers. Too many unfamiliar faces and this constant, relentless ache in my muscles.
One moment, I opened my eyes in a stranger’s house. The next, I was locked away in a cell, accused of being something… inhuman. A monster. And now — now I was here, under the government’s so-called care. But the air around me felt wrong. Stifling. Tense. Like something terrible was about to happen.
There was this feeling — this deep, heavy weight of impending doom — and it was sinking its claws into me.
.
.
.
.
"Wake up, Martina. You’re not done yet."
The words slipped through my mind like a whisper — distant, but clear enough to make my breath catch. A voice I should know. A voice I didn’t. Familiar and foreign all at once.
Not done yet?
My mind grasped at the memory, but it was like trying to hold water — slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I clung to it. So much had happened, and this one fragment, this one echo, had been buried beneath everything else. My body’s pain had drowned it out — the wounds, the broken bones, the searing ache that never eased. My mind had been too busy keeping me breathing.
But those words wouldn’t let go.
I’m not done yet?
From what?
Was there something I was supposed to finish? A mission? A purpose? Or was it just my mind playing tricks on me, trying to make sense of the chaos?
I died... Or maybe I should have. But if I did — if that pain, that darkness I barely remembered was death — why was I still here?
Everyone kept telling me the same thing. Over and over, until the words started to feel like truth. That I was different. That I was dangerous. A monster. And maybe my body and soul had started to believe it, too.
But if that were true… why did I still feel like myself?
I'm not like them — not like the things everyone whispered about in fear. I didn’t have a hideous, twisted forms, a grotesque, inhuman shapes. I wasn’t covered in the corruption everyone claimed marked the wicked. I was still… normal. Broken, battered — but still me.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I hadn’t turned yet. Maybe that was why they kept me here — under the government’s watchful eye, beneath their roof, where they could strike the moment my body twitched the wrong way.
"She's inside."
The words cut through the quiet, dragging me out of my thoughts. The voice was unfamiliar — low, firm. My stomach knotted instantly. Is it the Marshal?
I forced my body upright, every movement slow and agonizing. Pain flared through my muscles, sharp and relentless, like fire spreading through my limbs. I bit down on the whimper rising in my throat, teeth clenched as I pushed myself up. The thin sheet slipped from my shoulders, pooling around my waist. My breathing was uneven, shallow — the ache in my ribs making sure of that.
Who is it?
My eyes flicked to the doorway — if you could even call it that. There was no real door, only a heavy curtain of coarse, patchwork fabric hanging from a rusted metal rod. It barely moved, weighed down by its own rough, uneven material, but I could see the shadows beyond it.
One of them shifted, and my pulse spiked. A broad, hulking silhouette filled the space — the shape unmistakable. A soldier. The size of him took up nearly the entire entryway, his shadow stretching long and dark across the infirmary floor.
My heart pounded against my ribs, the pain forgotten under the surge of fear. Who is it this time?
Would they come in with questions — the same ones I had no answers for? Or would it be like before? The bruises on my skin still hadn’t faded, and the ache in my bones told me how easily they could do it all over again.
Will I get beaten again… just so they can prove something?
"Pardon my unnoticed visit, Your Grace."
I was flabbergasted by his demeanor—his voice carried no hostility, no arrogance, just a composed politeness that felt entirely out of place in this suffocating room.
His hand carefully held the curtain up, peeking inside as if he were merely stepping into a friend's home rather than an infirmary guarded like a prison cell.
Like the others, he wore armor—heavy, well-forged, its plates polished yet worn by battle. He was tall, broad-shouldered, every inch of him carrying the presence of a seasoned soldier. But what caught my attention, what made my breath hitch for the briefest moment, was his hair.
Long, flowing strands of white ash cascaded past his shoulders, stark against the dark metal of his armor. He didn’t wear a helmet like the rest.
It was attention-grabbing, striking. If I had only seen him from behind, I might have mistaken him for a woman.
"Have I disturbed your slumber? Shall I come back another time?"
His voice was smooth, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. He stepped inside with a measured grace, unbothered by the watchful gazes of the guards stationed at every corner.
I remained seated, my aching body too stiff to move any further. My eyes followed him as he approached, every footstep eerily controlled, neither hesitant nor aggressive.
"Who are you?" My voice came out hoarse, laced with caution. My mind searched for any trace of recognition—any buried memory of his face—but came up empty.
He was unfamiliar. That only meant one thing.
He was sent by the government.
Probably to interrogate me.
Probably to squeeze answers out of my battered mind.
"It was chaotic that night, so you truly won't remember my face. And I was wearing a helmet at the time."
He let out a soft chuckle, the sound oddly light for someone clad in armor. Without hesitation, he pulled out the metal chair beside my bed and seated himself, completely at ease.
"What?"
The word slipped from my lips before I could process it. My mind scrambled to make sense of his words, but nothing clicked. Nothing felt familiar.
That night?
He paused for a moment, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a strange unease through me. It was as if he was debating something—having second thoughts about the next words that would leave his lips.
Then, he sighed. A quiet, resigned sound.
“Well, that’s a topic to be discussed another day…” he finally said, his tone carrying an odd sense of finality.
I frowned, but before I could question him, he continued.
“You look really rough,” he noted, his voice softer now, almost… considerate.
“I offer you my sincerest apologies. The Marshal takes things very seriously, so he tends to act… violently.”
His words hung in the air, and for a moment, all I could hear was the distant flickering of a torch outside the infirmary.
.
.
.
"You piss me off."
The words left my mouth without hesitation, sharp and unfiltered. The room fell into a suffocating silence. Even the ever-watchful guards seemed to still at my outburst.
He blinked, his expression shifting from mild amusement to surprise—confusion flickering across his face. His lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected that response.
"Huh?" His voice was low, uncertain.
I clenched my fists against the sheets, ignoring the ache in my body.
"I said you piss me off," I repeated, my voice steady, unwavering.
"Why would you apologize for something you didn’t even do?"
His brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
"You weren’t even there," I continued, the bitterness seeping into my tone.
"Who are you to say that? Your kindness—your laid-back demeanor—it ticks me off."
The words hung heavy between us. I expected anger or annoyance. But he just sat there watching me.
"HAHAHAHA!"
He burst out laughing, his voice echoing off the infirmary walls. He curled forward, clutching his stomach like he was dying from amusement. The sound was loud—grating, even. Annoying to the point that I wanted to throw something at him, or better yet, kick him out myself.
"You are indeed the same as what I heard," he managed between fits of laughter, wiping at the corner of his eyes as if he'd actually teared up.
"You really do have a sharp mouth, mocked the government infront of an official and now you're blatantly expressing yourself. You are an interesting person." 
I frowned, irritation prickling at me. So I’ve become the city’s topic of conversation now? Wonderful.
Then his next words hit me like a cold slap.
"The Marshal who beat you up…" He exhaled, his laughter finally settling.
"Is my brother."
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