The sprawling estate of the von Artenberg family was as grand as it was isolating. Nestled amidst rolling hills and dense forests, it boasted high, ivy-covered walls and towering spires that reached up towards the heavens. Yet, for all its beauty, it had always felt more like a gilded cage to Isabella.

Isabella "Bella" von Artenberg was the only daughter of Count Thomas von Artenberg, a fact that should have afforded her certain privileges. But life within the estate's walls was far from easy for her. Born out of an affair between the Count and a commoner—a woman who had passed away when Isabella was still a child—Isabella was a living reminder of her father's indiscretion. Her presence was a constant thorn in the side of the Countess, who had married the Count when Isabella was just a toddler, bringing with her two sons and a daughter from her previous marriage. Though she had her father's name, Isabella would never be fully accepted as part of the family.

The house was steeped in silence, save for the distant echoes of servants' footsteps and the occasional cry of a peacock from the gardens. Isabella wandered through the stone corridors, her footsteps light and hesitant, as if she feared the very walls were listening.

She was only ten years old when she first became aware of her unique position in the household. It was a cold autumn afternoon, and she was playing alone in the gardens, as she often did, plucking the last of the summer roses and arranging them into a crude bouquet. Her half-brother Edward, twelve years old and ever the serious one, approached her with a scowl etched into his young face.

"What are you doing out here, Bella?" Edward's voice was sharp, as though her very presence irritated him. His green eyes, the same shade as their father's, bore into her with a disapproval that she didn't fully understand at the time.

Isabella looked up at him, her small hands still clutching the bouquet of roses. "I was just making something pretty, Edward," she replied softly, her voice tinged with the innocence of youth.

"Pretty?" Edward scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. "You should be inside, learning something useful. Not playing around like some commoner."

The words stung, though Isabella didn't quite know why. She bit her lip and looked down at the roses in her hands. "Father said I could come out here," she protested, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Father isn't here," Edward retorted, his tone cold. "And even if he were, it wouldn't change the fact that you're nothing more than a—"

"Edward!" A shrill voice interrupted him, cutting through the chilly air like a knife. Eleanor, their younger sister, rushed over, her golden curls bouncing as she ran. She was only a year younger than Isabella, but her demeanor was that of someone who believed herself far older. "Mother said not to speak to her," Eleanor said, her blue eyes—so different from Isabella's—wide with the gravity of her message.

Edward turned to face Eleanor, his expression softening slightly. "I wasn't doing anything wrong," he muttered, though his tone lacked the conviction it had held moments before.

"Mother said," Eleanor repeated, emphasizing the words as if they were a sacred decree. She grabbed Edward's arm and began to tug him back towards the house. "Come on, Edward. Let's go. Mother doesn't want us playing with her."

Isabella watched them leave, her heart sinking as she stood alone in the garden. The roses in her hands seemed to wither before her eyes, their vibrant colors dulling under the weight of her realization. They didn't want to play with her. They didn't want anything to do with her.

As she grew older, the divide between Isabella and her half-siblings only widened. Edward became more aloof, retreating into his studies and duties as the heir to the von Artenberg estate. William, the younger of the two brothers, was wild and unpredictable, taking after his mother in both looks and temperament. He avoided Isabella altogether, as if her very presence was an inconvenience he didn't wish to acknowledge. Eleanor, who had once been her closest companion, grew distant, adopting their mother's icy disdain for Isabella.

Their mother—the Countess—was the root of it all. Cold and calculating, she was a woman who valued her position in society above all else, and Isabella was a threat to that position. The Countess never missed an opportunity to remind Isabella of her illegitimacy, of the stain she had brought upon the family name simply by existing. Isabella could recall countless dinners where the Countess would glare at her across the table, her words laced with venom.

"Why must you always insist on sitting with us, Isabella?" the Countess would ask, her voice dripping with disdain. "You should be in the servants' quarters, where you belong."

Isabella would lower her gaze, her hands trembling as she tried to focus on her food. She knew better than to respond, but her silence only seemed to anger the Countess further.

"Do you hear me, girl?" the Countess would continue, her voice rising. "You have no place at this table. You should be grateful I allow you to remain in this house at all."

Their father, the Count, would often remain silent during these tirades, his gaze fixed on his plate. On rare occasions, he would speak up, though his words were always measured and weak. "Now, now, dear," he would say, "Isabella is still my daughter. She deserves some respect."

"Respect?" the Countess would hiss, her eyes flashing with fury. "She is a constant reminder of your indiscretions, Thomas. The very sight of her is an insult to me, to our family."

The Count would fall silent then, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his wife's words. He loved Isabella, she knew that much, but his love was tempered by a deep-seated guilt, a guilt that made him weak in the face of his wife's wrath.

It was her grandmother who saved her from the darkness that threatened to consume her. Isabella's maternal grandmother, a woman of sharp wit and iron will, took it upon herself to educate Isabella, to teach her the skills that would one day become her salvation. Her grandmother lived in a small cottage on the edge of the estate, far from the grand manor where the rest of the family resided. It was here, in the warmth of the cottage's hearth, that Isabella found solace.

"Come, child," her grandmother would say, her voice gentle but firm, "there's much to learn and little time to waste."

Isabella would sit at her grandmother's knee, listening intently as she taught her about herbs and medicines, about how to mend a broken bone or soothe a fever. Her grandmother's knowledge was vast, passed down through generations of women who had learned to survive in a world that offered them little in the way of kindness.

"Remember this, Bella," her grandmother would say, her eyes locking onto Isabella's with an intensity that left no room for doubt, "knowledge is power. The world may try to strip you of everything else, but as long as you have this—" she tapped a finger to Isabella's forehead "—they can never truly take anything from you."

Isabella clung to those words, to the knowledge her grandmother imparted, like a lifeline. The more she learned, the more she realized how much she loved the art of healing. It was a way to make herself useful, to carve out a place in a world that seemed determined to cast her aside.

One afternoon, when Isabella was thirteen, she was in the cottage, grinding herbs into a fine powder under her grandmother's watchful eye. The scent of rosemary and thyme filled the air, a fragrant reminder of the healing properties they held.

"You're doing well, Bella," her grandmother said, nodding in approval. "You have a natural talent for this."

Isabella smiled, a rare moment of genuine happiness lighting up her face. "Thank you, Grandmother. I want to learn everything you can teach me."

Her grandmother's expression softened, and for a moment, she looked almost sad. "You remind me so much of your mother," she said quietly, her voice tinged with a sorrow that Isabella didn't fully understand.

Isabella paused, her hands stilling as she looked up at her grandmother. "What was she like?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

A heavy silence filled the room as her grandmother seemed to weigh her words carefully. "She was strong, like you," she finally said. "But the world was not kind to her. She loved your father deeply, but their love was... complicated."

"Complicated how?" Isabella pressed, her heart aching with a longing to know more about the woman who had given her life.

Her grandmother sighed, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair from Isabella's face. "Your mother was a commoner, Bella. The world would not accept their love, just as it struggles to accept you now. But she never regretted having you. You were the light of her life, the reason she fought so hard to survive."

Tears pricked at Isabella's eyes, and she quickly looked down, focusing on the herbs in front of her. "I wish I could have known her," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

"She lives on in you," her grandmother replied, her voice soft but resolute. "And as long as you carry her memory with you, she will never truly be gone."

Isabella nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as she continued to grind the herbs. Her mother's memory became a silent companion, guiding her through the darkest moments of her life.