The small town of BillowWood was nestled within a ring of thick, imposing mountains, a secluded place with a population of just around five hundred. The rocky terrain was unyielding, leaving little room for lush vegetation. As a result, the town depended on trade with the surrounding villages beyond the mountains to survive. The barren land and harsh, unpredictable weather made life challenging. The only valuable resource BillowWood had to offer to the rest of the empire was the coal extracted from the mines owned by Count Billford.
Count Billford was a tall man—though not so tall as to be intimidating, yet there was something in his posture that suggested he was self-conscious about his height. His slouch had become so pronounced it bordered on a hunch. His attire spoke volumes about his modest means: a threadbare coat patched in several places, trousers faded from years of wear, and boots scuffed and worn to the sole. His thick, drooping mustache framed a face carved by age and worry, with deep wrinkles etched around his eyes and mouth. There was a perpetual scowl on his face, making him seem perpetually angry and unapproachable. His sharp gaze was like a hawk's, scrutinizing every movement of the workers in his mines.
Count Billford was strict, almost ruthlessly so, wanting to make good use of every chip of coal the mine produced. For the town, coal was as precious as gold. But for the Count, it was more than that—it was survival. With six unmarried daughters at home and a wife notorious for her extravagant spending habits, the coal was his lifeline, the only thing standing between his family and ruin.
"Count! Count!" came a hurried voice, sharp and breathless.
"What is it, Gusto?!" Bill grunted, his tone irritable. The voice belonged to his slave boy, the one he kept at his side, teaching him the day-to-day operations. Unlike his daughters, whom he couldn't bear to involve in such work, Gusto was being groomed to assist him.
"Count! Tragedy has struck! We are doomed! Doomed, I tell you!"
The boy came running, his small frame barely supported by his oversized boots. His baker-boy hat was askew, his waistcoat much too short over a blue shirt with missing buttons, and dirty brown shorts clung to his legs. Black streaks marred his face and hands—residue from the mines—as he stumbled through the muddy, rain-drenched pathway toward Bill.
Bill's frown deepened, his thick brows knitting together as he stood taller, looming over the approaching figure.
"What has happened? Why do you shout like a madman?" he demanded.
"The workers! They sent word from the bottom of the mine... there's no more coal left!" Gusto cried, his voice trembling as he skidded to a stop.
"What?!" Bill's eyes widened in disbelief. "What nonsense are you spouting?" His voice rose, sharp with anger.
"He's not speaking nonsense, sire," came a deeper voice, steady and grave.
Bill turned to see a tall, lean man emerging from the shadows of the sheds, where workers were busy sacking the remaining coal. The man's shirt was blackened and torn, his clothes threadbare and clinging to his body from sweat and grime. A heavy shovel rested lazily on his shoulder, his calloused fingers wrapped around its wooden handle.
His dirty blond hair hung in damp strands, and his sunburnt complexion gave him a hardened, rugged appearance. His muddy brown eyes locked on Bill, unflinching as he continued, "We've been finding less and less coal over the past months. It seems we've nearly run out."
Bill stared at the man with wide, disbelieving eyes. His face, once pale with shock, began to flush red with rising anger. "You're telling me this now, Jordan?" he barked, his voice trembling as he fought to contain his fury.
Jordan met his gaze briefly before lowering his eyes. "We sent notices about the situation months ago to the estate," he replied, his tone quieter, almost hesitant.
Bill's expression twisted further. "I haven't received any such news! And you expect me to believe this nonsense?" His voice rose as he scolded Jordan. His eyes darted momentarily to Gusto, who stood nearby with his head bowed, radiating guilt. The sight made Bill's suspicions flare.
"You!" Bill snapped, turning on Gusto. "Is it true?"
Before Gusto could respond, Bill grabbed the boy's collar with one hand, his grip tightening as Gusto instinctively tried to step back. The effort was futile; Bill's strength lifted him halfway off the ground.
"The Countess… she said not to let you know about it," Gusto stammered, his voice trembling with guilt.
A heavy silence descended, and Bill's face darkened. He took a deep breath, his fist unclenching as he released Gusto, letting the boy fall to the ground with a thud. Without another word, Bill turned abruptly toward the barred gates at the entrance of the mine where his horse had been tied. He hurriedly mounted it, muttering under his breath, "I will deal with you later." He cast Gusto one last, disdainful glance before riding off in a rush.
A cottage no larger than three thousand square feet sat nestled in the untamed wilds, its garden small and unkempt, with dried trees dotting the landscape. A maid was busy sweeping the lawn, while a woman sat nearby under a parasol, her extravagant dress and heavy makeup making her seem completely out of place. Expensive jewelry sparkled as she idly observed the maid's work, her eyes fixed on the mundane task in front of her.
"Mother! Mother! Look at what I have!" one of her daughters screamed, rushing toward her. Her compact, curly hair clung to her head like a tangled nest. She was dressed in a beautiful gown, though it clearly didn't suit her style. In her hands, she held a catalog showcasing what appeared to be the new season's designs. She hurried into the garden with an unladylike rush and threw the catalog into her mother's lap.
"I need all of these! My wardrobe is almost empty. I need new dresses!" she squealed, her voice high with excitement.
"Slow down, Gazel! How many times have I told you not to run around like this? A lady must act with grace. How will we ever find you a good suitor if you keep behaving like this?" her mother scolded.
Not far behind, a young woman no older than twenty stepped out of the main doors, holding a tray filled with teapots and a plate of sweets.
She was tall and slim, her beauty delicate and graceful. Her fair skin and long, lustrous black hair set her apart from the woman she called her mother. In fact, she didn't resemble Sandra at all. Silvia was not Sandra's biological daughter; she took after her late mother. Sandra, however, had always treated her like her own, because in Silvia's memory, Sandra was the only mother she'd ever known, even though she was never her most favored parent.
As Silvia entered, Sandra gave her a brief look before gesturing for her to set the food on the table.
"Your father must be on his way back. Prepare his lunch, and make sure to arrange the laundry—it's taking over my entire room."
"Yes, Mother," Silvia smiled and nodded, turning to leave.
As the sound of galloping horses reached her ears, Silvia's heart skipped a beat. Her father had returned from the mine. She stood still, watching as the two horses drew closer, their figures growing larger, her excitement brightening her complexion with every passing moment. Instinctively, she pulled her hair to one side and tucked it neatly behind her ear, her eyes fluttering as her cheeks flushed red.
Bill jumped off his horse, the familiar frown still etched deeply on his face. Close behind him was Jordan, dismounting with an air of quiet composure. Bill tossed the reins toward Jordan and brushed past Silvia without a word. Jordan, eyes cast sideways at her for a brief moment, stood beside the two horses, tethering them to the fence with practiced hands.
Silvia strolled to his side, a flutter in her chest, and pulled out her handkerchief. "Here, you've got a little something on your face, Sir Jordan," she said, her voice soft and her gaze averted, her cheeks glowing a deeper shade of red.
Jordan glanced over her shoulder to ensure they were out of sight. When he saw no one in view, he gently grasped her wrist, pulling her closer. Leaning in, his warm breath brushing against her cheek, he placed his hand softly on her waist, pulling her even closer.
"Why don't you wipe it for me?" His voice was low and smooth, like velvet.
Silvia's breath quickened as she tried to avert her gaze, her pulse hammering in her throat. "Let go, Jordan. What if they see us?" she whispered, her voice laced with hesitation.
Jordan chuckled softly, his nose brushing against her delicate cheek as he leaned in even closer. "So what? If your father sees me, I'll ask for your hand in marriage right there," he murmured, his grip tightening around her waist.
Just as the moment seemed to stretch, a voice called from inside the house, breaking the intimacy. "Silvia! Where are you? My hair is still not braided!"
Silvia jerked away from Jordan, her heart pounding in her chest. "Coming!" she called out, hurriedly pulling herself back.
"Don't go yet, okay? Let's have lunch together at our usual spot," she said, her voice soft with longing. Jordan's gaze softened, though he nodded reluctantly.
"I'll be counting the seconds, my love," he said, his voice deep and rich as he gave her wrist one last gentle squeeze, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her hand.