"𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘵?"
⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂જ⁀➴
Born into servitude, Zayd finds his place as the stablehand for the illustrious Fitzwilliam family. It is there that he forges a...
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Adelia was ten years old when she first laid eyes on Zayd.
She watched with curious blue eyes as the boy, brown of skin and black of hair, stepped into the courtyard of Manor Fitzwilliam. He was battered and bruised, his form cloaked in dirt and mud.
Hidden from view, Adelia watched on from behind a wooden pillar, a deep sense of pity and commiseration taking root in her heart. The boy looked out of place amidst the grandeur of her family's hold. In the courtyard, vibrant with colour and life, peppered with flowers and greenery, he was a clear disparity. His swarthy complexion and tattered appearance stood out against the opulence surrounding him, a sombre figure amidst the blooms and finery. Adelia's young heart ached for him—this stranger from a strange land. She pondered what fate could have brought him to their doorstep.
The commander who led the soldiers stepped forward from the crowd of polished armour, the faint jingle of chainmail accompanying each deliberate stride. Sunlight danced upon the surface of his breastplate as he moved with practiced ease through the courtyard.
"My Lord," he spoke the title, inclining his head with eyes cast to the ground. After lifting them, he addressed her father, the Lord Baron Fitzwilliam, in a low, hushed tone. Adelia couldn't discern their words but watched as her father's stern countenance softened ever so slightly upon glancing at the boy. He nodded and motioned for his soldiers to depart.
That evening, amidst the supper's candlelit glow, Adelia wrestled with her burgeoning curiosity. To her side, her elder sister Isabella remained silent, her posture rigid and proper, betraying no hint of the same intrigue that consumed her younger sister.
Adelia, though young, possessed a mind that was sharp like a well-honed blade. She observed how the warm evening light that filtered through the grand windows failed to thaw the frostiness in her mother's expression. Earlier, in the courtyard, Adelia had glimpsed the sour twist on her mother's face upon encountering the boy. It seemed her father's decision to let the boy stay was yet another source of contention between her parents. When her father had placed his hand on the boy's bare shoulder, her mother's lips had curled in disdain.
Adelia waited with the patience of the setting sun, until the last remnants of supper had been whisked away by the servants and her mother had retreated from the table, before daring to speak.
"Father," she began hesitantly, "who is that boy? The one the soldiers brought today?"
The Lord Baron looked at her, his expression thoughtful. "His name is Zayd," he said slowly. Adelia's tilted her head at the sound of such a strange name. "He has come a long way and endured much hardship. He will be staying with us for a while."
"But why, Father?" Adelia pressed. "Where did he come from?"
Her father suppressed a sigh, the lines on his face softening as he looked upon his favoured daughter and her eager and expectant eyes. "That tale is best left for another time, my dear. For now, rest assured he is under our protection, and in return, will labour for us."
