Chapter 27 - Mira’s Struggle

The leader’s tone left no room for argument.The bandits moved as a unit, heading toward their horses tied near the burning hut. They didn’t look back at Mira. Didn’t acknowledge the old man still desperately fighting the fire.

Just business. Failed business.

Viktor watched them mount up. Watched them prepare to ride off like nothing had happened.

And something inside him snapped.

"Hey."

His voice cut through the night, cold and sharp.

The leader paused, his hand on the reins.

"Fuckers. Where are you going?"

The rat-faced one looked back at Viktor, his expression almost pitying. Like he was looking at a child who didn’t understand how the world worked.

The leader didn’t even turn around. He just shook his head slightly, a dismissive gesture, and spurred his horse forward.

All four of them rode off into the darkness, hoofbeats fading until there was nothing but the crackle of flames and the old man’s labored breathing.

They’d ignored him completely.

Like he was an insect. Something beneath notice.

Viktor stood there, his mouth stretching into a thin line due to clear frustration. His jaw relaxed after putting up a tough act.

’This shithole is really too troublesome.’

Then he heard it.

"Hic... sob..."

Sobbing.

Viktor turned. Mira was still on the ground, her whole body shaking. Tears poured down her face, mixing with the blood from her parted lip. She held Toby against her chest, rocking back and forth.

Her other hand clutched the tattered cloth with the herbs Viktor had given her.

She looked up at him, her eyes red and swollen. "Please, my lord."

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Please... just leave. Take this back." She held out the herb pouch with trembling fingers. "I don’t need it. I can’t—I can’t afford your help. They’ll come back. When you’re not here, they’ll come back and—"

Her voice broke completely. Fresh sobs wracked her body.

Viktor stared at her. At the red handprint on her face. At the way her thick body curled protectively around her son. At the absolute defeat in her eyes.

He closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose.

’Those bastards will come again...’

It clicked.

’Franchise bandits,’ Viktor thought bitterly. ’Working for someone bigger. Keeping the villages suppressed so nobody talks to the duchy officials.’

Classic corruption.

The tears streaming down Mira’s face only confirmed his suspicions, but it was all futile now.

Viktor opened his eyes. "Do you not want to heal your child?"

Mira’s head snapped up. "What?"

"Your son. Toby." Viktor gestured at the boy in her arms. "Do you want him to get better or not?"

"I—" Mira’s mouth opened and closed. "Of course I want him to—but my lord, they’ll come back. They always come back."

"They won’t come to the manor," Viktor cut her off flatly.

Mira blinked. "How can you—" The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the novelhall.com

"Because I’m a noble." Viktor’s voice was cold, stating a simple fact. "And... I was needing a maid too. Join the manor."

He paused, letting that sink in.

Mira stared at him, her expression shifting from despair to something else. Confusion. Hope. Fear of that hope.

Toby’s small voice broke through the moment. "Mmm... uwaaah... I-I hit him."

Viktor looked down at the boy. Toby’s face was tear-stained, his eyes puffy, but there was anger there. Real, burning anger that cut through the illness-induced fog.

"Th...they," Toby continued, his voice trembling. "M-mama... hit."

Something in Viktor’s chest tightened.

"Then just hit them back," Viktor said. "I’ll teach you how to hit back properly."

"But for now," Viktor continued, "you need to get better. Come on. Follow me."

Mira looked at him, her mouth trembling as she thought about what others would say. "But my lord, those people—"

"Are still hiding in their homes doing nothing while that old man tries to save his hut alone," Viktor finished. "Helena!"

"Y-yes, young master." Helena appeared from nearby, her dress dirtied, ash smudged across her face. She’d been helping the old man—Viktor could see the empty bucket in her hands, water dripping.

"Pick up the pace," Viktor ordered. "Check if anyone else is hurt."

Helena nodded immediately, running back toward the well.

Viktor turned back to Mira. She was still on the ground, clutching Toby and the herb pouch.

"Why?" The word came out broken. "Why are you helping me, my lord?"

She looked up at him, really looked at him. At his chubby face marked by nobility—well-fed, clean despite the sweat. At his young features, handsome beneath the extra weight. At eyes that held something she couldn’t quite name.

She thought of the bandits’ words. The mocking laughter. The certainty that no noble would ever want her.

And here was one, offering help for nothing.

It didn’t make sense.

Viktor paused. He could say it was practical. Information gathering. Building goodwill. Strategic positioning.

All true.

Instead, he scratched his chin, shrugged, and said, "I don’t know. Maybe you’re beautiful."

The words hung in the air.

Mira’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened slightly, no sound coming out.

Heat rushed to her face—sudden and overwhelming. She looked down at herself instinctively. At her thick body, the worn clothes clinging to curves she’d learned to hide. At the swelling on her face from the slap. At hands rough from work and poverty.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed one hand to her chest, feeling the rapid flutter beneath her palm. The other hand unconsciously moved to tug at her neckline, suddenly aware of how the fabric hung, how much of her collarbone showed, how disheveled she must look.

Then she looked back at Viktor’s face.

Handsome. Young. Noble. Clean.

And she thought about belief.

The words of those bandits echoed in her mind—harsh, cruel, certain. If a handsome man said she was beautiful, and an ugly man said she was ugly—who would she believe?

Naturally, the handsome one.

Something warm spread through her chest. Different from the fear, from the despair. Something she hadn’t felt in so long she’d almost forgotten it existed.

Hope.

Her lips pressed together. She looked down again, her face burning despite everything. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her dress. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the bandits or the violence. This was different. Intimate.

"Come on, stand up now," Viktor said, his hand stretched out to offer her help. "Are you not going to follow me?"

Mira looked back up at him through her lashes. She sat there with the burning house creating flickering light behind them, their eyes meeting as she stared at the stretched palm of the young man offering her help. Her gaze dropped to his hand—soft, clean, unmarred by labor.

Then to her own. Small. Fragile. Dirty.

She hesitated, acutely aware of the contrast. Of how rough her skin would feel against his. Of how improper it was to touch him at all.

But slowly, her hand lifted and rested in his.

"I will follow you, my lord." Her voice was steadier now, though she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. "I just need to gather my things from this place."

Viktor nodded. "Make it quick. And bring whatever you need for Toby. The manor has enough space."

Mira stood slowly, still holding Toby. She looked at her tiny hut—at the cracked walls, the moldy straw bed, the absolute poverty she’d lived in for years.

Then she looked at Viktor, her cheeks still flushed, her hand still tingling where his had been.

Viktor stood near the hut’s entrance, arms crossed as he watched Mira fumble with her belongings. His jaw twitched with impatience.

"Why are you so slow?"

Before she could respond, he moved—reaching out and lifting Toby from her arms in one smooth motion. The boy made a small sound of surprise but didn’t resist, his fevered body limp against Viktor’s chest.

"My lord, I—"

Viktor grabbed her wrist with his free hand, pulling her toward the hut. "Come on."

Mira’s breath caught at the contact. His fingers were warm against her skin, firm but not rough. She stumbled forward, suddenly hyperaware of how close they were, how easily he moved her.

Inside, the space was worse than he’d imagined. Moldy straw scattered across the dirt floor. Broken clay pots with jagged edges. Clothes so threadbare they were barely fabric anymore—holes eaten through by time and insects, seams split open, colors long faded to gray.

He didn’t hesitate.

Still holding Toby against his shoulder, Viktor began sorting through the mess with his other hand. He grabbed a cracked wooden bowl, examined it, tossed it aside. Picked up a tattered blanket.

"This?" He held it up.

Mira stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Y-yes, my lord."

Her face burned hotter. He was touching everything—her things, her poverty, the intimate spaces of her life. She wanted to tell him to stop, that a noble shouldn’t be handling such filth, but the words stuck in her throat.

Viktor nodded, draping the blanket over his arm. He moved to the corner where more rags lay piled. His clean noble’s clothes brushed against dirt and grime as he crouched down, fingers touching things no noble should ever handle.

Mira’s hands twisted together. She felt naked somehow, watching him see everything. The broken pottery she couldn’t afford to replace. The clothes she’d mended so many times the patches had patches. The straw mattress where she’d held Toby through countless fevered nights.

"What about these?" He lifted a small clay jar with a chipped rim.

"That... that has dried herbs," Mira whispered, still frozen in place.

She crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously, then dropped them, then crossed them again.

Where should she put her hands? What should she do? He was kneeling in her hut, going through her things, and she just stood there like a fool.

"Useful." Viktor tucked it under his arm with the blanket. "What else?"

She watched him work—this nobleman in fine clothes, kneeling in filth without a single grimace. Touching broken pottery that could cut his soft hands. Sorting through her poverty like it mattered.

Like ’she’ mattered.

Her eyes burned with fresh tears, but these felt different. She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to hold back a sob that was part gratitude, part embarrassment, part something else entirely.

Viktor straightened, adjusting Toby’s weight. The boy’s head lolled against his shoulder, small breaths wheezing. "Mira. Focus. We don’t have all night."

"S-sorry, my lord." She moved finally, her hands shaking as she reached for a small bundle in the corner.