PROLOGUE
This is a story of a girl who was never meant to leave.
They locked the gates and sealed the walls, bound her in tradition and called it peace. Her name was Noël Ársa, born beneath cold skies and colder laws, raised by a woman who taught her that silence was a cage and pain was a teacher. They will tell you she followed these laws, that she bowed her head. But that is not the truth.
Noël was a rose, and the truth is:Roses grow thorns when ignored for too long.
“One, two, one, two.”
Noël’s mother’s sharp commands cut through the quiet of their secret garden. Noël moved her body in time with the words she’d heard over and over, her bruised hands gripping the wooden sword as she struck the dummy before her. This garden, hidden from the eyes of Tárnov’s rigid rules, was aplace of defiance. High walls circled the village like a fortress, ivy creeping along the old cracks in the stone as if nature itself sought to break free. The streets were lined with cobblestones, perfectly even and slick from the melted snow. Each stone sat in its place, just like the homes they led to, identical gray blocks of cold stone and pointed roofs, lined up in regimented rows. Even the wind moved in straight lines here, whistling past shuttered windows and locked doors.
Every building and every street served one purpose: to maintain control. Women walked in silence, skirts brushing the polished stone. Children were sorted before their voices had deepened. Boys sent to drills, girls to domestic halls where they learned how to listen without being told.
No woman left Tárnov.
No girl was raised to believe she could. That wasn’t how the world worked.
A woman who is born in Tárnov dies in Tárnov.The phrase had been etched into Noël’s mind since birth. A truth known among the village women but never spoken above a whisper.
In Tárnov, the trees didn’t reach the walls. But here, in this garden, the blue roses flourished, glowing in the early morning gloom. No one knew they truly existed outside tales of old, and that was the way it had to remain. This place, where Noël could be more than just a daughter bound by the laws of men, was her mother’s gift, her rebellion against an empire that saw women as nothing more than vessels for bearing children and slaves for men’s greed.
“Come on, Noël, you can’t rest now.”
Noël’s chest burned from the effort, her muscles trembling as she lifted the sword again. Sweat beaded on her brow, blended with the dirt and dust of the garden. But she wouldn’t stop. Not here. Not with her mother’s eyes on her.
The dummy swayed, spinning on its base as the wooden sword smacked into its body over and over again.
“Push harder!” her mother urged, and Noël listened. She always did.
From a young age, Noël trained under her mother’s guidance. She woke early, always beginning with chores. The floor had to be swept before breakfast, and the table set with clean plates for the staple porridge. Buckwheat, millet, or oats, depending on the season. Tárnov was a village favored by the tsar, and there was always enough if you had a coin.
Noël had a sweet tooth and often added berries or honey when she could, something her mother, Eyleen, loved too.
Every day was filled with training. The body and mind had to be honed in equal measure, and Eyleen made sure her daughter understood that.
Discipline, she would always say, was the key to keeping the soul at ease.
“One, two, one, two.”
Noël gritted her teeth, focusing on the movement of her arms, the flow of her strikes, and the sting in her muscles. She swung with all her strength, her mind blocking out the pain as the dummy spun faster. She could hear her mother’s footsteps circling behind her, the soft crunch of leaves under her boots, her gaze never leaving Noël’s back.
Noël’s final strike came with a crack. The wooden dummy broke apart, its pieces falling to the ground as she stumbled back, gasping for air. Her arms trembled from the effort, her chest rose and fell with every ragged breath. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she dared to glance at her mother.
For a moment, she thought she might see pride in her mother’s eyes. But her mother simply looked down at the broken pieces of the puppet.
“Better,” she said. “But not enough. Tomorrow, we start earlier.”
Noël swallowed, panting heavily as she wiped her hands on the hem of her damp tunic. “Yes, Mother,”
Noël always wondered when the day would come, the day her mother would finally see her. When her effort would be enough. But it never was. Not the perfect strikes that could put seasoned soldiers to shame. Not the disciplined routine she followed without fail. Not even the lessons she memorized word for word.
Nothing was ever enough for Eyleen Ársa.
As the morning sun rose above Tárnov’s stone walls, the blue roses surrounding them danced gently in the breeze. Her mother turned and disappeared through the archway of blue roses, her back straight and graceful as she walked. Noël stared at the empty space she left behind with a narrow gaze.
She wondered, as she often did, when the day would come.
It seemed though, once again, today was not the day.
