The freezing late autumn wind snapped against Carmela’s face as she crossed the cobblestone square of Olmeda.

She kept her spine straight. Unyielding. Her dark wool skirt remained immaculate despite the black mud splashing from passing wagons. Eight-year-old Lucia was clamped firmly in her right hand, the girl’s small boots skittering to keep pace with Carmela’s long, regal strides. Behind them, the dark, billowing soot of the blacksmith's forge marked the edge of the lane.

Facing the center of the square, Carmela kept her attention locked forward. Ignoring the rhythmic, metallic slam of Tomás's iron hammer against the anvil.

For five years, she had fought the creeping mediocrity of this valley. Drilling their true identity into her family every single day—ensuring they never integrated with the common people of this province.

A sudden lack of weight in her right hand snapped her out of her thoughts.

Lucia had drifted away.

The girl had stopped right in front of the bakery doors, her gaze dropping to a patch of weeds pushing through a crack in the cobblestones. Carmela closed the distance instantly. She clamped her hand back down onto the child’s cold fingers and pulled her sharply forward.

"Look, mama," Lucia whispered, keeping her eyes on the ground as she was hauled back into stride. "Blue ones. They look like glass."

"Eyes up, Lucia," Carmela said. Her tone was flat. Rehearsed. Absolute. "Walk straight."

The girl’s chin rose instantly. Her small shoulders squared by habit, her boots returning to the quick, mechanical rhythm necessary to match her mother's pace.

"Señora Montenegro. Good morning."

The voice broke the air.

Carmela snapped out of her trance, her lips thinning into a tight line of pure, defensive pride as she tightly gripped her basket.

"Señorita," she muttered, her voice tight and hollow.

Katerina stood just outside the warm threshold of the pastelería. The Alcalde's daughter held a small pastry box close to her emerald satin gown—looking every bit the untouched lady of the manor. Carmela did not smile. She simply adjusted her shawl with a cold, elegant snap of her wrists, her jaw tightening as she met the younger girl's gaze.

Katerina offered a small, polite nod.

Carmela returned the gesture with a freezing tilt of her chin. Her eyes tracked the precise way the younger girl held her posture—how the green silk fell without a single crease.

Perfect.

The tilt of the head. The quiet weight of the walk.

Lucia will learn that exact line of the shoulder.

Stepping away from the bakery, she pulled Lucia toward the local merchant’s wooden stall at the far end of the lane. The counter smelled of raw brine and damp canvas. Señor Martinez, a stout man with grease under his fingernails, didn't bother to lift his hat as they approached.

Carmela set her heavy willow basket on the rough timber with a deliberate, quiet grace. She lifted the damp linen cloth inside, revealing four clay crocks of milk and two dozen pale brown eggs, nestled carefully in dry straw.

"The yield from the morning, Martinez," Carmela said, her voice cool and perfectly level.

The merchant picked up an egg, turning it over in his rough palm. "Two of these are small, Señora. And the milk is thin today. The mountain grass is freezing over."

He slid three copper coins across the scarred wood.

"Best I can do."

Carmela didn't touch the coppers. Her hand remained resting lightly on the edge of her basket, her knuckles white but her face unreadable.

"The milk is from the high pasture, Martinez. It is the richest in the valley. We agreed on five coppers."

"Five coppers was before the winter drafts hit the pass," the man grunted, leaning his weight against the counter. "Take the three or feed it to your hogs."

Beside her, Lucia reached out, her small fingers lightly brushing the smooth glaze of one of the milk crocks.

Carmela caught the movement. With a swift, firm pressure of her arm, she nudged the girl back, forcing her to stand perfectly still, ankles crossed, hands pinned at her sides.

Like Katerina had stood.

"Four coppers," Carmela countered, her gaze locking onto the merchant’s eyes with a freezing intensity that made the man shift his weight. "And a small sack of rye flour. Milled this week."

Martinez grumbled, checking the square for other buyers before reaching beneath his counter. He dropped a fourth coin onto the wood and hoisted a small, coarse twine sack next to her basket.

"You drive a hard bargain for a woman."

"We are done here," Carmela said.

She swept the coins into her linen handkerchief, her spine remaining an untouchable line. She picked up the basket, her eyes dropping to Lucia. The girl’s boots were muddy, but her head remained high, her small jaw locked in a mirror image of her mother's.

One day, a man with a name that mattered would look at that posture.

Every transaction, every forced discipline, was a step toward that salvation.

The village clock struck the noon hour. Its heavy brass tones were muffled by the thick November fog pressing against the stone buildings. Carmela lifted her chin high. Her muscles locked into perfect alignment as she turned back toward the center of the square.

She had seen a shadow approaching from the steps of the town hall.

Don Rafael walked with the slow, deliberate stride of a man who owned every stone beneath his boots. The Alcalde of Olmeda wore a heavy tailored wool coat that kept the freezing mist at bay, his silver-headed cane clicking sharply against the cobblestones with every alternate step. Around him, workers were still hoisting the heavy timber beams for tomorrow’s main stage—the heavy ring of wooden mallets against oak pins echoing off the surrounding stones.

As their paths converged near the construction, Don Rafael halted, lifting a gloved hand. He turned his head just enough to catch her eye as she passed.

He tilted his hat.

His sharp gaze raked over her faded wool shawl with a slow, calculating look.

"Good day to you, Señora Montenegro," Rafael said, his voice a deep, elegant rumble that carried across the damp air with practiced warmth. He offered a brilliant, sophisticated smile, though his eyes remained completely flat. Cold as winter frost. "A bitter noon to be dragging young Lucia through the square."

Carmela didn't bend her spine, her jaw tightening as she held the child's hand. "We are simply tending to a few things before tomorrow's festivities."

"Naturally," Rafael replied, his tone smooth as polished marble as he tapped his cane gently against the ground. "We have a beautiful evening planned for the community—music, dancing, and honoring those we have lost. I certainly look forward to seeing your family in attendance."

Carmela kept her gaze level, her features completely frozen against the biting wind.

"We shall see what the day looks like."

She didn't wait for his permission. She simply adjusted her shawl and continued on her way, her boots clicking sharply against the slick cobblestones as she guided Lucia toward the lower marketplace lanes.

Behind them, the silver head of his cane shifted slightly against the wet ground.