A Vow Unbroken: Never Forgiving, Always Loving

From the bustling streets of Kingder City to the stark solitude of the desert, my journey had been a relentless struggle.

In this vast, unending expanse, I was once again alone—small and insignificant.

My mind kept drifting back to the events of my life.

I was an abandoned infant left under a tree—nameless, rootless, and adrift.

As a child, I wandered from place to place, begging, buffeted by the elements.

At eleven, with some modest beauty, I was chosen as a harpist, performing on the streets to earn a living.

My master, who took me in and taught me with all his heart, was a rare source of warmth in those few tender years.

He gave me the name Felicity Moore, which I cherished deeply.

The sound of the harp brought joy and relief, and every day, many came to listen.

I labored for six years, hoping to live off my art and find peace.

At seventeen, when Yecrak nationality in Northern Land invaded, the troupe scattered. I roamed the streets begging, searching for my master as I traveled north.

In Kingder City, a place of such splendor, I found no refuge. I was found half-frozen on the street by a brothel madam, who took me in to perform music and provide entertainment and services.

Initially, I resisted, but survival left me no other choice.

The madam gave me a stage name, Malus, which suited me well enough—it spared my master from hearing my name sullied.

At eighteen, I began taking clients, which was relatively late. Most were nobles and wealthy men seeking pleasure.

Though every encounter made me sick to my stomach, I had no choice but to flatter and please them.

My life was always of little worth, and I understood that staying alive was the most important thing.

I never intended to fall into such degradation, but survival outweighed all else. Maintaining a reputation for purity was for highborn ladies.

I was not one of them.

As I languished day by day in the brothel, I often wondered about the meaning of my existence.

Why was it me who had to endure such inhumane suffering?

Just as I thought my life would never end, I met Oliver.

During a festival, he and a few friends visited the brothel, and I was ordered to play the harp.

Dressed in a crown and elegant attire, Oliver was striking and tall.

Yet, to me, he seemed no different from other patrons.

I played my music with my eyes downcast, lost in the melody.

But he, inspired by my music, began reciting poetry.

"Time and tide wait for no man, and this regret endures forever."

At his clear, melodious voice, I looked up at him.

Oliver caught my gaze, momentarily losing himself before blushing like a young lover.

He sat down and watched me play, his eyes fixed on me.

When I finished, his friends left, and only he remained.

I initially assumed he was just another patron seeking a fleeting night of pleasure.

But when I started to undress, he turned away and helped me put my clothes back on.

Confused, I wondered about his intentions.

Oliver then announced he wanted to buy my freedom.

There had been others before who promised to redeem me, even a foreign man who claimed he would buy my freedom and asked me to wait three days.

I didn't believe the man, but a small part of me hoped for the best.

As expected, nothing came of it.

That night, I went home with Oliver. Even the worst fate was better than continuing to sink in the brothel.

He settled me into a guest house and left, assigning me two maids and a servant.

At first, I thought he was only interested in my looks, but he never touched me and never came to see me after buying my freedom.

To this day, I was not entirely sure of my place.

Since then, I had had three months without seeing him.

From the servants, I learned he was Oliver, the Marquis' heir.

Every day, I practiced the harp in the morning, tended to flowers, and entertained the servants.

This was a life I never thought I would have, and it felt like my dream had come true.

Three months flew by in the blink of an eye. Outside the window, snowflakes drifted down like feathers, yet inside, the warmth felt like early summer.

One morning, Oliver suddenly burst into my room, shivering and drenched in cold. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around me.

Feeling the chill from his body and the weight of his sorrow, I held him close and gently stroked his back.

My neck rested against his cheek, and I could feel his heartbeat quickening along with mine.

I thought to myself, "This man is so deeply sad. Who could have done this to him, making him suffer so?"