His Broken Luna From The Shadows

"You can go now, Eleanor."

Agnes, the scullery matron, wiped her hands on a stained apron. Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

"Your family is here for you."

Eleanor didn't stop scrubbing. The rough stone floor was cold against her chapped knuckles. The motion was automatic, a rhythm her body had known for three years.

Only the words registered, slowly, like a distant bell.

Family.

She paused. The dripping of a leaky faucet filled the silence.

"Which family?" she asked. Her voice was raspy from disuse.

Agnes blinked, thrown by the question. "Your brother, of course. Julian Montgomery."

Eleanor's breath hitched for a single, imperceptible moment. Then, it was gone.

She pushed herself up. Her knees screamed in protest, joints stiff and swollen from years of kneeling on cold stone. The pain was a familiar friend.

She didn't change. The coarse, gray servant's dress, washed so many times it was nearly white, hung on her thin frame. It was her skin now.

She followed Agnes out of the damp, mold-scented scullery.

The sudden sunlight was a physical blow. Eleanor raised a hand to shield her eyes. For a flash, the light caught a lattice of old, silvery scars on her forearm before she let her hand drop.

A carriage, gleaming and impossibly ornate, stood in the muddy courtyard. The Montgomery family crest was emblazoned on the door, a proud griffin that seemed to mock the surrounding filth.

The door swung open.

Julian Montgomery stepped out, a silk handkerchief pressed to his nose. His polished boots hesitated before touching the grimy ground. His eyes swept the area with undisguised disgust.

Then his gaze landed on her.

His brow furrowed. "Get in the carriage. Quickly. Don't let anyone see you looking like that."

Eleanor didn't answer. She simply dipped into a perfect, shallow curtsy. The curtsy of a servant.

Then she walked toward the carriage, her back ramrod straight.

Her obedience seemed to frustrate him more than any argument would have. A vein pulsed in his temple. He let out an exasperated breath and followed her inside, slamming the door shut.

The interior was a shock of plush velvet and soft leather. It smelled of money and a life she had almost forgotten.

The carriage lurched forward.

The driver, Frank, glanced back through the small window, a flicker of pity in his eyes before he quickly looked away.

The silence inside was heavy, suffocating. Only the rattle of the wheels on the stone path broke the tension.

Finally, Julian couldn't stand it. "Mother has had new clothes prepared for you. A room has been made ready. When we get back to the manor, you will forget this place."

He waited for a response. None came.

"And you will not cause any more trouble. No more stunts to embarrass the family."

Eleanor's gaze was fixed on the bleak, passing landscape outside the window. As if he hadn't spoken.

His patience snapped. "Eleanor, I am talking to you!"

She turned her head slowly. Her green eyes, once bright and full of life, were now like still, deep water. Empty.

"Thank you for your concern, Young Master," she said. Her tone was eerily calm.

The title hit him like a slap. His face flushed with anger. "What did you call me?"

Eleanor tilted her head, a picture of polite confusion. "You are the Marquis's heir. I am a servant of the estate. Is my form of address incorrect?"

Her words were not a weapon. They were a scalpel, sliding between his ribs with surgical precision.

"Stop this pathetic act!" He grabbed her shoulder, his fingers digging into the thin fabric of her dress.

She didn't flinch. She didn't resist. She simply let him shake her. "This is not an act, Young Master. It is my station."

She looked directly into his furious eyes, her own gaze unwavering.

"A servant who has worked in the scullery for three years," she said, her voice a soft, chilling whisper, "Eleanor."

She deliberately left off the name Montgomery.

He froze, his hand still on her shoulder. The absolute calm in her eyes, the utter lack of feeling, was more unnerving than any screaming match. It was like striking a ghost. All his anger, his superiority, it found no purchase. It simply passed through her.

Julian snatched his hand back as if burned.

The only sound in the carriage was his own ragged breathing.

Eleanor turned her head and looked out the window again, as if the confrontation had never happened.