After multiple movements had passed, my arms were screaming from the pain of having my wrists so tightly bound. The sun slowly climbed higher in the sky, and the heat from its rays soon became unbearable as they shone down on the open wagon. 

I slipped in and out of awareness as we traveled. Despite my hopes that I would drift away forever, the gnawing pain from my bound wrists and the sun that burned my skin kept forcing me back to lucidity. But soon the terror and sorrow would overwhelm me again and I'd slip back into nothingness, embracing the mindless fog whenever it returned to me. 

The horrors I had witnessed were still fresh in my waking mind, but I didn’t have the luxury of things like self-pity or mourning. Instead, I went to a place where I couldn’t feel anything at all and hid myself there, desperate to make the pain go away. 

When my kidnappers stopped for a midday rest, I was finally forced to completely emerge from the fog and face my situation. They untied my aching arms but immediately retied them with my hands in front of me. It was still too tight, but no longer so tight as to risk permanent damage. 

I realized that they had been ordered to return the Duke's son in relatively good condition, and I probably wouldn't be seriously injured by them. I had hoped they would kill me, so there was little relief in that knowledge, only a numbing sense of disappointment.

They decided it would be better if they didn't have to deal with me while traveling, so they drugged a flask of water and forced me to drink it. I tried to refuse at first, but they held my nose closed until I opened my mouth for air and poured the contents of the flask down my throat. 

Instead of the grey fog I'd been floating in, a deep pit of blackness awaited me and I fell into its depths. That was the last thing I remember before arriving in Ramport. 

When I regained consciousness again, we were navigating our way through the narrow streets of a city, passing through a crowded marketplace full of stalls and people. The sights and smells were overwhelming to my senses. 

The market in our small border town couldn't compare to the vibrant scene surrounding me. Had the circumstances been different, it might have been an experience of wonder and delight. But as it was, the bright colors and loud voices made my head spin, and the smell of the food stalls turned my stomach. 

I wanted to go home. I wanted my mother. I wanted to die.

We sped through the market at record pace, and soon we were on a lonely road that led to a glittering mansion in the distance. 

The mansion itself was a brilliant shade of white, four stories high, with a white stone path leading up to it. Beautiful flowers adorned the grounds, and a large terrace surrounded the house, encompassed by a gold and white railing. Where the white stone path ended, a grand staircase began, intersecting the deck and leading up to a majestic front door. My father, the Duke, stood at the foot of the bronze and white staircase, as if he had somehow anticipated our exact time of arrival. 

My father was a well-built man of middle age, no longer youthful in appearance, but still full of vigor and life. He had dark brown hair and piercing green eyes; eyes that perfectly matched mine in color, but possessed a cold, calculating quality that mine certainly lacked. 

I was graced with my mother's light hair color, a pale reddish blonde, and I shared her gentler, more rounded features. The Duke had a sharp, hawkish face, with a hooked nose and thin mouth. 

But there was no mistaking those eyes. He was indeed my father.

Next to him stood two women who were undoubtedly mother and daughter. Despite their difference in age, they were clearly cut from the same cloth. Both were remarkable beauties with full, pouting lips and bright blue eyes.

The mother had blonde hair, fine and silky, that shone with a golden sheen in the sunlight. The daughter, my half sister, had dark hair just like her, no, our father's. They both looked at me with hostile gazes, making no effort to hide their contempt.

All three of them were immaculate in appearance, which only served to emphasize my own shabbiness. I was dragged from the back of the wagon and thrown on my knees before them; sunburned, dirty, and disheveled. My tattered clothes, which weren't very good to begin with, clashed with the scenery around me. 

Not that I cared how I looked to them. These people weren't my family. They were my kidnappers and the ones responsible for my mother's suffering. I hated them already.