The wind howled through the cracked wooden slats of the attic window, a mournful sound that matched the ache in Erin's chest. She sat hunched on a threadbare blanket, her only shield against the biting chill of the manor's uppermost room. In her calloused hands, she clutched a broken phone—an oddity in this medieval sprawl of stone and timber, a relic she'd scrimped for over six months of scrubbing floors and hauling coal. Its screen was a web of fractures, glinting faintly in the moonlight that spilled through the gaps. It was useless now, but it had been hers, a fragile tether to a world beyond this prison of servitude.

Erin's breath hitched as she traced the cracks with a trembling finger. She was nineteen, though the weight of her years felt closer to ninety. Her mother's face flickered in her mind—pale, smiling, then fading into the gray haze of memory. Five years ago, fever had stolen her away, leaving Erin alone with a stepfather who stank of ale and spite. He'd sold her to this manor to settle his debts, bartering her life for a few coins and a cask of wine. "You're worth less than a mule," he'd slurred, shoving her into the arms of the manor's steward. That was her beginning here: a maid, a shadow, a thing to be used.