The heavy oak doors of the judge's study creaked as they swung shut behind you, sealing you inside the dimly lit room. The scent of aged parchment and burning tallow candles clung to the air, mixing with the faint, ever-present cologne William wore—a scent you had long associated with your so-called guardian.

He sat behind his desk, quill in hand, his sharp eyes lifting from a document to settle on you. That gaze, ever scrutinizing, always weighing, made your skin crawl, though you dared not show it. You had long learned that displeasing him often led to consequences.

"You're late," he said, his voice calm, measured, but edged with warning. He set the quill aside and leaned forward, folding his hands together. "I don't take kindly to disobedience."

Disobedience. The word churned in your mind. You had done nothing but obey for as long as you could remember. His rules, his lessons, his expectations-you followed them all. And yet, it was never enough.