Here is a beautifully rewritten and extended version of your scene, preserving its emotion, deepening the narrative, and enhancing clarity:
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Marquel's Forgotten Memories
In the shadowed recesses of Marquel's mind, fragments of a distant past stirred—moments buried beneath chains and silence.
He had once lived as a slave.
A frail boy back then, thin from hunger but fierce with a quiet strength, standing protectively in front of a girl. She was beautiful even then, trembling behind him, her long black hair soaked with fear, clinging to the hem of his tattered shirt as if it were her last hope.
Before them stood a monstrous dog, nearly the size of both children combined. Its snarling fangs glistened with spit, and behind it, two noble boys laughed cruelly. They had set the beast loose, just for their amusement—just to watch them cower.
But Marquel didn't move. He didn't run.
In that moment, something awakened inside him.
He remembered the day he was first bought—dragged from a slave auction by an aging nobleman with eyes as tired as time. The man hadn't spoken much, except to give a single, heavy command:
"Protect her. No matter what. That is your only purpose."
And so, Marquel obeyed.
With trembling hands, he seized two stones from the ground and, in a blur of defiance, leapt at the beast. The dog lunged, but Marquel's rage moved faster. The stones slammed against its skull with brutal force again and again, blood splattering across his face and arms.
The laughter stopped.
The two noble boys gaped, their amusement twisting into horror. They hadn't expected a slave to resist—let alone kill.
When it was over, the dog lay still, and Marquel, panting and bloodied, stood above it in silence.
He turned toward the girl—Sarah. That was her name. The one the old man told him to protect.
Marquel said nothing. His eyes were blank, unreadable.
But Sarah trembled for a different reason now. She rushed forward, tearing a strip from her sleeve and wrapping it around the bleeding gash on Marquel's arm. Her hands shook, her breath hitched, but her eyes were filled with something new—something warm.
From that day on, the noble boys never dared to approach her again.
And Sarah… smiled. For the first time in weeks, she smiled.
When she was alone, she often suffered their torment. She never understood why. But now, with him standing beside her, something in her heart felt safe.
Years passed. They turned ten, and their bond grew stronger.
Sarah awakened a powerful skill—one that hadn't appeared in generations within her family. She became the prodigy of House Loki, showered in praise, burdened by expectations.
But even with power, she felt suffocated.
So, she sought comfort in the quiet presence of her protector. In Marquel.
Over the next two years, their closeness deepened. They shared whispers in moonlit corridors, laughter hidden behind ancient pillars, and gentle moments where words were unnecessary.
At twelve, Sarah confessed her feelings to him—softly, with cheeks flushed and heart trembling.
Marquel, too, had fallen. And in secret, beneath a sacred tree in the garden, they made a vow to marry when they came of age. They would call each other "Darling," just like the characters in the storybook she once read him. Their love, innocent and pure, bloomed in the shadows where no one else could see.
But love between a noble and a slave was a crime—a taboo etched in iron.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
A prodigy in love with a slave?
House Loki was shaken. Servants whispered behind closed doors, and eyes began to follow the two. A spy was planted, and it did not take long for the truth to be revealed.
Sarah's father, Lord Alric, rubbed his temples in frustration as the report was delivered. His daughter—his pride—had fallen for him? A low-born slave?
Outrage burned through him.
And so, on a cold, stormy night, the decision was made.
Marquel was seized and sentenced to execution.
He was accused of defiling a noble bloodline, of daring to touch what was not his. Shackled and dragged to the town square, he knelt beneath the blade as thunder rolled overhead.
The executioner raised his sword and proclaimed:
"Let this serve as a lesson—any slave who dares lay hands on a noble shall meet the same fate!"
Gasps echoed through the gathered crowd. Some averted their eyes. Others stared in contempt.
And watching from her window, Sarah's world shattered.
She stood frozen, heart pounding, rain cascading down the glass as the scene unfolded. She was just a girl—helpless, powerless… or so she thought.
Then, with trembling hands, she turned and ran.
Barefoot and breathless, she charged through the manor, down the halls, out into the storm. She ignored the mud, the rocks cutting her feet, the cold slicing her skin.
And when she reached the square—soaked, desperate, wild—she screamed.
"If you kill him… I'll kill myself!"
In her hand was a kitchen knife. Pressed against her throat.
The crowd fell silent.
Her father paled, horror overtaking fury. He stepped forward, hand raised to stop her, but the look in her eyes told him—if he moved, it would be too late.
Blood trickled down her neck.
"Stop the execution!" Lord Alric cried, voice cracking with terror.
The blade froze mid-air.
Sarah collapsed moments later, knife falling from her hand. Her lips curled into a faint, trembling smile as she faded into unconsciousness.
Marquel lived.
But not as a free boy. He was sold again—this time, to the Ashen Kingdom, far from her reach.
Sarah awoke in her bed, wrapped in bandages, her throat aching. But her heart beat with a fragile hope.
He was alive.
And that was enough.
Since that day, the prodigy of House Loki vanished. Or so the world believed. Sarah ceased to share her progress, concealed her Power and breakthrough, and trained in secret. Her family provided food and shelter, but no longer warmth. To them, she had fallen.
But they didn't know.
They didn't know that she had grown stronger—quietly, fiercely. For him.
For the boy who once stood between her and a monster, who bled so she wouldn't cry.
As the years passed, she became distant from others, cold and aloof. Her smile, once bright, had dulled. But on rare nights, when the stars were kind and the wind gentle, she would sit alone, gaze at the sky, and whisper into the darkness:
"I hope we meet again… My Darling."