The year was 1847, and the humid heat of the Mississippi Delta hung over Blackwood Plaza like a blanket of wet sand. This was the empire of cotton, ambition, and expansion forged on this land by Corporal Silas Blackwood.
To the outside world, Silas was a colossus of hard work, a man of iron will and deep pockets. But within the walls of his grand, white-columned mansion, he was a tyrant whose heart had long since hardened.
Silas had two children, and yet, if he drank a few glasses of bourbon, he only had one.
There was Julia, his son and heir, a twenty-five-year-old peacock who spent more time gambling in New Orleans than exploring the land. And then there was Charlotte.
Charlotte was twenty-three years old, with golden hair and eyes that reflected the sadness of a thousand rainy days. At twelve, a wild seed had struck her down in a storm.
The fall broke her spine, robbing her of the ability to move her legs and, in her father's eyes, her courage.
For over a decade, she used a heavy wooden wheelchair, moving through the upper floors of the mansion like a ghost.
“Even a broken skein is worth eating,” Silas complained to his guests, his voice echoing across the floor to where Charlotte was reading by candlelight.
"She can't marry or run a household, much less give me grandchildren. She's a burden to me."
The Blackwood Plaza employees knew better than to oppose the corporal, but Miss Charlotte disheartened them. She was kind, despite her isolation.
She taught the maids to read the secret and discreetly repaired their visors when the overseer wasn't looking. However, her kindness was not appreciated by Silas Blackwood.
Her only true companion was Mamie, the companion who had cared for Charlotte since she was born. Mamie was the bridge between Charlotte and the world, bringing her trays of food and news from the outside.
"Ignore him, honey," Mamie whispered, brushing Charlotte's hair. "The Lord is right. You have a purpose. He simply revealed himself to you."
But the revelation came sooner than expected and took the form of absolute cruelty.
It was a Tuesday in late July, with the temperature reaching nearly 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Silas had lost a considerable sum of money at the horse races the previous evening and was in a very bad mood.
He stood on the large porch, watching the workers return from the fields. His gaze fell on Isaac.
Isaac was a man of mythical proportions. At 193 cm tall and with arms carved from graphite, he was the strongest man in the world of physics.
He bought it five years ago in Charleston. It was known for two things: its ability to lift a wagon wheel by itself and its silence.
For five years, no one in Blackwood had heard Isaac utter a single syllable. They called him "the Mute."
Silas watched Isaac effortlessly lift two heavy bags of dough, his face impassive. A dark and malicious idea formed in Coroel's mind.
He was tired of the medical bills. He was tired of the ramp he had to build on his porch. He was tired of looking at Charlotte and seeing his bad luck in her wheelchair.
“Get everyone out into the yard!” Silas shouted to the foreman. “And bring my daughter here! Now!”
The order sent a wave of fear through the entire house. Mamie helped Charlotte sit up, her hands trembling. “Stand still, darling. Stand still,” Mamie prayed.
As Charlotte was led out into the dusty courtyard, the sun beating down on her pale skin. She closed her eyes and looked at her father, who stood on the steps like a judge before a criminal.
The people, stable boys and domestic servants, stood in a semicircle, with their heads bowed.
Silas pointed at Isaac, who was standing near the watering trough and wiping the sweat from his forehead
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