In Thalven, the sky rarely changed. It was always the same shade—grey, pale, and dark. Time passed here like an old wound: heavy, relentless, and cruel. Over the years, the palace walls had grown even colder and more suffocating for Vaelis. Her father, King Aedrian, had never acknowledged her existence; he punished her with silence, treating her as if she did not exist. Queen Vora, on the other hand, hovered around her life like a ghost—close, yet never truly reaching out. Vaelis could feel her mother's gaze on her at times, but her lips never once uttered her daughter's name.
To the people of the palace, Vaelis was a shadowed spirit—one better ignored than seen. When she walked the long, cold stone corridors, the servants would quickly lower their heads and hold their breath as they passed her. But the whispers always followed behind her:
"Cursed child…"
"Look into her eyes, and your soul will freeze…"
"She'll be the fall of the kingdom…"
"She should never have been born…"
At first, she hadn't understood their meaning, but over time, the weight of those words settled on her shoulders like a second skin. Vaelis grew up not only with fear, but with absence—with being ignored. She was a curse kept under lock and key, denied by all, yet deeply felt by everyone.
At night, when the loneliness was at its heaviest, she would sometimes hear the quiet footsteps of her mother. Queen Vora would appear at the threshold of the door like a phantom—sometimes in that hazy moment between dream and waking, sometimes when Vaelis was fully alert. But she never stepped forward. She only watched.
Yet one night, something changed. Something unexpected stirred in the silence.
Queen Vora entered the room for the first time, with trembling courage, and sat quietly at the edge of the bed. Her fingers, fragile and hesitant, reached out and gently touched Vaelis's forehead. When Vaelis looked up into her mother's eyes, the words she wanted to say caught in her throat.
Vora's voice came out fragile, wavering like a breath on glass.
"I've been trying to protect you… Please believe me."
Vaelis struggled to understand. Her mother had always seemed strong and distant. Her eyes were cold, her posture always unyielding. So where was this vulnerability coming from?
"I… Forgive me."
The words melted into the night, and Vora never spoke again.
After that night, Vaelis would still catch her mother's eyes from afar, watching—but never again did she come near. There was something invisible between them now. Perhaps it was the fear of the prophecy. Perhaps it was the helplessness that had grown stronger than a mother's instinct.
Yet in the palace, there was one person who never hesitated to approach her. Her brother, Leoric. He followed her everywhere, dragging his hatred like a chain behind him. The child who never had to prove himself, who walked in the sunlight of their father's pride, who was bowed to with reverence by all.
When Leoric was born, the stars had stayed in place. No fires had dimmed. No prophecies had been carved into the walls of the dark tower. His birth was celebrated with festivals, his name sung in joy. He was the child their father cherished like a jewel.
And that child—took every chance he could to crush Vaelis.
"Keep your head down. No one cares what you think."
"If Father loved you, don't you think he'd say your name?"
"You're nothing but a shadow. A mistake. You are the kingdom's greatest shame."
Every time, Vaelis felt the storm rise within her. She would clench her teeth, swallow her rage, and endure it in silence. She had no answer to give—because Leoric wasn't wrong. He was the accepted truth. Vaelis was the blot in their perfect tapestry.
As the years passed, something hollow grew inside her. The hunger for love, warmth, and acceptance slowly twisted into anger—quiet, but burning. The emptier her heart became, the heavier those unspoken feelings grew within her chest.
She could never have known that one day she would reach her breaking point.
That her powers, dormant for so long, would awaken.
That the sign would come not with light—but with the burn marks that would bloom across her hands.