Shadows Beneath the Crown

CHAPTER 1 : THE GIRL BENEATH THE BRONZE

The bells of Velmire Royal Academy tolled in perfect rhythm with the sunrise, echoing across spires of glass, silver domes, and enchanted marble courtyards. It was a place of legacy, of power, of golden dreams polished under centuries of royal tradition. But not every student who walked its hallowed halls came to claim a throne. Some merely tried to survive.

Belle Mayne Vonder stood in the shadow of the great dining hall, her fingers numb from the freezing water that filled the washbasin. She scrubbed at a silver plate, the etched crest of Velmire glinting mockingly in the morning light. Her back ached from hours of bending, and her eyes stung from lack of sleep. Around her, servants in Bronze-tier uniforms shuffled in silence, trained not to speak unless spoken to.

She was one of them. A Bronze. The lowest of the low.

The academy had always prided itself on its rigid hierarchy. The Gold Tier students, offspring of nobility and rulers, lived in towers kissed by sunrise, walked marble paths laced with glowing runes, and wore robes that shimmered like fire under moonlight. Silver Tiers, children of merchants and respected scholars, were granted access to secondary halls and given moderate privileges. Then came the Bronze Tier—servants, commoners, or, in Belle's case, the forgotten.

She had no known lineage. No family that mattered. Her surname, Vonder, was a joke in the academy—a whispered warning, a tale told in sneers and sharp glances. Her stepmother, Celene Vonder, had made sure of that.

Clarisse and Genevieve Vonder—her stepsisters—were everything Belle was not. Beautiful, poised, and cruel. Gold-tiered with crowns practically etched into their skulls, they roamed Velmire like predators in silk.

"Hurry up, dishwasher," came the first familiar taunt of the day.

Clarisse, voice laced with mockery, passed by with deliberate slowness. Genevieve, her mirror in both looks and malice, trailed behind, her laughter light and poisonous.

"She missed a spot again. No surprise," Genevieve added.

Belle didn’t look up. She had learned long ago that reacting only fed them. Attention brought bruises—if not on her skin, then on her pride. She simply scrubbed harder, letting the soap bite into her skin like penance.

"Maybe next royal ball, we’ll bring her as a centerpiece. Drip some wax on her and let the guests guess if she’s even alive," Genevieve mused.

"Or better—have her clean the floors with her tears," Clarisse said.

They laughed. They always laughed.

Belle remained silent. But inside, a scream curled tight in her chest. She had long mastered the art of invisible pain. Smiling made it worse. Crying made it worse. Existing made it worse.

As the sisters disappeared in a swirl of perfumed robes, Belle let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her hands trembled. Her body was weary, but she kept her posture steady, pretending she couldn’t hear the way the other Bronze workers looked at her with pity—or worse, indifference.

That night, in her small, damp room beneath the west wing—barely more than a storage closet converted into a living space—Belle sat on the edge of her cot, staring at the single cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Her reflection stared back: golden hair, pale skin, red lips,pointed nose and her green eyes. Her father said that she inherit it to her mom even her beauty. A beauty that stand standout from everyone else but not this place. Its just another faceless in crowd of people so important. A faint line curved around her left wrist—a scar that hadn't faded. One of many.

She had stopped eating full meals long ago. Not because the academy starved her. No, there was always enough for the workers. But Belle had decided something long ago: if she trained her body to survive on less, she wouldn’t panic when the food stopped coming.

Because it always did.

She reached under her mattress and pulled out a small, worn box. Inside were only three items: a pressed white ribbon, once her mother’s; a faded sketch of a garden she didn’t remember drawing; and a torn corner of a letter.

"To my darling Belle,

If you ever find yourself at Velmire, know this: there is more to you than they will ever understand. Do not trust the tiaras, my love. Find the garden. That’s where the truth lies.

—Mother."

Belle traced the writing with a trembling finger. Sometimes she tried to remember her mother’s voice. But time had blurred the edges, softening her into silence.

She laid back, the box still in her hand, as tears she didn't allow in public crept quietly down her cheeks. Every day in Velmire was a battlefield she could not afford to lose. But every night, she was just a girl trying not to forget who she was before the world buried her beneath bronze.

A soft knock rapped against the door.

Belle jolted upright, hastily pushing the box beneath her pillow. The door creaked open, revealing Lira, a Silver-tier girl with clever eyes and a constant tilt to her lips that suggested mischief and defiance.

"You missed the apple tart again," Lira said, stepping in with a napkin-covered parcel. "I saved you one."

Belle blinked. "You didn’t have to."

"I know. That’s why it matters," Lira replied, handing it over. "Eat it before Clarisse smells it and accuses you of theft. Again."

Belle smiled faintly. The tart was warm. The crust crumbled just right, and the sweetness settled in her chest like a hug.

"Thanks," she whispered.

Lira sat beside her on the cot. "You ever think of running away from here?"

Belle’s hand paused mid-bite. "To where? This place is the only thing I know."

Lira leaned back, resting on her elbows. "Anywhere’s better than being treated like a shadow."

Belle didn’t reply. She stared at the flickering lantern on her wall, the light dancing across stone and dust. Lira meant well, but dreams like that could get you killed in Velmire. Belle had stopped dreaming years ago.

The next morning came as all mornings did—cold, cruel, and predictably crueler. Clarisse and Genevieve tripped her in the hallway on her way to the kitchens, and a professor gave her detention for making the twins "fall over her clumsiness." No one cared for the truth of things. Not when a Vonder—one that mattered—was involved.

In the kitchens, Belle burned her hand on a pot and was given a slap across the knuckles by the head cook for moving too slowly. By the time she reached her dorm, her arms were trembling.

She fell asleep to the echo of laughter beyond the marble walls, where Gold-tiered girls prepared for their winter dance, and she dreamed not of escape—but of a time long ago. A garden, her mother’s voice, and warm hands holding hers as they spun through rows of white lilies.

In that dream, she was not invisible. She was not Bronze.

She was simply Belle.

And once, that had been enough.