Chapter 7
1355 Words
And more importantly…
Would I live long enough to find out?
I was a noble.
Or I was supposed to be one.
By birth, by blood, by name. This treatment should have been mine since the moment I took my first breath.
But it wasn’t.
So why now?
The guards dragged me into a grand chamber filled with maids, their expressions unreadable as they stepped forward. Without a word, they unchained me. Cold fingers pulled at the tattered rags I had worn for years, stripping them away as if peeling off my past.
Then, the bath.
Warm water surrounded me, washing away the grime of captivity. Oils and perfumes masked the scent of rusted iron and damp stone that had clung to me for so long. Their hands scrubbed my skin, their touch gentle but impersonal, as if I were something fragile—something valuable.
I sat still, silent, as they worked.
Then came the fine garments, woven from silks and embroidered with patterns far too delicate for someone like me. Jewels, simple yet undeniably expensive, were placed upon me as if I had always been meant to wear them. My hair, tangled and unkempt from years of neglect, was combed with the patience of one tending to a princess.
Everything felt so wrong.
These luxuries didn't sit right with me.
why?
The question was screaming in my head.
Why did they suddenly care to make me look like I belonged?
I was no fool.
Something was coming.
Something I couldn’t yet see.
Zareth once told me—
"Everything has a cost in this world. Trust, kindness, even love—nothing is ever truly given without expectation. Sooner or later, a price must be paid. And I am no different.
In return for my kindness to you…
I expect you to bloom, like a crimson flower in the heart of autumn—when the world begins to wither, yet you remain, standing tall against the dying light."
I'll wait...
I don't want to go back to the cold dungeon cell and rot away there.
I'll do anything. Anything to survive.
_________________________________
Meanwhile
The grand hall was in chaos.
"We don't have enough manpower to keep fighting, Your Majesty!"
"The front lines need healers—desperately!"
"The casualties are rising by the day!"
"The monster waves are becoming more frequent!"
"The Kingdom of Eldoria is willing to help, but by the time they arrive, Morvathia will be doomed!"
"The eastern territories have already fallen, My Lord!"
Desperation filled the air, thick and suffocating. Yet, the King—once a man of ruthless ambition—sat motionless upon his throne. His golden eyes, once burning with hunger, were now dull. Detached.
The throne room trembled with the weight of fear, but it was not the King who moved.
It was the Queen.
Isabella Ravenshire rose slowly, her very presence cutting through the noise like the edge of a blade. The flames in the grand chandeliers above flickered, casting shadows that danced along the marble floors.
She was not a woman of idleness. She had not clawed her way to power to sit beside a fading king and watch Morvathia crumble.
She turned, her piercing gaze sweeping across the room before settling on her husband.
“…We do have someone, don’t we?”
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.
The hall fell into silence.
She didn’t need to say the name.
Everyone already knew.
The cursed child.
Vaelith.
The girl who had been cast away. The girl marked as a stain upon the royal lineage. The girl who had spent years rotting in the dungeon, forgotten by all except for the whispers of her shame.
The girl Isabella had personally pulled from the shadows.
Because Isabella believed something no one else did—
That Vaelith had power.
"Ridiculous!" A noble scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "How could that wretched girl possess power?"
"She has spent years locked away like a rabid dog!" another sneered.
"The bastard child of a fallen woman has no place in Morvathia’s fate!"
Mockery filled the chamber.
But Isabella did not waver.
She did not argue.
She simply smiled.
A smile that sent unease through the room, like the hush before a storm.
"You doubt me?" she asked, her tone eerily calm. "Then allow me to make one thing clear."
She stepped forward, standing tall before the gathered nobles and knights, her golden hair gleaming like the blade of a freshly sharpened sword.
"I am Isabella Ravenshire, eldest daughter of House Ravenshire, and the finest swordswoman in this kingdom."
Her voice carried like a war drum, unwavering, undeniable.
"I will train that girl myself."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
"For if I, the Queen of Morvathia, declare her worthy…" She let the words hang in the air, a challenge left unsaid. "Then who among you dares to deny it?"
Silence.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Isabella Ravenshire had staked her claim.
And no one was foolish enough to challenge her.
"Mark my words," she continued, her voice rich with conviction. "Morvathia will not fall."
Her golden eyes gleamed, unyielding.
"Morvathia will rise"
_________________________________
Meanwhile
I sat before a polished mirror, staring at the stranger reflected back at me.
Fine clothing. Skin scrubbed clean of filth. Hair neatly combed, cascading over my shoulders like silk.
Yet the bruises and scars of imprisonment still clung to me like ghosts.
I looked noble.
But I wasn’t.
A soft knock at the door.
I turned just as it opened.
A woman stepped inside, her presence commanding even before she spoke. Dressed in regal attire, golden hair cascading over her shoulder like a crown of its own—Queen Isabella Ravenshire.
She studied me in silence, her gaze sharp, calculating.
I stiffened, my guard instantly rising.
I didn’t trust her.
I couldn’t.
I knew better than to believe in kindness that came too easily.
She took a step closer. I didn’t move.
Then, she spoke—her voice smooth, almost amused.
"Lady Zareth..."
My body froze.
The air around me turned heavy.
She continued, as if tasting the name on her tongue. "She was a strong one… A Tier 5 Mage, was it?"
I snapped my gaze up, locking eyes with hers.
Something burned in her golden irises—something unsettlingly familiar.
Hope.
Ambition.
The same fire I once saw in Zareth’s eyes.
A fire that consumed.
A fire that destroyed.
A fire that demanded something in return.
I clenched my fists beneath the folds of my dress.
"What do you want?" My voice was hoarse, unused to speaking so freely.
Isabella’s lips curled into the ghost of a smile.
"I want what Morvathia needs," she said simply. "And that, my dear, is you."
I felt my stomach turn.
There it was.
The reason she had dragged me out of the dungeon.
She thought I was something I wasn’t.
She thought I was like Zareth.
Like the woman who raised me.
She thought I was powerful.
But she was wrong.
She had bet on the wrong piece.
I had neither magic nor enough strength.
I was just a girl with a mark burned into her skin and a past drenched in blood.
"You're mistaken," I said, my voice quieter this time. "I have no power. Whatever you're looking for—it isn't me."
Isabella tilted her head, watching me with an unreadable expression.
"Perhaps," she mused, "or perhaps you’ve simply never had the chance to awaken it."
I opened my mouth to protest, but she stepped forward, lowering herself just enough to meet my gaze.
"Morvathia is dying," she murmured. "The King has lost his will to rule. Our forces are barely holding the front lines. The people are losing hope."
"You could be the answer to it all. You could-"
"You’re wrong," I whispered.
But was she?
I had spent so long convincing myself I was powerless.
That I was nothing.
But if that were true…
Why had I survived when so many others hadn’t?
Why had I endured?
'Survival is strength'
The words Zareth once said filled me with an indescribable emotion.
- Writer
