The Duke's Slave Daughter

Daeva’s Ascent

The grand throne room gleamed under the morning light, draped in the Duke’s banners and symbols of his legacy. The Duke himself, Duke Azrael, sat at the throne’s center, his face composed yet slightly drawn. At his side stood Daeva, every bit the image of a noble daughter. Her elegant stance, adorned in a gown of muted silver and royal blue, made her a vision of grace. Her eyes, clear and calm, surveyed the court with a hint of calculated modesty.

The murmurs began, subtle at first but growing into a wave of awe as the nobles and courtiers took her in.

“Look at her—she has his eyes,” a woman whispered, gesturing subtly toward Azrael and then to Daeva. “And that quiet confidence. There’s no mistaking it.”

Another nodded in agreement, eyes wide with amazement. “It’s undeniable. She truly is the Duke’s daughter. How could we have ever doubted it?”

Daeva’s face remained serene, but inwardly, her pulse thrummed with satisfaction. Every step, every motion was purposeful. She had meticulously crafted her appearance for this day—an image of calm elegance to overshadow even the memory of anyone who might challenge her place. She heard the whispers but did not look toward them, letting the admiration wrap around her like a cloak of power.

At the Duke’s signal, the hall quieted. Azrael rose slowly, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on Daeva. The nobles watched in rapt silence, sensing the weight of this moment.

The Duke stood tall and beaming before the assembled nobles, his voice brimming with joy as he addressed them. "Today, I bring you wonderful news, a moment of joy and celebration," he announced, his eyes alight with happiness. "It is my great honor to introduce to you my long-lost daughter, Daeva." His expression radiated pride, as though a deep sorrow had finally lifted. Beside him, Daeva mirrored his delight, her smile broad and radiant as she gazed at the noble audience, basking in their admiration.

A wave of gasps rippled through the hall, quickly replaced by murmurs of approval. Daeva felt the warmth of the Duke’s gaze. She inclined her head, exuding both humility and quiet confidence, allowing herself to look slightly overcome, as though she, too, felt the gravity of this moment.

A noble stepped forward, bowing low before Daeva. “Lady Daeva,” he said, voice rich with newfound loyalty, “we are honored to welcome you. We have long awaited the day when the Duke’s line would be secured.”

Daeva gave a soft, grateful smile, her hands folded demurely. “Thank you, my lord. I have longed for this day more than you know.”

The Duke nodded approvingly. “From this day forward,” he continued, “Daeva shall be honored as my only child. Any shadow cast over her lineage is lifted.”

Daeva’s heart swelled. Her triumph was nearly complete, but she maintained her calm, restraining the smirk that almost graced her lips. Here, at last, she had solidified her place as the Duke’s only daughter.

As the Duke concluded his speech, the nobles began to step forward, one by one, each kneeling to Daeva as a gesture of allegiance. Her heart raced, not with nerves, but with the thrill of success. She caught the eye of a confidant in the back—a man who had helped ensure the whispers about her rival, Urania, were effectively buried.

“Lady Daeva,” another noble murmured, bending his knee. “I have no doubt that you will make a fitting noble lady to our Duke’s legacy.”

She nodded graciously. “I am honored, my lord. The Duke’s name means the world to me.”

With every new pledge of loyalty, she felt her standing grow stronger, her hold over this court tightening. She allowed herself a fleeting, almost invisible smile, one that only her closest allies could interpret.

I was meant for this, she thought, her fingers gently adjusting a brooch on her gown—a token she had carefully chosen to mirror one her supposed mother wore in her youth. The subtlety was lost on most, but it served as one more reminder that she was part of this family.

Her gaze swept over the assembly, taking in the expressions of the gathered nobles. They were awestruck, ready to follow her and accept her as the rightful heir. As they bowed and curtsied, she thought, This is where I belong. This throne room, this legacy—it’s all mine.

Later, as the court slowly emptied, the whispers grew more pointed. Some courtiers lingered, caught in quiet discussions, and a few servants huddled together at the edges of the room. Though most eyes shone with admiration for Daeva, a faint shadow of Urania still loomed in the minds of a select few.

"It’s such a relief that the true daughter has finally returned," one servant sighed with a look of genuine relief. "After all that trouble with that wicked girl Urania, pretending to be our lady," another servant added with a sneer, clearly disgusted by the very thought of Urania. "How could we have ever been so deceived?" The scorn in their voices was palpable, their loyalty now firmly shifted to Daeva.

"Hush," another hissed. "Lady Urania was never truly one of us. Whatever spell she cast, it has long since broken. It’s clear now—she was never meant to be part of this family."

Daeva couldn't help but roll her eyes at the very thought of Urania still lingering in the society's whispers. It irked her, but she couldn’t let that show. Instead, she masked her true feelings with a sweet, yet devilish smile—an expression so perfectly crafted to deceive that no one would ever suspect the venom beneath. It was a smile that hid all the bitterness and triumph she felt, a perfect façade for the role she was now playing.

Daeva leaned against the pillar nearby, feigning indifference, yet carefully listening to each word. She had planned this moment well, knowing that the court’s acceptance was fragile until they had fully let go of Urania. Each servant’s sigh, each noble’s dismissive look, was another thread severed from Urania’s memory.

One of her supporters approached her with a low bow. "The servants seem to have forgotten all about the former ‘Lady’ Urania," he said with a knowing smile.

Daeva allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "It’s only fitting. She was a misplaced piece, a shadow in this house. Soon, even her name will be nothing but a faded rumor."

She watched as the servants continued their duties, no longer sparing a glance for Urania’s memory. In their minds, she was already replaced, relegated to the ranks of those who had deceived the family.

Daeva’s gaze moved back to the Duke, who stood alone by the grand windows, his silhouette casting a long shadow over the marble floor. A rare glint of doubt darkened his face, though he quickly masked it with a firm expression when he noticed Daeva looking.

"Are you well, Father?" she asked, her voice soft with concern.

Azrael turned, his face an impassive mask. "I am," he replied, though there was a heaviness in his tone.

Daeva moved closer, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "You needn’t carry it alone anymore. I am here to share it with you."

Azrael’s expression softened slightly, and he patted her hand, a faint smile touching his lips. "Thank you, Daeva."

A warmth flooded her, but not for the affection he showed. It was the thrill of knowing she had fully inserted herself into his life, embedding herself as the only daughter he would ever claim.

As she turned away, her thoughts returned to Urania, the girl who once thought she held the Duke’s heart. But Urania was now nothing more than a memory, an easily dismissed shadow in the wake of Daeva’s ascendancy. Daeva smirked as she walked out of the hall, each step steady and triumphant.

Poor, foolish Urania, she thought, reveling in her victory. Your memory won’t haunt this place for long.