The night was unnaturally quiet.

  No howls echoed from the hills. No wind rustled the velvet drapes of the royal tower. Even the stars, so often bright above Noctis, seemed to withhold their gaze—as if the heavens themselves held their breath.

  Within the obsidian spires of Castle Duskbane, nobles and servants moved in urgent, silent rhythm. Torches lined the marble halls but flickered not; they burned with a cold, bluish flame—moonfire, harvested from the veins of the mountain.

  It was said only one child in a thousand born under its light would inherit the blessing of their bloodline.

  Tonight, that one was born.

  The infant’s cry pierced the tower chambers—sharp, clear, and oddly deliberate. A single declaration, then silence.

  Wrapped in deep violet silk and presented to her mother, Queen Seraphyne, the child did not squirm. The queen, regal even in exhaustion, studied her with a gaze like polished onyx.

  “She sees the night not as a veil,” Seraphyne murmured, “but as her birthright.”

  The head priest of the Temple of Night trembled as he performed the divination. When the ritual flared crimson, he fell to his knees.

  “A Champion of the Goddess. The First Daughter is Marked.”

  Ten Years Later

  By seven, I could name every lily in the moonlit garden by scent alone.

  By eight, I recited the lineage of every Bloodborn House without hesitation.

  By nine, I learned the exact angle of a curtsy for each rank in the court—twenty-three degrees for a Baron, forty-five for a Duke, none at all for the Queen.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  This is what it means to be the Heiress of Duskbane.

  Tonight, as I walk the garden paths, the tutors watch from the tower balconies. They always do.

  I do not mind.

  Let them see how effortlessly I glide between the night-blooming flowers, how the hem of my gown never catches on the thorns. Let them note the precision of my steps, the stillness of my hands.

  I have practiced since I could stand.

  Sometimes, I imagine the lessons etched into my bones. That if I were split open, the rules of my life would be carved into the marrow in Old Bloodscript.

  But sometimes—

  I pause at the garden’s edge.

  Below, the lower city sprawls in a mess of warm light and laughter. Children dart through the streets, mud on their cheeks, voices raw with unfettered joy. One girl trips, scrapes her knee, and giggles as she is hauled up by a friend.

  A breath sticks in my throat.

  What would it be like, to fall and not care who sees?

  I do not linger.

  A Princess does not linger.

  The palace hummed with activity in preparation for my birthday—not with noise, but with the whisper of silk, the click of combs, the hushed rehearsals of courtiers perfecting their bows.

  A handmaiden pinned the twelfth jewelled comb into my hair, each one a weight from a different sworn House.

  “Tighter,” I said, when the last sat uneven.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  In the mirror, my reflection stared back—pale skin against obsidian silk, crimson embroidery curling like thorned vines up my sleeves. My eyes, the same garnet red as the Queen’s, gleamed under the candlelight. Golden hair, the mark of our blood, had been coiled into intricate waves.

  I did not smile. This was not a celebration.

  It was a performance.

  The ballroom doors opened. Music swelled.

  I stepped forward, and the world bent to meet me.

  The Procession

  One by one, they came.

  A Baron’s son presented a falcon carved from boneglass, wings threaded with silver. His fingers shook. Third Kindred—too weak to rise, too proud to admit it.

  A Duke’s daughter offered a book of transcribed verses, ink still glistening. Her curtsy trembled. At least she tried.

  I accepted each gift with a nod, my gaze flickering once to the high throne.

  Queen Seraphyne sat motionless, beautiful as a blade.

  As I will be.

  At midnight, the priests circled me, chanting in the old tongue. Moonfire cast their shadows jagged against the walls.

  “We bear witness,” the head priest intoned, “to what is written in her blood. First of Her Name. Chosen.”

  When I opened my eyes, the room had bowed.

  All of them.

  All of it.

  The silence was not empty.

  It was expectant.