In the days after the naming—the night the fire whispered her name—House Veldrin wore silence like mourning cloth.
The grand banquet hall had long been emptied of nobles and venomous smiles, yet the air remained heavy.
Too heavy for comfort.
Too still for a place that once echoed with legacy and wine.
Servants tiptoed past the cradle room like ghosts. Chandeliers hung motionless. Even the wind crept through Skywhisper Hold on hushed feet—
as if afraid to disturb what had been named.
And in the nursery, beneath drapes of star-stained velvet and moonsilver lace...
She dreamed.
Jenna.
The third daughter.
The midnight-born.
The one whose name was etched not in ink, but in fire.
Still an infant. Still too small to speak.
But already, her soul wandered.
She was strange from the beginning.
Not strange like children who preferred silence.
Not strange like those who stared too long at walls.
No—strange in a way that couldn't be named.
A strangeness that followed her—
like breath in winter,
like a shadow at noon.
The Dream
It came with the softest sound—
fwip—like candlelight exhaling.
Then darkness swallowed the velvet cradle.
No moon. No stars.
Only hush.
Jenna did not scream.
She did not cry.
She looked.
Eyes too young to focus in the waking world…
opened wide in the dream.
Clear. Ancient. Unafraid.
And what she saw...
was not Praxis.
Not the cold, gold-sick kingdom of dukes and ghosts.
But a place beneath memory.
A sea without waves.
A sky without stars.
A mirror stretched endless above her—
a black ocean that whispered in languages no mortal had taught her.
Something stood in the distance.
No form. No face.
Only presence.
It bled soundless music—
like glass played by invisible fingers.
A hum not heard, but felt—
In breath.
In bone.
In soul.
And it spoke, though it had no voice:
"This is your last chance."
Jenna blinked. In the dream, her body was weightless.
Ageless.
Her breath came in silken threads of starlight.
"And you will be the last... unless the flame is fed."
The shadows stirred.
One throne floated in the void.
Empty. Broken.
It wept dust like old sorrow.
Then—
A second throne flickered into being.
Unfinished. Waiting.
The silence behind it pulsed.
"They tried to silence your name."
"But names carry power when spoken in defiance."
And then she saw it.
A candle.
Hovering before her in the dark.
Small. Fragile.
Its flame is violet.
Just like in the mirror.
It pulsed… once.
Thum.
Then again.
Thum.
Each beat sent ripples across the void like prophecy trembling into motion.
Suddenly—
eyes.
Thousands.
All opening at once in the shadows beyond.
Watching.
"You must not forget."
"Even if they silence you..."
"You must remember who lit your flame."
And then—
like a string snapped too soon—
CRACK.
Reality
Lady Elira bolted upright in bed.
Cold sweat slicked her brow.
Something still hummed in her ears.
Not a sound.
A presence.
She turned her head.
The nursemaid stood frozen beside the cradle, face pale.
"…Is something wrong?" Elira asked, voice tight.
The nursemaid's hands trembled.
"My Lady… she was smiling."
Elira frowned. "Smiling?"
The nursemaid nodded, clutching her apron.
"In her sleep. But… that wasn't all."
She stepped aside.
Elira approached the cradle. Looked down.
Jenna's tiny lips were curved into the softest smile.
But her eyes—
closed as they were—
leaked a single violet tear.
And the candle by her crib?
The one that hadn't been lit since the night of naming?
Now burned again.
With an eerie, unwavering violet light.
Year One
Jenna didn't cry when most children cried.
Didn't laugh when others laughed.
She just stared.
Not at faces.
At corners.
At the ceiling.
At shadows that moved when nothing else did.
Once, a maid swore she saw the baby tracking something with her eyes—
Something invisible.
Something that made her coo.
Like I knew her name.
Year Two
She spoke late.
But her first word wasn't Mama.
Wasn't Papa.
It was—
"Jay."
Whispered like a secret slipping through time.
A name too old for her throat.
The room froze.
Lady Elira turned sharply to the nursemaid, face pale.
"Did you teach her that name?"
The nurse shook her head, wide-eyed.
"No, m'lady… I've never heard it before."
Year Three
The ravens began to gather.
No one knew why.
They just… did.
Perched on rooftops.
Lined the black iron gates of Skywhisper Hold.
Watching. Always watching.
The gardeners began covering the mirrors.
They said Jenna's reflection blinked… late.
Sometimes, it didn't blink at all.
Year Four
She began to dream.
And in those dreams—
she was someone else.
Or had been.
She couldn't remember who.
Not fully.
Just flashes.
A boy with sad eyes.
A scream.
A streetlight.
Cold.
It was so cold that it felt like drowning in starlight.
She'd wake whispering things in dead tongues.
Words unsaid since the old gods fell.
Words that made priests sweat.
That made holy men flinch.
"She is cursed," hissed Lady Maradelle.
"She is touched," murmured Lord Harlowe.
"She remembers," whispered the old seer from the eastern isles—
Who visited once…
and never returned.
And now today
She will be five years old.
And the candle still burns.
TO BE CONTINUED…