Rain poured over the capital of Varyndor, as if the heavens wept for her death.
Alyssa Doreanne Velthorn died at the age of twenty-eight—stripped of her titles, discarded by nobility, and long forgotten by the very society her family once helped shape. Her end was not marked by grand betrayal or whispered conspiracy, but by smoke, fire, and the collapsing ruins of a second-rate gossip paper's office.
Sixteen years earlier, her family—once respected Counts of the northwestern coast and the Midlands, the region bridging the Empire's North and South—had met their downfall in a disaster of their own making.
Her father, Count Harven Velthorn, had been ambitious, eager to usher in a new era of naval trade and luxury voyages. The maiden voyage of their flagship was meant to dazzle the Empire's elite with a floating banquet. Nobles, merchants, and dignitaries gathered in celebration.
And then the ship sank.
A structural flaw—hidden, overlooked, or ignored—turned celebration into a watery grave. Alyssa's mother and younger twin brothers, Elias and Emric, were among the many lost to the waves. The scandal that followed was swift and merciless. Her fatherwas prosecuted and executed, his name was stricken from the court, his titles unofficially revoked. Rumors swirled—embezzlement, sabotage, betrayal.
Alyssa was left behind to face the ruin alone.
The Velthorn fortune was seized to compensate the noble houses who'd lost heirs in the wreck. At just twelve years old, Alyssa was stripped of her inheritance, her home, and her future. She survived by working—first as a lowly assistant in a dingy print shop, and later as a servant at the Esdaran Echo, a gossip newspaper feeding high society's hunger for scandal. There, she scrubbed ink from floors and listened to the lives of nobles from behind closed doors—always unseen, always forgotten.
She had no allies. No patrons. No voice.
By twenty-eight, the name Velthorn was a curse. Alyssa kept her head down, endured the sneers, and dreamed only of peace. It was during a late shift at the paper—sorting documents and brewing ink—that Caerthala, the imperial capital, descended into chaos.
The Northern nobles had breached the city walls.
The Varyndor Empire was at war with itself.
At the rebellion's heart stood Grand Duke Kaelvion Verathen, nephew of the Emperor. For years, southern nobles had watched him with unease. Whispers clung to him like a second skin—whispers of treason, legacy, and vengeance. His father, the previous Grand Duke and Second Prince of the Empire, Erevian Dravenhart, had been executed alongside his wife for treason. That shame had haunted Kaelvion from childhood.
Yet Kaelvion lived—his life spared at the age of two, raised by the Emperor himself. His immense mana, a mark of the imperial bloodline, had made him valuable. But unlike his father, Kaelvion was loyal. Or so the Empire had hoped.
The throne had passed to First Prince Tharen Dravenhart, now Emperor, despite his lack of mana. Kaelvion, though stronger and more gifted, had become nothing more than a tool—sent from battle to battle, fulfilling the Emperor's will.
Alyssa didn't know the exact spark that lit the rebellion. But she knew the North had been neglected, and Kaelvion used. Perhaps he had sought to prove himself—to the Empire, to the nobles who never trusted him. But even loyalty has limits.
She had been in the back storeroom when the blaze caught.
Trapped behind crates of parchment and shelves of ink pots, she barely had time to scream. Smoke filled her lungs. The air turned to flame. Wood splintered. Stone groaned. She remembered the searing pain, the heat that devoured her world. She remembered falling—but not hitting the ground.
Then silence.
And then—
The scent of lavender.
The softness of feather pillows.
Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, painting gold across a familiar chamber wall.
Her chamber.
Her bed.
She was twelve.
Alive.