Chapter 18 - Chapter 2.8: Once Upon A Time

𝟐.𝟖: Once upon a time

Elysia's perspective

𝐓he family I had in my past life was miserable, to say the least.

A chronic drunk and gambler of a father.

A mother beaten into silence so many times, she could no longer speak, not even a moan when the pain became unbearable.

That man—my father—was rarely ever sober. Not that he was any less pathetic when he was.

But his drunkenness was the true bane of my existence.

Like clockwork, he would stumble home reeking of cheap beer, his pockets emptied by his addictions, his fury primed for release. And release it he did—on anyone and anything within reach.

I learned early on to dodge his fists, to disappear into corners and shadows, to become invisible.

But no matter how quiet I was, no matter how small I made myself, it never saved me.

Where could a little girl hide from a six-foot wall of rage in a room no larger than a janitor's closet?

We lived in a single room tucked in the filthiest part of town. It was barely the size of a small office, its cracked walls crawling with insects and lined with decaying moss. The stench was constant—foul and choking. Cobwebs clung to every surface, and the floor groaned under the weight of mold.

A pile of threadbare blankets in the corner counted as our bed. Plates, pots, and other wares were stacked in lopsided piles against the wall.

No cupboards. No doors. No privacy. No sanctuary. Just four grimy walls that held us hostage.

When my father's fury surged and he needed someone to hurt, I was always there—cornered like a rat in a box.

At first, I hated my mother. I hated her for watching it happen. For letting it happen. For choosing silence.

But with time, I understood. She wasn't a shield because she couldn't be. We were both victims—trapped in the same hell with no way out.

And yet… for a time, I had hope.

A small, flickering light in the form of a boy with bruised knuckles and a soft smile.

My older brother.

He wasn't much older, but to me, he was everything. My protector. My parent. My lifeline.

He would stand between me and my father's blows, taking the beatings in my stead. When our bellies screamed from hunger, he would scavenge the streets, begging and bartering so we'd have something—anything—to eat.

He told me stories under the threadbare blankets, made me laugh when I wanted to scream, cried with me when I couldn't bear the pain alone. He promised me that someday, things would get better.

I believed him.

He was my hero.

But heroes don't stay golden. Not in real life.

As we grew, I watched him change. Slowly, then all at once. He started coming home late, his breath laced with the sharp sting of alcohol and other substances I couldn't name. When he wasn't intoxicated, he was angry—like father. His fists, once my shield, now struck me and mother with cold detachment.

He began to tag along with father to the local gambling dens, wasting what little he earned from odd jobs. He no longer told me stories. He no longer looked me in the eye.

He became the very thing we had both once feared.

And yet… like a fool, I still clung to the version of him that once loved me. I held on, hoping—praying—that the boy who once promised me better days still existed underneath the wreckage.

I still remember the day I lost that hope forever.

The sky was gray, heavy with the promise of a thunderstorm. Market vendors were packing up early, hurrying to shield their goods from the coming rain.

My mother had pressed a few coins into my hand and sent me to buy a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk—our meager dinner.

The rain had already started by the time I squeezed through the throng of people. My feet carried me through narrow alleyways—my usual shortcut.

I didn't see the man at first. He stood in the shadows. Motionless.

But the moment my nose caught the familiar, acidic stench of booze, my stomach twisted.

We were alone in that alleyway. And I knew, deep in my bones, that I should've turned back. But the rain was growing heavier, soaking through my thin clothes, and I kept moving forward.

.

.

.

I never made it to the bread shop that day. I was only twelve.

I returned home in torn clothes, soaked to the skin, every inch of my body aching. But I didn't cry.

To me, crying was a way of reaching out—of showing someone that you were hurting, in hopes that they'd care.

But I had no one to cry to. No one who would listen.

Still… a few days later, I told my brother.

I don't know why. Maybe I just needed to believe that someone still cared. That someone would rage for me. Console me. Protect me.

Instead, life spat in my face once more.

"I've always told you not to wear those tiny clothes outside, Maeve. It's bad enough you wear them around the house. Most men don't know how to hold back. You should've been more careful."

My world didn't shatter. It cracked—quietly, cruelly.

He blamed me for my own misfortune.

My brother. The one I believed was my hero.

From that day forward, I stopped needing anyone.

And after being reborn as Elysia, nothing's changed.

Even if I must earn the twins' favor to complete this mission. Even if I must wear a sister's mask and smile through the pain… I will never, ever, see those two as my family. For Elysia's sake and mine.

Because I once trusted someone who made me feel safe.

And he destroyed me.

—

My train of thought slowly dissolved, like fog retreating beneath the morning sun, but the heaviness it left behind clung to me like wet clothes.

My gaze drifted beyond the library's large window, where Luke and Lucas stood in the courtyard below—talking between themselves.

Luke's head tilted in languid regard, while Lucas gestured animatedly, speaking about something I could only assume was related to royal matters.

Their bond. It looked so effortless, so… unbroken.

A strange cold settled beneath my skin.

I knew the mission. I knew what I had to do—earn their affection, get close enough to tip the scales of fate and keep this version of Elysia alive.

But no matter how inviting the prospect was, no matter what I stood to gain from having them close…

Just like King Zachary, they would never be anything more than blood ties.

I would never let myself be vulnerable.

Not again.

Not ever.