The sky bled silver the night I was born.
Not with soft starlight or a gentle eclipse, but a shattering burst of light that split the heavens, casting molten streaks across the obsidian towers of Syl'Valen. The priests called it The Splintering Star. The poets called it an omen. The court called it a curse.
I was born of an eclipse—half light elf, half dark elf. A contradiction in flesh.
To my mother, Queen Aeryla, I was hope woven into skin. A chance to bind two ancient, warring bloodlines before they destroyed each other. To the court of Syl'Valen, I was a shadow in a silver crown. An abomination with blood too mixed for their taste.
They whispered behind crystal walls and silk-veiled smiles.
"Born wrong."
"Tainted."
"Impure."
Their words curled like smoke through the marble halls, slipping into every shadow I passed. I wore the silver and dark blue hair of the light and dark Highborn but eyes that burned violet in the dark—eyes the priests feared, the court despised, and my father ignored.
And when my melos magic awakened at ten, it didn't come soft as a hymn.
It came screaming.
The first time I sang, a mirror cracked down its center. The second, a chamberlain dropped to his knees, clutching his head. By the third, a murder of ravens broke through a stained-glass dome, called by the song in my bones.
I was supposed to be a symbol of peace. Instead, I fractured a kingdom already cracking beneath its own rot.
The court treated me like a festering wound. They taught me to bow with flawless grace, to smile without warmth, to speak only when spoken to. They taught me to dance—not for joy, but as a spectacle. The half-blood princess paraded in silks and shadows.
But none of their tutors could teach me how to make them stop staring like I was a living curse.
I became a child of locked doors and guarded glances. A girl they pretended didn't exist—except when it suited them to remember.
Only Mother… only she dared to love me.
She sang lullabies threaded with soft magic, braiding protection spells into my hair with trembling fingers. She held me close when the world felt like a blade pressed against my throat. Her voice, soft as twilight, told me I was meant to be more than a pawn in their blood games.
But even queens have limits.
At ten, I survived two poisoning attempts. One from a goblet of wine left beside my harp. The other—a pair of jeweled pins meant for my hair, laced with slow venom. Both times, the whispers grew sharper.
"She's cursed."
"She's dangerous."
The worst came when a maid shoved me down the glass stairwell. I fell six stories. My leg shattered in three places.
The healers called it a miracle I survived.
The guards called it clumsiness.
The court called it an unfortunate accident.
Only Mother called it what it was—a warning.
She wept when she held me, her hands trembling as she sang soft healing over my broken bones. I felt every note, every thread of her magic stitching sinew and soul back together. But love wasn't enough to shield me.
Not from them. Not forever.
Because in Syl'Valen, the war never ended.
Not in our kingdom.
Not in our family.
On the thirteenth anniversary of the ceasefire, the night the blood moons aligned, death came for me.
It came fast—a blade slicing through a sea of celebration. Fireworks bursting overhead as masked courtiers danced in mirrored halls. The blade flashed in the dark, aimed for my heart.
But it wasn't my heart it found.
Mother moved faster than I thought possible. One heartbeat I felt her arms around me—the next, a hot spray of crimson as the dagger buried in her back.
The world blurred. Screams. Shouts. Steel against steel. I don't remember how they pulled me away. I don't remember the face of the assassin.
I only remember her voice, soft against my ear, gasping—
"I love you."
She died in my arms.
They held a grand funeral weeks later. A procession of silver and white, every noble in their most somber masks. The realm mourned their beloved queen.
I wasn't allowed to attend.
The High Priests said my presence would taint her soul's passage. That my shadow would curse her return to the light.
And my father—the king—stood at the gates, eyes like flint as he spoke words that carved a deeper wound than any blade:
"You are not my daughter. You are the parasite that killed my queen, my wife."
By decree of the High Court and the Priests, I was stripped of my name. My title. My life.
They sent me away beneath the lie of a diplomatic apprenticeship—a caravan of merchants bound for distant kingdoms.
But exile is a blade with a thousand edges.
I didn't cry when they shoved me onto that wagon.
Didn't scream. Didn't beg.
I stared my father in the eye and said nothing.
Because that was the day I learned the first rule of survival:
Never look back, keep moving no matter what.