1
Alina.
I was born twice, but only one of me was allowed to exist.
If that sounds dramatic, blame the Elowens. My family has a gift for drama, as long as nobody sees it. The day I was born, there were two cries; one strong, one softer. My brother's was the one everyone heard. Mine was quickly hushed. Elowen twins are a curse, at least according to tradition. So, my mother pressed my face to her chest, whispered something sharp and final, and handed me off to a woman I'd later know as my nanny.
And that was that. My brother, Adrian, became the Duke's heir. I became a problem to be solved quietly. I grew up in the east wing, a shadow in silk pajamas, learning early how to tiptoe and how to disappear. The world on the other side of the stained glass doors was never really mine. I was the family secret, wrapped up in storybooks and kept out of the sun. I learned to be silent, to keep my hands folded, to never interrupt dinner; mostly because I wasn't allowed to eat with them. They'd call it protection. I called it erasure.
There were three rules in the east wing: never be seen, never be loud, and never, ever ask for anything you can't give yourself. I broke the first two often. The third one, I never dared.
My world was quiet, but it was never peaceful. The walls in the east wing are old and full of stories, and when you spend every day staring at the same cracked plaster, you start to hear things you shouldn't. My parents whispered about "the mistake" in the night. Adrian complained about the strange noises coming from my wing. The servants left trays at my door like I was a fever they were scared to catch.
It's not all tragic. Sometimes I liked being invisible. You learn a lot when no one is pretending for you. I saw the things my parents hid: my father's fits of rage, my mother's tears after a courier brought bad news. I watched Adrian, always perfect, always polished, practicing his bows in the mirror, trying so hard to please people who never looked at him long enough to see him properly.
I wanted to be like the girls in my storybooks. The brave ones who hid in towers and found friends in the darkness. The girls who saved the kingdom by refusing to be small. At night, I'd read under the covers, propped up on elbows, the letters blurring from holding the candle too close. I learned about kindness and heroism and happy endings. I never imagined any of it would apply to me.
I'm not sure when I realized I was angry. Maybe it was when my mother started bringing me smaller and smaller gifts each year; jewelry I wasn't allowed to wear, books I'd already read, a doll with eyes like mine but hair like Adrian's. Or maybe it was the day she stopped coming entirely and sent the housekeeper with a note. "For Alina. Keep her busy." No love, no signature. Just an order, like I was a dog to be walked.
Still, I found ways to be happy. My nanny, her name was Maris, taught me how to braid my hair and how to read upside-down, which is more useful than you'd think. She told me stories of the world outside the estate: markets bursting with color, street performers who could swallow fire, girls my age who didn't know they were supposed to hide. She said one day I'd see all those things. I pretended to believe her.
Adrian would sneak into my wing sometimes, just to brag about something he'd done or to complain about tutors. He was a little golden prince with a head full of dreams and a pocket full of sweets he never shared. Sometimes he'd bring me news from the world: the Queen's birthday, the arrival of some visiting noble, a new law about what kind of magic was allowed in public. I always listened, even when I didn't care, because it was contact. It meant I was real to someone, even if only for five minutes.
Once, when I was ten, I asked him why he never told anyone about me. He looked confused, then embarrassed, then guilty. He said, "Because they told me not to." I didn't blame him for that. I knew how important the Elowen name could be.
Birthdays were the worst. Adrian's were a public affair; fireworks, sugar statues, new ponies he never rode. Mine were a single candle on a stale bun, Maris humming off-key in the dark. I stopped counting them after a while.
When you live like a secret, you become good at reading people. You notice what makes them flinch. You see the things they don't say, and the reasons they say nothing at all. I learned my mother was afraid of storms. My father hated being touched. Adrian hated the way our father looked at him when he messed up. Maris was the only one who ever looked at me with softness.
It wasn't all misery. Sometimes the house felt magical, at least to a girl who'd never seen anything else. The gardens beyond my window grew wild, tangled with roses that nobody trimmed. Deer wandered through in winter, and once I saw a fox curl up in the snow and vanish when I blinked. I pretended they were my subjects, and I was a hidden queen, waiting for the world to notice me.
But the world didn't. Not really. And I learned to hide my hopes, too.
When I turned sixteen, my parents stopped mentioning me altogether. Adrian became taller, his hair darker, his voice steady and proper. He was the heir in every way, and I was the ghost in the east wing, drifting from room to room with nothing but dust and daydreams for company. Sometimes, I'd press my hand against the glass and try to imagine what the world felt like on the other side. Sometimes, if I tried really hard, I could almost believe I'd step through and be seen.
That's probably why, when it happened, it felt like someone had grabbed the entire house and shaken it upside down.
The day began like any other: Maris brought breakfast, Adrian snuck in a rolled-up letter from a friend at court, I read for a while, and the world outside was as dull and gray as always. I remember thinking I'd rather have a thunderstorm than another day like this.
Maris was the first to notice something was off. She kept glancing at the hallway, fussing with her apron. When I asked what was wrong, she just shook her head. "Storm's coming," she said, though the sky was clear.
By midday, the house was tense. My father barked orders at the staff. My mother's footsteps echoed down the main hall sharply. Adrian was nowhere to be found. Even the air felt wrong, like everyone was holding their breath.
It wasn't until dinner that I saw Adrian again. He burst into my room, face pale and clutching a letter in both hands.
"They picked me," he said, eyes wild. "Umbra Noctis."
I stared at him, trying to make sense of the words. The name was familiar, but only from fairy tales and stories of a school where monsters and legends learned to rule the world. "That's not real," I said, even though I'd heard whispers about the lottery, about how every decade twenty humans were chosen, sent away as tribute to keep the peace.
He shook his head. "It's real. The letter has the seal and everything. Mother's furious. Father wants to send me away immediately, but—" He broke off, shaking.
I took the letter from his hand and read it. The words blurred, but the seal at the bottom was unmistakable. Umbra Noctis. A place no one returned from the same.
"You can't go," I said, and I meant it. Adrian was many things, but he wasn't strong. Not the way you needed to be to survive legends come to life.
He slumped onto the bed. "Mother says I'm too soft. She says I'll die before the first term ends."
I didn't say anything. He wasn't wrong. The silence stretched. He looked at me, desperate. "What do I do, Alina?"
It was the first time he'd called me by my real name in months.
I looked at my hands, at the scar on my left thumb from when I'd tried to carve my name into a desk years ago. I thought about Maris, about the deer in the garden, about the secret hope I'd always nursed that something, anything, would happen to change my life.
For a moment, I was angry. Not at Adrian, not at my parents, but at fate itself. I'd spent nineteen years hidden in shadows, waiting for someone to notice I existed, and now the world wanted to swallow the only person who ever visited me.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I stood and handed him back the letter.
"We'll think of something," I said, voice steadier than I felt.
But that was a lie. Even then, I knew.