The boy's image clung to her thoughts like smoke in silk. His face, pale and sharp, lingered even as the carriage wheels turned away from the narrow alleys of the Low Wards.
No name, he had said. As if the idea of one were meaningless.
The words unsettled her more than she would ever admit.
Lady Elowen Valebridge sat rigid in the velvet-lined carriage, the gentle rocking of the ride lost on her. Outside, Gravemont unfurled—its streets thick with fog, its lamps flickering against the dark. She had grown up in this city, yet tonight the world felt altered, as though his indifference had shifted something in her.
---
The City's Heart
The carriage jolted over uneven stones as it passed from the merchant rows into the upper districts. Gravemont was built like a ladder of power. At the bottom lay the Riverside Quarters, crowded with laborers and factory smoke. Above them sprawled the Market Wards, where the calls of traders never ceased. Then came the Temple District, gleaming white marble that smelled of incense and devotion.
And finally—the Noble Quarter, where silence reigned and gas lamps burned steady, immune to the sputtering winds of the lower streets. Here the fog thinned, held back by wards carved into the very stones of the pavements.
The Valebridge carriage rolled past manicured gardens and iron-wrought gates. At every turn, guards in black-and-silver livery kept watch, pikes gleaming in the lamplight.
In the distance, high upon the central hill, rose the Imperial Citadel—a fortress-palace that housed the Empress and her court. Its spires loomed against the night sky, shadowed yet unyielding. The Empress was the sun of the realm, but even suns could not burn without fuel. And that fuel was the Four Dukes.
The Duke of the North guarded the Empire's icy borders.
The Duke of the South ruled the fertile coasts and trade routes.
The Duke of the East watched the mountains and mines.
And her father—Reinhardt Valebridge, Duke of the West—commanded the forests and wild frontiers where whispers of the Wraith-touched often spread.
Each was a pillar, indispensable yet wary of the others. A fragile balance of power, upheld by blood, coin, and secrecy.
---
The Duke of the West
The carriage halted before the gates of House Valebridge. Upon them gleamed the silver stag, antlers crowned like a king. Guards saluted, and servants hurried to bow as the door opened.
Elowen descended, the chill of the night brushing her cheeks. She climbed the marble steps, her footsteps echoing in the grand entry hall.
The mansion was a world unto itself—paintings of ancestors stared down from gilded frames, tapestries of past wars stretched across the walls. The smell of polished oak and burning oil lamps filled the air.
Her destination was inevitable: her father's study.
She paused before the door, composed her expression, and knocked.
"Enter."
The study was a command post more than a chamber. Maps spanned one wall, littered with pins and colored threads. Shelves groaned beneath tomes of law, war, and commerce. At the desk sat Duke Reinhardt Valebridge, his dark hair streaked with silver, his form broad and unyielding. His quill moved in steady strokes.
Elowen curtsied. "Father."
His gaze lifted briefly, sharp as a hawk's. "You are late."
"The streets were… crowded."
He hummed, neither accepting nor rejecting the excuse, before lowering his gaze to the parchment again. For him, she was a passing shadow, acknowledged only as courtesy demanded.
---
The Elder Sister
From the tall windows came a soft rustle. Her sister, Lady Seraphine Valebridge, stood bathed in moonlight. She was everything Elowen was not: elegant, striking, confident. At twenty, Seraphine already played the salons of Gravemont like instruments, weaving favor and whispers with the ease of breathing.
Her eyes, sharp and amused, slid over Elowen.
"You reek of alley smoke," Seraphine remarked. "I'd have thought even you knew better than to wander where rats nest."
Elowen inclined her head, saying nothing.
Silence was her shield. Words only fed her sister's cruelty.
The Duke spoke no rebuke, offered no defense. To him, Seraphine's barbs were as natural as breathing. Elowen, meanwhile, was invisible unless she erred.
She curtsied again and withdrew.
---
The Forgotten Daughter
The hallways stretched long and empty. Servants bowed politely as she passed, but their eyes slid past her, as if she were air. Elowen was used to it. She had been used to it for years.
Yet tonight, the weight of it pressed heavier. Perhaps because a boy without a name had looked at her as though she truly were no one—and it had hurt.
She paused before her chamber door, fingers lingering on the handle.
A memory stirred.
She had been eight, trailing after her elder siblings during a summer gathering. She remembered the laughter, the music, the way her sister had drawn every gaze. She had tried to speak, to join in, only to be brushed aside like an afterthought. Later that night, she had cried into her pillow—not because of Seraphine's words, but because no one noticed her tears at all.
And nothing had changed since.
---
The Chamber
Her room was warm, the fire already lit. She sank onto the bed, staring at the canopy above. The chamber was beautiful—velvet drapes, polished mirrors, carved oak furniture. Yet to her it felt like a cage of luxury, gilded and cold.
The boy's face returned to her mind. That indifference, sharper than any blade.
Names define meaning, he had said.
It was absurd. Foolish. And yet she could not stop thinking about it.
For one heartbeat, in the alley, she had not been invisible. She had been seen—dismissed, perhaps, but seen.
She turned on her side, the fire's warmth brushing her cheek.
"…Who are you, really?" she whispered.
The silence gave no answer. But outside her window, the city breathed, and in a forgotten alley, Lucien slept with hunger still gnawing at his ribs.