"Gwen …..Gwen ….Gwen !!! Wake up and prepare the bath for your father now !!!"
The voice, sharp as a whip crack, sliced through the last remnants of sleep. I groaned, burying my face deeper into the thin pillow.
…..And that's how my morning starts. Every morning. My name is Gwen, first daughter of the Reverend Archmage Theron. And the unwanted one.
"Why?" Because my mother, the love of his life, died giving birth to me on a night of a full moon. And my father, in all his centuries of wisdom, has never, ever let me forget it.
A frantic rustling of parchment. Oops. I'd fallen asleep at my small desk again, my journal open. I quickly shoved the book under a loose floorboard.
"What are you writing so aggressively?" a cheerful voice chirped.
Before I could react, a blur of silk and curls darted into the room. Estella. She snatched the quil from my inkwell with a triumphant giggle.
"Estella !!!" I hissed, leaping up. "Get back here and give me my quil, I need to write!"
She stuck her tongue out, waving the feather like a trophy. "Catch me first, slowpoke!"
That's Estella, my step-sister. She's a handful of sunshine and mischief, and I love her more than anything.
"Gwen!!! Don't let me repeat myself. The bath won't make itself!"
That was my mother again. Stepmother, technically, but same-same. She'd never treated me like an outsider. I often doubted my birth mother could have treated me better.
Right. I really needed to go!
I hurried out into the dim, torch-lit corridor, the cold stone seeping through the thin soles of my slippers. The Archmage's bathing chamber was in the east wing. Each step felt heavy. Preparing his bath was a precise magical ritual. A single mistake, and the infusion would be useless. It was a test. It was always a test.
My first task was to fetch water from the sacred spring in the courtyard. I grabbed the heavy, enchanted bucket and sprinted across the dew-slicked cobblestones. My foot caught on an uneven stone. The bucket flew from my hands, and the pure, magically-potent water crashed onto the stones, soaking me to the bone.
"No!" The word was a choked sob. There was no time for anger or tears. I scrambled up, snatched the bucket, and ran back to the spring.
The second trip was a blur of panic. By the time I stumbled into the vast, steam-shrouded bathing chamber, my arms aching, I knew I was doomed.
He was already there.
Reverend Archmage Theron stood with his back to me. Slowly, he turned. If looks could kill, I swear this would have been my last morning. He stared straight into me, through me, with the same focused intensity he used to bind evil spirits.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, he spoke a single word. It was low, venomous, and carried the weight of seventeen years of disappointment.
"Useless."
The word hit me with more force than any spell. A tear, traitorous and warm, welled up. I swallowed hard, forcing the tears back down into the hollow ache in my chest. Without a word, I turned to the great copper tub and began my work. I focused only on the task, building a wall of duty against the crushing weight of his presence.
I finished the bath quickly, my hands moving with a frantic, silent efficiency. When the water shimmered with a faint, silvery light, I didn't wait for a dismissal. I simply fled, not stopping until I was back in the confines of my small room, the door shut firmly behind me. I had escaped his presence, but I could never escape the truth he saw in me.
I sobbed so hard I thought I would lose my eyes. The tears were a hot, relentless flood, and I buried my face in the pillow to muffle the sound of my own breaking heart. The word "useless" played over and over in my mind, a cruel, endless echo.
I didn't hear the gentle knock at first. The door creaked open, and a soft shadow fell across my bed. It was my mother. She had noticed I hadn't come for breakfast and had figured I'd had another altercation with my father. She didn't say a word. She simply sat on the edge of my narrow bed, her presence a warm, solid comfort in the cold room.
She placed a tray on my bedside table. On it was a warm bowl of porridge sweetened with honey, a slice of bread, and a cup of mint tea…my favorite. Then, she gathered me into her arms, letting me cry until my sobs subsided into shaky hiccups. She stroked my hair, humming an old, soothing lullaby.
"Eat, my child," she said softly, her voice a balm to my frayed soul. "The world seems dark now, but an empty stomach makes every shadow longer."
She stayed with me while I ate, a silent fortress against the pain my father had inflicted. She didn't need to say his name. Her being there was her way of telling me that in her eyes, I was anything but useless.
After I ate my meal, my mother kept me company for a while, telling me stories of when she was a maiden, full of life and laughter before she became the Archmage's wife. Her words painted pictures of a world far from the cold stone of the estate, a world of sunshine and simple joys. For a little while, the weight in my chest felt lighter.
But the joy was always temporary. Soon, the distant sound of clanking armor and low, urgent voices signaled that it was time. My father was departing on one of his escapades to seal away some ancient evil force.
A heavy dread settled back over me. For each of his journeys, there was a ritual. The entire household every servant, every guard, every member of the family was obliged to line up in the grand hall to bid him farewell. It was a solemn procession of loyalty and blessing. We were each expected to bow, offer a word of fortune, and kiss the signet ring on his hand, a symbol of his immense power.
The thought of kneeling before him, of pressing my lips to the cold metal of the ring he wore when he called me "useless" just hours before, made my stomach churn. It was the ultimate act of submission, a performance I was forced to participate in, pretending a devotion I did not feel. Taking my place in that line felt like the hardest task of the day.
I followed suit and performed my ritual. When my turn came, I stepped forward, my eyes fixed on the cold stone floor. I curtsied low, my voice a whisper lost in the vastness of the hall. "Safe journey, Father."
I took his hand. It was cool and heavy, the signet ring ,a crest of a serpent feeling like a brand against my lips. He barely looked at me, his gaze already fixed on the horizon, on the battle to come. But it didn't matter. I had played my part.
I stood with the others and watched as he and his entourage of grim-faced mages and warriors mounted their horses. The great gates groaned open, and they rode out, a stream of steel and determination, dispersing into the distant tree line.
I said a silent prayer for him, my heart a tangled knot of resentment and a desperate, unwanted flicker of hope. Even though he hates me, he's still my father. And a part of me, the little girl who still longed for a glance of approval, could not bear the thought of him not returning.
As soon as father and his entourage vanished from sight, a palpable change swept through the castle. It was as if a great, suffocating blanket had been lifted. The very stones seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The castle lit up, not with magic, but with life.
Laughter, usually hushed and hurried, echoed freely in the corridors. The stern postures of the guards relaxed. For the next five days, we were all free. No rigid schedules, no waking up at dawn for dreaded chores, and no walking on eggshells, fearing a displeased glance from the Archmage.
For me, it was a taste of paradise. I could wake when I pleased. I could spend hours in the library, lost in books of poetry and history that had nothing to do with magical theory. And yes, I could write. I could write as long as my hand could hold the quil, filling page after page with my stories and secrets without fear of Estella's playful thefts or the need to hide my journal.
But most importantly, I could finally prepare for my sixteenth birthday, which would fall on the third day of his absence. For the first time, it could be a true celebration, not a silent, somber affair overshadowed by his presence. A flicker of genuine excitement warmed my chest. Perhaps this birthday would be different. Perhaps, in his absence, I could finally feel like I truly belonged.