Chapter One — The Glass House
The palace nursery was made of glass.
Not entirely, of course — only the ceiling and the far wall that looked out toward the eastern gardens — but to the twin girls who grew up within it, it felt like living inside a fragile snow globe, waiting for a careless hand to shake it apart.
Seraphina Valemont, the elder by eight minutes, pressed her palm against the cold pane, fogging it with her breath. Beyond the glass, dawn was breaking in shades of rose and silver, catching the frost on the rose bushes like powdered diamonds. Somewhere below, the gardeners moved like ghosts through the mist, their muted voices too soft to reach her.
Q her, Selene, her younger twin, laughed — a sound like chimes — as she balanced porcelain dolls along the edge of the crib rail.
SELENE
They'll fall if you stare too long.
Seraphina didn't turn. "Then they're not meant to stand."
She watched their reflections in the glass instead: two girls, nearly identical — pale hair that caught the light like spun silk, eyes the color of stormwater. Only one detail marked them apart: a faint birthmark beneath Selene's right eye, small as a teardrop.
Their mother once called it a blessing. Their father, the King, called it a mark of favor — as if the gods themselves had chosen which daughter to smile upon.
Even at eight years old, Seraphina understood what that meant.
She could feel it in the way the governess always reached for Selene's hand first, in how the servants curtsied a fraction lower when Selene entered a room. Even their tutors lingered longer over her sister's lessons, praising her for the same answers Seraphina had whispered moments before.
It was a delicate cruelty — a daily reminder that being born first did not make her the true heir in anyone's eyes.
The breakfast bell tolled through the east wing like a slow heartbeat.
The twins descended the grand staircase together, small hands gliding along the polished banister. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and rosewater — the perfume of a house that prized appearances above warmth.
Servants bowed as they passed. None met Seraphina's eyes for long.
The Great Dining Hall gleamed with silver and sunlight. Its long windows framed the royal gardens, their white hedges trimmed into the shapes of swans and lilies. At the head of the table sat King Aldric Valemont, his crown resting on the table beside an untouched cup of tea — as though it too had grown weary of his rule.
Opposite him, Queen Isolde sat with a posture so graceful it seemed carved. She was beautiful, in the way marble is beautiful — smooth, perfect, and cold to the touch.
Between them stretched a silence that no one dared disturb.
When the twins entered, the King looked up first. His gaze fell immediately to Selene.
KING ALDRIC
(smiling faintly)
Ah, the favored sunrise arrives.
Selene curtsied deeply, her eyes lowered in practiced humility. Seraphina followed, bowing just as low, but her father's smile had already faded — as if it had never been meant for her.
The Queen's hand fluttered over her pearls.
QUEEN ISOLDE
You mustn't tease them so early, Aldric.
KING ALDRIC
It is not teasing to recognize grace when one sees it.
He reached to smooth Selene's hair — a rare gesture of tenderness — then glanced at Seraphina, as if seeing her only by accident.
KING ALDRIC (cont'd)
And you, my eldest… still quiet as the stone lions.
Seraphina bit the inside of her cheek. "Stones don't lie, Father."
A hush fell. Her mother's teacup paused halfway to her lips.
Then the King laughed — a short, sharp sound.
KING ALDRIC
A clever tongue, that one. Dangerous in a girl.
The laughter faded, replaced by the soft scrape of silver on porcelain.
Later that morning, the family gathered in the Hall of Thrones for the royal portrait — an annual tradition.
The painter, a timid man named Corvin, arranged them carefully: the King seated tall and proud, the Queen beside him, Selene standing between them like a living jewel. Seraphina was placed at the far end of the frame — slightly behind her mother's shoulder, her face half-turned toward shadow.
She said nothing. She didn't need to.
Corvin's brush trembled as he captured their likenesses. When he was finished, he stepped back, smiling nervously.
CORVIN
Your Majesties, it is done.
The King studied the canvas.
KING ALDRIC
You have captured the heir beautifully.
CORVIN
(uncertain)
Your Majesty… both princesses—
KING ALDRIC
(interrupting)
I said what I meant.
Selene's lips curled slightly — not a smile, exactly, but close.
Seraphina stared at the painting. In the glossy oils, her reflection looked wrong — darker somehow, her eyes too sharp, too knowing. For a moment, she swore the painted Selene blinked first.
That night, as the candles were extinguished one by one, Seraphina crept from her bed and returned to the hall where the portrait now stood.
Moonlight pooled over the canvas.
In the painting, Selene's figure shimmered faintly, almost alive. But Seraphina's image — her painted self — seemed to lean closer to the edge of the frame, as though pressing against the boundary between the real and the false.
Her pulse quickened.
Then she heard it again — the tapping on the glass. This time not from the nursery window, but from inside the frame.
She stepped back, trembling.
And in that breathless silence, she realized the truth:
Whatever haunted the palace had chosen her — the unfavored twin.