Chapter 2: Born of Blood, Raised as Dirt
Elowen Ashmere learned very early that blood meant nothing.
It was the first lesson beaten into her bones long before she could read, before she could write her name, before she even understood why her existence caused so much resentment. Blood, she learned, was only valuable when it was acknowledged. Hers never was.
She woke before dawn, as always.
The small servant's cot beneath the stairs was cold, the thin blanket barely warding off the chill that crept through the stone floors of the Ashmere estate. The manor above her slept in silence warm beds, heavy curtains, and hearths still glowing faintly from the night before. Elowen lay still for a moment, listening to the distant hush of the house, the rhythm of it all familiar as breathing.
She rose quietly, folding the blanket with care. Even small mistakes had consequences here.
Her reflection stared back at her from the cracked mirror by the wash basin. Pale hair that never quite obeyed, soft brown eyes that held too much exhaustion for someone barely nineteen. There was a faint bruise along her forearm, yellowing at the edges now. She tugged her sleeve down without thinking.
The bell would ring soon.
It always did.
By the time Elowen entered the kitchens, the other servants were already moving. Pots clanged softly. The baker's apprentice kneaded dough with practiced hands. Steam curled from kettles, fogging the air. Mistress Harrow, the head housekeeper, stood near the hearth with her arms crossed, sharp eyes scanning for flaws.
"Elowen," she snapped. "You're late."
Elowen lowered her head. "I apologize, Mistress. It won't happen again."
Mistress Harrow sniffed. "See that it doesn't. The Lady wants the breakfast hall spotless before the family descends."
Of course she did.
Elowen set to work immediately, scrubbing tables already clean, polishing silver until her fingers ached. She had learned long ago that effort was invisible here. Only mistakes were remembered.
As she worked, the sun crept higher, spilling pale light through the tall windows of the manor. With it came the sound of laughter light, carefree, cruel in its contrast.
Lady Maribel Ashmere swept into the hall shortly after, her silk gown whispering against the floor. She was everything Elowen was not: beautiful in the way nobility prized, her dark hair perfectly styled, her posture flawless, her smile sharp as glass.
Maribel's eyes flicked to Elowen at once.
"Well," she drawled, voice dripping with amusement, "if it isn't Father's little embarrassment."
Elowen stiffened but did not look up. "Good morning, my lady."
Maribel laughed. "Still pretending to be polite. How adorable." She stepped closer, her shadow falling over Elowen's hands. "Tell me, did you scrub the floor properly? Or should I fetch someone competent?"
"It's clean," Elowen said softly.
Maribel's smile widened. "We'll see."
She lifted her heel and dragged it deliberately across the freshly washed stone, leaving a dark smear of dirt. Elowen's breath caught.
"Oh dear," Maribel sighed. "Look at that. Such a shame."
Elowen swallowed and knelt without being told, scrubbing again, harder this time. Her knuckles burned. She could feel Maribel watching her, savoring the sight.
"You know," Maribel continued conversationally, "Mother says it was a mistake to let you stay. A reminder of Father's… lapse in judgment."
Elowen said nothing.
"She says you should be grateful we didn't send you to the streets."
Grateful.
The word echoed bitterly in Elowen's mind as Maribel finally swept away, laughter trailing behind her like a blade. When she was gone, the other servants avoided Elowen's gaze. Pity was dangerous. It drew attention.
By the time the Ashmere family gathered for breakfast, Elowen was already invisible again, standing by the wall with her head bowed, ready to pour tea or fetch bread at a snap of fingers.
Lord Ashmere sat at the head of the table, a broad man with thinning hair and a perpetual scowl. Lady Ashmere, elegant and cold, barely glanced at Elowen as she spoke.
"Maribel," she said, sipping her tea, "did you hear? Lord Harrowmont's son returns from the capital this week."
Maribel's eyes lit up. "Really? How delightful. I hear he's handsome."
"And wealthy," Lord Ashmere added. "A promising match."
Elowen poured more tea quietly.
"Speaking of matches," Lady Ashmere continued, voice casual but sharp, "we must consider our options carefully this season. Power is everything now."
Lord Ashmere grunted. "Indeed. Especially with the border tensions. Blackspire grows restless."
At the name, the table stilled.
Maribel wrinkled her nose. "That cursed place? Ruled by that… monster?"
Lord Ashmere's mouth tightened. "Watch your tone. Lord Kael Draven Blackspire commands an army strong enough to crush three houses."
"Still," Lady Ashmere said coolly, "no respectable family would marry into that darkness."
Elowen's hand trembled, just slightly, as she poured.
Blackspire.
The word sent a strange chill through her, though she had never seen it, only heard whispers. A fortress of shadow. A ruler with no mercy. A man who bathed in blood and commanded death itself.
She did not know why the name lingered in her thoughts long after breakfast ended.
Later that afternoon, Elowen was summoned to Lady Ashmere's chambers.
She knew better than to hope.
The room was immaculate, perfumed with lavender and something sharper beneath. Lady Ashmere stood by the window, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the gardens below.
"You're growing," she said without turning.
"Yes, my lady."
"That won't do."
Elowen froze.
Lady Ashmere turned then, her eyes assessing, calculating. "You're too noticeable. The servants talk."
"I keep to my duties," Elowen said quickly. "I don't cause trouble."
Lady Ashmere smiled thinly. "Your existence is the trouble."
The words struck harder than any slap.
"You will continue working in the lower halls," Lady Ashmere continued. "Out of sight. Out of mind. And you will remember your place."
"Yes, my lady."
Lady Ashmere stepped closer, her voice dropping. "You are not an Ashmere. You never will be. Blood does not make family. Worth does."
Her gaze flicked to Elowen's worn dress. "And you have none."
Dismissed, Elowen retreated without a word.
That night, beneath the stairs once more, she curled in on herself and pressed a hand to her chest. The ache there was familiar, dull and constant, but something else stirred beneath it something quiet, something stubborn.
She did not cry.
Crying never changed anything.
But as sleep claimed her, one thought lingered like a whisper she could not chase away.
If blood means nothing… then neither does the cage they've built around me.
Somewhere beyond Ashmere walls, fate was already moving.
And it would come for her soon.