—The Name That Belongs To Her...

The kingdom awoke with a chill crawling up its spine.

By the time dawn dared to break over Praxis.

The news had already slithered through manor halls, silk-curtained bedchambers, and frost-lined corridors—wrapped in hushed tones and bitter laughter.

House Veldrin's third child had been born just past the stroke of midnight.

A daughter.

Another daughter.

And tonight—heaven forgive them—her name would be spoken before the bloodline.

But no one celebrated.

The sun dragged itself across the ash-choked skies above Skywhisper Hold.

Its golden rays came dim and sluggish, as if the heavens struggled to acknowledge what had happened the night before.

Inside the fortress, silence wasn't absent.

It was haunting.

It clung to the ancient stones like frostbite—like something had died… or awakened.

Beyond the gates?

The bells tolled twice.

No birds replied.

The wind that wept over the spires carried a bitterness that cut deeper than cold.

It carried judgment.

She had been born beneath the silence of midnight.

The third daughter.

Not a son.

Not an heir.

Not the salvation they'd begged the stars for.

And though her first cry was faint—more breath than sound—it echoed into a silence that now blanketed the entire kingdom.

By sunrise, the tale had poisoned every court and corner like a whisper laced with venom.

"Another daughter?"

"A third one? Again?"

"The Veldrin line… is faltering."

The words drifted like smoke from cursed fire in the marble gardens of noble villas and the cramped, wine-stained alleys of lower Praxis.

Servants whispered.

Lords speculated.

Enemies smiled behind jeweled fans.

"Three daughters. One broken son."

"House Veldrin has no future."

"Even the stars refused to shine when she was born."

In tower chambers of rival bloodlines, sharp eyes turned to aged family trees and border maps inked in dust and blood.

"This changes everything," murmured a noblewoman in silk and steel, tracing a line from Veldrin's crest to her own.

"If their legacy wanes… ours must rise."

And in darker corners—hidden chambers lined with forbidden tomes and walls that breathed ancient secrets—

Old men lit candles with trembling hands, muttering verses they swore never to speak again.

"Midnight… silences… the third born."

"The cursed flame flickers once more."

The Servants — Third Kitchen Watch

Elna's fingers were raw and red from scrubbing silver goblets, the enchanted soap biting her skin like it had a grudge.

She sat just beyond the banquet curtain—close enough to hear every noble breath, far enough to be forgotten.

The chandeliers had been lit early.

Too early.

Hundreds of them.

Pale silver flames danced in unnatural rhythm, like stars arranged by something long dead.

"All this light… for a girl they didn't want?" she muttered.

The hearths refused to burn properly.

The flames dimmed to eerie blue with every gust, as if the Hold itself hesitated to warm what had been born.

Earlier, the great manna-veined banquet table had crackled once—deep and sharp—like something ancient beneath the wood had stirred.

And the whispers…

Behind Elna, they slithered—thin as breath, sharp as truth.

"Born under silence."

"Midnight-born. The wind didn't move. That's a sign."

Elna didn't believe in signs.

But she believed in fear.

And tonight, she'd been summoned to the upper balconies.

To witness the naming.

She almost wanted to flee.

The Banquet Hall of House Veldrin — Night

The grand hall of Skywhisper Hold glittered beneath chandeliers of ever-burning crystal—suspended stars in a sky made of shadows.

Music bled from the corners, courtly and cold, trying too hard to feel like a celebration.

Servants in silver-and-midnight livery moved like ghosts across obsidian floors, offering wine that shimmered and food too delicate to satisfy anything human.

This was not a banquet.

This was a reckoning.

The summons had gone out sealed with the Grand Duke's crest.

It was not an invitation.

It was not a request.

It was a command.

"To refuse House Veldrin is to invite whispers.

And in this court… whispers are sharper than blades."

And so they came.

All of them.

Carriages lined the moonlit courtyards.

Silk-clad noblewomen with venom behind their lashes.

Steel-eyed men whose words could end bloodlines.

Each one dressed in masks called civility.

Inside, they gathered—over a hundred of them:

Court nobles. Squires. Knights.

Baroness. Viscountess. Countess.

Marchioness. Duchess.

All seated at long tables of blackwood and goldleaf.

Conversations buzzed with false pleasantries.

"I heard it was a third daughter,"

"No heir again? What a shame for the Grand Duke,"

"Why even hold a banquet for another girl?"

They spoke softly.

But not softly enough.

The great hall thrummed with unease.

There was laughter—yes—but it was too practiced.

Smiles—too sharp.

Every word wore perfume to hide its rot.

The obsidian walls flickered with candlelight, shadows dancing like ghostly wraiths.

High above, silver chandeliers swayed ever so slightly, though no wind stirred.

As if even the air dared not speak in the presence of the Veldrin bloodline.

Tonight was no celebration.

Tonight was a ritual.

A sentence.

An echo too dangerous to leave unnamed.

The walls of Skywhisper Hold listened.

The air grew still.

Something ancient waited.

At the heart of it all, the long banquet table stretched like a spine of power—carved from midnight-black wood and veined with ether glass.

Subtle pulses of light revealed buried ancestral runes.

They shimmered faintly beneath the surface, like memories that refused to die.

The feast atop it glittered with decadence:

Blood-orange pheasant dressed in shadow berry glaze.

Goblets of elixir-wine that shimmered with manna.

Silver trays bearing meats whose origins were never spoken aloud.

And at the end of that table sat Lord Marek Veldrin, hands folded.

Face unreadable.

The high nobles flanked him like wolves in silk.

To his right—Lady Elira, pale as ash, with a single raven braid falling like a wound across her gown.

In her arms, swaddled in silver-threaded cloth—

The child.

Small.

Still.

Silent.

And then—

A servant stepped forward, bearing a mirror of unpolished obsidian, framed by a ring of hollow bone — the Veldrin Mirror, said to reveal truth beneath legacy.

It was placed before Marek.

From somewhere unseen, a soft bell rang.

Thirteen times.

Each chime seals the hall in deeper silence.

Lady Elira rose.

Her steps were slow, each one echoing like a heartbeat.

She approached the mirror and held the child above it.

Nothing happened.

Then, Lord Marek stood.

"This house has long been shadowed by sons," he began, voice low, commanding.

"By names carved from steel and drowned in legacy.

But tonight…"

His eyes met every noble in the room.

"Tonight, the flame bends."

He reached into his coat and withdrew a dagger — not to harm, but to mark.

With its tip, he drew a thin line of blood across his palm and let it drip onto the mirror.

The glass pulsed.

A name began to etch itself across its surface in veins of silver light.

And for a moment, nothing.

Stillness.

Even the chandeliers seemed to hold their breath.

Then, like fire bursting through frost —

The name JENNA seared itself into the mirror.

The flame did not flicker.

It roared.

Gasps.

Murmurs.

Fans snapped shut.

Goblets trembled.

"A lovely name," Lord Thalen (Duke) said, voice smooth as serpent oil.

"Let's pray it survives the winter."

Marek didn't even glance at him.

"It will," he said.

"Because, unlike you, Thalen, she was meant to survive."

The entire hall tensed.

You could hear a fly scream if one dared move.

"I name her not to soften this House," Marek continued,

"But to challenge the world.

Let all who seek to judge this child… remember—"

He looked down at the girl in Elira's arms.

"Even ash can burn again."

"Praxis remembers names," he said.

"Names carry lineage. Lineage bears weight.

And tonight… I do not name for pride.

Nor for legacy.

I name… because the stars demanded it."

A beat.

"She who was born beneath midnight's silence shall carry the name whispered to me before dawn."

Murmurs stirred again.

"Jenna?"

"That's not a Veldrin name—"

"Is this a joke?"

"What is he planning?"

Then—

"My Lord Duke…" came the voice of Countess Mireille of House Calgrave, tone sugared with sarcasm, trembling with curiosity.

"What exactly do you intend for Lady Jenna?"

Marek's eyes turned to her.

Slow.

Sharp.

Final.

"The world sought to cast her aside before she ever drew breath," he said.

"Let it remember this night… as the moment it began to regret that decision."

Stillness.

Not silence.

Stillness.

The kind that lingers in ruins.

In prophecy.

In curses.

"Jenna of House Veldrin," Marek continued,

"Third daughter.

Born of silence.

Named in defiance."

He drank.

They followed.

But none smiled.

None toasted.

Because deep down… they understood.

This was not a name.

It was a warning.

"He remembers what the rest of us forgot…

or feared to recall."

"He knows something… but what?"

Above the mirror,

The flame of her name continued to burn —

But it was no longer silver.

It was violet.

And it hummed, almost… singing.

And far above the Hold, where clouds roamed and stars dared not shine —

A flicker blinked once in the sky.

A cosmic eye — watching.

TO BE CONTINUED...