MALORY
I opened my eyes after what felt like an endless conversation with something less than a man and more than divinity. My first thought was, Where, or rather... when am I? The world pressed in immediately: cold flagstone walls, heavy velvet drapes hanging in shadowed folds, the flicker of an oil lamp casting wavering light across the room. And then it hit me the unmistakable weight of being somewhere centuries old, yet entirely new.
My hands tiny, too weak to move independently curl into futile fists. My body is cradled by a woman, her arms steady but trembling under the weight of me.
Am I being conceived?
The thought hit me before I could even process it. Our eyes met the midwife's and the shock on her face froze the air. She leaned toward her companion, whispering something urgent, her voice barely audible over the scent-heavy warmth of the room. In a sudden flurry, the companion bolted, skirts brushing against the lamp and sending it swinging, casting jittering shadows across the cobblestone floor her steps echoing I the hall.
Her return was sudden with the door slammed open, the first person to barge in was a man. He stood tall, shoulders squared, exuding a presence that demands attention. His doublet, deep crimson velvet, hugs his torso, embroidered with gold thread that catches the flickering lamplight. A long, fur-lined coat trails behind him, its hem brushing the cobblestones, clasped at the shoulder with an ornate, gilded brooch shaped like a lion. His sleeves are wide and slashed, revealing layers of cream silk beneath, each movement sending shadows and color rippling.
'My father ?'
I realized, though the title felt hollow next to the weight in his gaze. He didn't need to look at me his aura claimed me.
He barked orders at the trembling maid. Her hands shook as she picked up a knife, the steel catching the light like it understood the wrongness of its intent. Sobs erupted from the woman who had birthed me; her cries bounced off the stone walls, sharp and human.
The maid brought the blade closer, her eyes scanning me, pleading silently with something she couldn't name. But my gaze met hers, and I felt it happen before I could think: the knife, the threat, the terror, it faltered. The trembling in her hands was no longer just nerves. She dropped the blade, her jaw slack, eyes wide, as if my small presence had unmade her courage entirely.
To me this felt like a poorly written drama, and I could only yearn to see it in the third perspective, maybe I could have understood more, other than foreign language cries and chauvinistic orders.
My father acted. He yanked me from her arms, tossing the maid aside like a rag. His layers of clothing slowing him down as he took the knife, the scent of metal and sweat overpowering the room. Words, harsh and foreign, spat from him, insults I didn't yet comprehend, sharp as the blade now dangling above me. He moved with the precision of a hunter, intent clear: my heart. The room narrowed to the glint of steel falling toward my tiny chest.
I met his eyes. Not pleading, not defiant, just observation. Every fraction of a second, I felt it: his desire to dominate, to claim, to consume.
This wasn't normal rage it was animosity.
And yet something inside him wavered. The blade stopped, bare millimeters from my body. Tears ran freely down his face, streaking lines of power, loss, confusion, and awe all at once.
That was eighteen years ago. I understand it now.
'Your a Veyla ' at least, that's the word my mother used. A fragment of a god, broken off and stitched into flesh.
The truth of what I am is a secret shared by only three people—my mother, my father, and myself. No one else survived the knowledge. The midwives were executed the night I was born.
Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity. The weak Veyla are conquered the strong conquer, I'm just lucky enough to have the latter's characteristics but the formers ability.
'I should have asked for plain raw power'
"Malory."
My name carried across the flower garden, light and careless. They had waited until I could talk to properly name me . Never have I ever once hinted at my previous life
"Where's my birthday girl?"
My father's voice followed, warm, loud, practiced too loud for someone who didn't want to be overheard.
I rose from the stone bench and ran toward him, skirts gathered in my hands, laughter placed carefully on my lips. Every step was measured, every breath rehearsed. By the time I reached him, I was exactly what he expected to see.
"Here I am," I said, bright and effortless.
He pulled me into a brief embrace, firm and public, the kind meant to be seen rather than felt. It lasted just long enough to pass for affection before he stepped back.
"Tomorrow," he said, smoothing his cuffs, "you will receive the Crowned Prince."
The words settled like ash in my stomach.
"Why, yes," I replied lightly. "Didn't you notice how gracefully I received you?"
A smile tugged at his mouth. "Quite graceful indeed. But your mother has a few final… refinements for you. Best you speak with her before the evening ends."
Already turning away, already done with the moment.
I dipped into a shallow curtsy as he departed, silk whispering against stone, my expression intact until his footsteps faded into the corridor.
His footsteps faded.
So did my smile.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically. It simply… ceased, as if it had never belonged to me in the first place.
Tomorrow, the Crowned Prince.
Of course.
To my father, I was not a daughter. I was leverage shaped like a girl. A beautiful one, carefully raised, meticulously polished, then placed exactly where diplomacy demanded. Blood and silk, wrapped together and presented as goodwill.
A son might have argued. But a daughter, especially one the same age as the heir to a resourceful kingdom, was something far more efficient.
Desire opens doors swords never could.
A beautiful daughter wasn't merely an asset. She was influence. She was compliance disguised as choice. Power that smiled while it was being wielded.
And I was expected to wear that power like jewelry, grateful for the weight of it. After all it is my curse. The plague of Aphrodite.
I stared at the path he'd taken, already calculating what tomorrow would require of me and exactly how much I could gain from this. A crowed prince the possibilities were boundless.
This world predates convenience, curiosity, and mercy. Boredom isn't an inconvenience here it's a sentence. There are no inventions to chase, no freedoms to improvise. Innovation is suspicion. Curiosity is heresy. Being born female is already a restraint. Being noticed makes it a liability.
So yes, I find myself hoping the Crowned Prince at least brings disruption with him.
The thought followed me as I made my way toward my mother's chambers, my steps measured, my posture flawless, if a maid started a rumor eighteen years of worthless work gone.
I stepped into my mother's chambers and the door closed behind me with a soft finality.
The room was long and wide, its stone walls softened by tapestries dyed in deep greens and wine-dark reds. The floor carpeted with bear fur, exotic . Shelves lined one side, heavy with ledgers, sealed letters, and small glass vials that caught the candlelight like watchful eyes. The air carried the scent of fragrances i could only describe as clean, sharp and intentional.
My mother stood at the window, her back to me, hands folded behind her as she watched the garden below.
She did not turn.
"Close the door properly," she said. "Half-measures invite listening." age chipping away at her voice.
I obeyed. Something about her reminded me of my old idols, someone I looked up to, someone I respected.
Only then did she face me.
Her gaze traveled slowly, not unkindly, from my hair to my hands, lingering just long enough to count what I had done right and what I had not.
"Your smile was too generous," she said at last. "And your shoulders are tense. You look like a girl hoping to be liked."
She stepped closer and adjusted my posture with two fingers.
"You are not hoping. You are allowing."
She did not sit. She rarely did when the subject mattered.
"You will be told," my mother said, "that men are difficult to understand."
She walked to the table, fingertips brushing the edge where candle wax had hardened into pale scars.
"They are not."
Her eyes flicked to me not to check if I was listening, but to confirm I was capable.
"They speak constantly, even when they say nothing. In posture. In impatience. In the way they fill silence when it unsettles them."
She turned a ring on her finger once, slowly.
"Watch how quickly they explain themselves to those they believe are beneath them. Watch how carefully they choose words when they think they are being measured."
A pause.
"Men fear many things. Being seen clearly is one of them."
She stepped closer, her voice lowering, not softer, just contained.
"So never compete. Never confront. Let them feel observed, not opposed."
Her gaze lingered on mine, heavy with meaning.
"They will reveal everything without realizing they have spoken for they are all cut from the same cloth but different sizes."
The silence stilled for a bit.
"The Crowned Prince is not arriving for you," she continued. "He is arriving for reassurance."
I looked up.
"He has been praised since birth. Fed admiration until it hollowed him. He does not know what he is without an audience."
She met my gaze fully now.
"Do not dazzle him. Do not impress him. Let him discover you."
A pause.
"And never let him see how much you understand."
She reached out, smoothing a wrinkle from my sleeve with practiced care.
"You are not cruel, Malory," she said quietly. "Cruelty is loud and wasteful."
Her hand withdrew.
"You are necessary."
The dismissal was subtle, unmistakable.
I stood, adjusted my expression into something gentle, practiced, harmless, and left. A thought hitting me that my father will never truly see this side of her neither will the world.