That morning, Liora did not wake to sunlight, nor to the sound of birds like normal children. She woke to the sound of her door being slammed open.
The harsh crack of wood hitting the wall jolted her, and her small body shot upright from the thin, hard mattress whose cotton stuffing had long since flattened.
"Get up. You know the rules," the cold voice of the old servant, Marna, sliced through what should have been a gentle morning.
Liora opened her eyes slowly, though she had actually been awake for several minutes. She didn't dare look like she wished to stay in bed. No one would ever let her enjoy a morning like that.
Her room was dark. Only a small window, boarded tightly with wooden planks, allowed a sliver of golden light to spill onto the stone floor. The room had once been a storage space. The damp smell never left. The threadbare sheet covering her felt cold and damp from the night's moisture.
Liora was six years old, but she already knew one thing:
No one wanted her to exist.
She slowly sat up, rubbed her eyes, and put on her work clothes—rough, gray, embroidery-less, too thin for the chilly morning. She had no warm garments. No attendants. No one to help button the parts she struggled to reach.
"You're slow," Marna grumbled, even though Liora hadn't even fully stood yet. "The Duke's children must not wait for their breakfast."
The Duke's children.
Lucien
and Kael.
No one ever included Liora in that list.
When she tried to smooth her tangled rosy-red hair, Marna looked at her with disgust.
"Don't waste time tidying that cursed hair," she spat. "No one wants to see your face anyway."
Liora lowered her head.
She was used to it.
Every time someone called her hair a "curse," a faint pain pricked her chest. Not sharp. Just… cold. Like small needles of ice pressing inward.
"Come," Marna snapped.
Liora stepped out of the room, her small feet touching the icy stone floor. She wanted to squeeze them together to warm them, but she knew that would look strange. She must not look strange. Must not stand out. Must not look angry or sad.
Must not look alive, basically.
The stairs to the main floor echoed with Marna's footsteps, while Liora's nearly made no sound—her body seemed too light, as if she were barely there. She hugged herself while walking, trying to gather some warmth from her thin arms.
As she reached the long hallway leading to the main dining room, cheerful laughter drifted out.
Kael's voice.
And a deeper, flatter one—Lucien.
Her two older brothers, though she never called them that.
Marna stopped and glanced at Liora with expressionless eyes.
"Wait here. Don't enter until I call you," she ordered, then disappeared through the door with the boys' breakfast trays.
Liora waited.
Silent.
Like a shadow.
Through the gap of the half-open door, she could hear them.
Kael:
"Why do we have to eat in the same room as her? Can't she eat in the backyard with the livestock?"
Lucien:
"You complain too much. As long as she doesn't touch anything that belongs to us, I don't care."
Kael snickered.
"Lucien, don't you want to punch her face every time you see it? I still don't know why Father lets that creature stay in this house."
Creature.
Never "sister."
Never "Liora."
Liora lowered her gaze.
Her chest tightened—not from wanting to cry, but from something more complicated.
Like the world rejected her naturally.
Like even the air hesitated to touch her.
Minutes passed before Marna finally called her in with a flat voice:
"Come in."
Liora stepped inside carefully, keeping her face blank—something she had learned to avoid giving Kael anything to mock. He would sniff out weakness like a hunting dog.
The grand dining hall felt too luxurious for her. Crystal chandeliers, a long table draped in white cloth, portraits of ancestors framed in gold—it all gleamed beautifully. She felt like a stain on the beauty, something that didn't belong.
Kael, ten years old—four years older than her—scowled as soon as she entered.
"Look," he sneered, pointing at her clothes, "even servant clothes look ugly on her."
Lucien, twelve, didn't even turn his head.
He just glanced her way briefly—as if looking at a bothersome fly.
Liora stood with her head bowed, waiting.
She wasn't allowed to sit.
Not allowed to eat with them.
Only to wait for tasks.
"Pour me water," Kael commanded.
Liora moved to pick up the pitcher. But her small hands trembled from the cold.
As she poured, a few droplets spilled onto the table.
Kael slammed his hand onto his glass, sending water splashing to the floor.
"Look at that! You can't do anything right!"
Lucien didn't scold him.
He quietly moved the book he was reading so it wouldn't get wet.
Liora hurried to wipe the table, her hands desperate, her heart pounding.
Kael leaned closer.
"What, are you mute now? At least apologize!"
Other servants heard but pretended not to.
An unspoken rule:
When it concerns Liora, stay silent.
Liora bowed deeper.
"I… I'm sorry…"
Kael scoffed.
"Ugly voice."
Lucien shut his book.
"That's enough, Kael."
Kael rolled his eyes.
"Why? I'm only telling the truth."
Lucien stared at Liora for a long moment, eyes icy and calculating.
"If you can't pour water properly… at least learn. Don't be a burden your whole life."
The words were not loud.
Not cruel in tone.
Yet somehow… they hurt more.
Slow and precise.
Liora clenched the cloth in her hands.
She wanted to say she would try harder.
Be more careful.
Learn faster.
She—
Must not speak.
Must not interrupt.
"Go," Lucien ordered quietly.
Liora bowed and backed away before turning to leave. Kael's laughter followed her like thorns digging into her back.
The rest of the morning she worked in the kitchen: scrubbing huge pots, washing vegetables, replacing old cloths, sweeping the cold stone floor. The other servants often made her work harder on purpose.
"Wash this again. It's not clean," even though it was.
"Don't touch that. You'll make it dirty."
"You're standing too close to the bread. Who knows if your curse gets into the dough."
Every remark froze the air around her.
Not because they were harsh—because they were normal.
Routine.
Part of her daily life.
When sunlight finally streamed into the kitchen, Liora felt a bit of warmth. Just a bit. She lifted her hand toward it, wanting to catch the thin light.
But a servant shouted,
"Liora! Work, not daydreaming!"
She went back to work.
---
At noon, Marna sent Liora to clean the small library. It was rarely used. Filled with old books. The smell of aged wood lingered.
Liora actually liked the place.
Quiet.
No Kael.
No hateful gazes.
No voices stabbing her ears.
She wiped dust from shelf to shelf, touching old books without daring to open any.
But when she brushed her fingers over a large red book, something strange happened.
Her finger tingled warm.
Warm—not painfully.
Soft.
Familiar.
As if something inside her responded to magic.
As if… a buried memory stirred.
But she didn't know what.
Didn't know why.
She was only a child.
And she feared what she didn't understand.
The door suddenly slammed open.
Liora jumped away from the shelf.
Lucien stood in the doorway.
"Why are you here?" he asked coldly.
"I-I was told to clean…"
His eyes moved to her small hand still holding the dust cloth.
Then to the red book.
"Don't touch those books."
His tone turned into a thin warning.
"Not a single page."
Liora nodded quickly.
"I'm sorry… I didn't open—"
"Father doesn't want you learning anything about magic. You think I don't know your desire to… read?"
Liora bowed deeper, her heart racing.
Desire?
She didn't know she had such a thing…
She only felt a small warm pull.
Not intention.
Just reaction.
Lucien stepped closer.
Slow.
Silent.
Terrifying.
He bent down to her height, staring into her eyes—those deep blue eyes cold like glass.
"Listen carefully. You live in this house only because Father allows it. Don't try to become anything other than a burden. Don't try to learn. Don't try to grow."
He paused.
His next words were softer—yet far crueller.
"Because in the end, creatures like you… disappear on their own."
Liora clenched her fingers.
She didn't understand all the words, but she understood the tone.
She wasn't supposed to exist.
Lucien turned away and shut the door with a soft click—sealing the air inside the room.
---
That afternoon, it rained.
The backyard turned muddy.
Liora was told to move firewood from the shed to the kitchen. It was heavy for her small body. Each step soaked her thin clothes, chilling her to the bone.
Marna scolded her for being slow.
Other servants grumbled when droplets from her hair fell onto the floor.
No one asked if she was cold.
No one cared she was shivering.
Across the yard, Kael appeared under the roof, watching.
"Look at her," he said, pointing at Liora carrying wood. "You look like a wet rat."
Liora didn't reply.
She just lowered her head and kept walking.
Kael clicked his tongue.
"Not fun. The rat looks old already."
He left.
The rain swallowed his voice.
But it didn't wash away the pain in Liora's chest.
---
Night came.
After finishing all her tasks, Liora returned to her dark room. Her body ached. Her legs were bruised. Her clothes were wet and cold. She sat slowly on her bed and hugged her knees.
Outside, the night wind scraped against the little window.
She inhaled softly.
Carefully.
Then closed her eyes, trying to remember something—anything—that could make her feel warm.
But the darkness only showed the vague silhouette of a woman with blazing red hair. A distant voice like an echo she couldn't understand.
She grew afraid.
But also… curious.
She opened her eyes abruptly and hugged herself tighter.
"I… I don't want to disappear…" she whispered.
But her voice drowned in the cold silence.
No reply.
No embrace.
Only Liora.
A child without a name.
Without rights.
Without love.
The world had already decided she wasn't meant to be cherished.
Yet deep inside her chest—somewhere even she didn't know—something refused to die.
Something slowly awakened.
Not hope.
Not dreams.
Something older than both.
And when the small candle in the corner flickered out with no wind, Liora opened her eyes again.
She felt something.
A faint vibration in her blood.
But she didn't understand it yet.
She only knew one thing:
Today was like any other day.
And like every other day, she survived…
even as the world tried to drown her.
.