Chapter 2: The Girl Everyone Abandoned
Morning arrived without ceremony.
No maid came to draw the curtains. No gentle knock announced breakfast. The world beyond Liraya's room woke as it always had—indifferent to whether she did or not.
Light crept in through the cracks of the window, pale and hesitant, settling across the worn wooden floor. Liraya opened her eyes slowly, allowing herself a few breaths to adjust to the ache in her chest.
Sleep had not restored this body.
It had merely paused its suffering.
She lay still, listening.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor outside—hurried, purposeful. Servants moving about their duties. Doors opening, voices murmuring. Life continued just beyond these walls, yet none of it was meant for her.
She sat up carefully, fingers tightening around the thin blanket when a sharp wave of dizziness struck. After a moment, it passed.
*Weak,* she noted calmly. *But stable.*
That, at least, was something.
Her gaze drifted to the mirror across the room. In the daylight, the girl's reflection looked even more fragile than she had the night before. Shadows clung stubbornly beneath her eyes. Her lips were faintly blue, her complexion unhealthy.
A sickly noble daughter.
A burden best forgotten.
Memories stirred again—fragmented, reluctant.
This body belonged to **Liraya Auren**, the youngest daughter of a declining noble house. Her mother had died shortly after childbirth. Her father had remarried quickly. The new wife brought status, alliances… and children who were far more useful.
Liraya Auren had been sickly since birth.
Her magic unstable.
Her presence inconvenient.
She rose from the bed and dressed herself slowly, fingers clumsy with stiffness. The clothes laid out for her were plain, faded, several sizes too large—as if chosen without care or measurement.
When she opened the door, the corridor beyond was already busy.
Two maids passed by, arms laden with fresh linens. They glanced at her briefly—then away—pretending not to see her at all.
Not even a bow.
Liraya did not react. She simply stepped aside, allowing them to pass.
In her past life, she had commanded respect through position. Through recognition. Through power openly acknowledged.
Here, she possessed none of that.
And yet… she felt no anger.
Only clarity.
She walked slowly toward the main hall, her steps light, almost cautious. Her body protested the effort, lungs burning faintly, but she ignored it. Each step was information. Each sensation, a lesson.
At the far end of the hall, voices rose—laughter, animated and bright.
She paused.
Around the corner, the family gathered for breakfast.
Her father sat at the head of the table, posture rigid, expression distracted. Beside him, his wife smiled warmly as she poured tea for their children. Two daughters, healthy and well-dressed, laughed softly at something said by their brother.
A complete picture.
Liraya stood there unnoticed.
No chair awaited her.
No place had ever been set.
"…Is she still sick?" her stepmother asked lightly, not bothering to lower her voice.
A servant answered, hesitant. "The third miss is… awake, madam."
A brief silence followed.
Then her father sighed.
"See that she eats something later," he said, already turning back to his meal. "She need not trouble us."
Just like that.
Dismissed.
Liraya's fingers curled slowly at her side.
Not in rage.
In understanding.
She turned away without a sound.
In the side kitchen, she found what she expected—cold leftovers, barely edible. A bowl of thin porridge sat untouched on the counter, likely prepared hours earlier.
She ate slowly, methodically, forcing each spoonful down despite the nausea that followed. This body needed fuel, no matter how unworthy the offering.
When she finished, she washed the bowl herself and returned it to its place.
No one noticed.
Back in her room, she sat by the window, watching the manor grounds beyond. Children practiced basic magic under a tutor's supervision. Light flared, harmless and controlled.
This body's memories reacted sharply—fear, envy, shame.
She breathed through it.
"You were never weak," she murmured quietly. "You were unsupported."
That mattered.
The curse etched into her neck tingled faintly, as if responding to her thoughts. She reached up, fingers brushing the sigil once more.
Poorly drawn.
Rushed.
Whoever had placed it had not cared whether it hurt—only that it suppressed.
Living Ink, misused.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
By afternoon, exhaustion settled in again. She lay back on the bed, eyes half-closed, mind far more awake than her body.
*To survive,* she thought, *I must be invisible.*
Not powerless.
Invisible.
She would not confront the family. Not yet. She would not seek attention or sympathy. Those only attracted predators.
Instead, she would observe.
Learn routines. Learn blind spots. Learn who ignored her, and who merely pretended to.
Late in the day, a knock finally came at her door.
Soft. Reluctant.
A young maid stood there, eyes downcast, holding a bundle of firewood. "Miss… I was told to bring this."
Liraya inclined her head slightly. "Thank you."
The maid hesitated, then blurted, "You shouldn't light the fire too long. They said you don't need it unless it's very cold."
"I understand," Liraya replied gently.
The maid blinked, clearly surprised by the calm response. She nodded quickly and fled.
When the door closed, Liraya stared at the firewood for a long moment.
Then she laughed quietly.
So even warmth was rationed.
As night fell, the manor grew quieter. Candles lit elsewhere, laughter drifted faintly through walls—but her room remained dark.
That was fine.
Darkness suited her purposes.
She retrieved the parchment from beneath the table, spreading it carefully before her. Her fingers traced the half-formed symbols, feeling the subtle hum beneath the surface.
Magic reacted to her touch more readily now.
Not obedient.
Aware.
The curse pulsed again, sharper this time, as if warning her.
She welcomed it.
*Good,* she thought. *You're paying attention.*
She closed her eyes, centering herself—not on power, but on restraint. On balance. On coexistence between soul and flesh.
She would not force this body to become something it could not be overnight.
She would teach it.
The candle flame flickered weakly as she allowed a thin thread of intent to slip into the ink.
Just enough to test.
The symbols shimmered faintly.
No pain.
Only warmth.
Her breath caught—not in triumph, but relief.
"This is possible," she whispered.
Outside, the manor slept peacefully.
Inside a forgotten room, a girl everyone had abandoned sat quietly, learning how to live again.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But with intent sharp enough to cut fate itself.
—