The Cursed King

(Elara’s POV)

I was never truly seen. Never truly heard.

I had lived in this house for as long as I could remember, yet I was nothing more than a shadow within its walls. My aunt, her husband, and my two cousins filled the grand estate with warmth and laughter, but none of it belonged to me. I was an afterthought. A burden. A reminder of something they wished had never existed.

I had learned, long ago, that my place was in the background—where I was easy to ignore unless I was needed.

And when I was needed, it was never for anything good.

A sharp knock on my door jerked me awake.

Not a gentle knock. Not one meant for a beloved daughter or niece. It was a demand.

I forced my eyes open, blinking against the early morning dimness of my tiny attic room. The wooden ceiling loomed low above me, and the cold air bit through my thin blanket. My back ached from the stiff, uneven mattress, but I barely had time to stretch before the knock came again—harder this time.

“Elara!” My aunt’s voice was sharp, full of irritation. “Get up. The kitchen is a mess, and breakfast won’t make itself.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She never did.

With a sigh, I pushed off the blanket and sat up, rubbing my tired eyes. My body was still sore from the previous day’s work—scrubbing floors, washing clothes, dusting every inch of the house until my fingers were raw. But no matter how much I did, it was never enough.

I dressed quickly, slipping into the same worn-out dress I had been wearing for the past three years. The fabric was faded, the edges frayed. It had once belonged to my cousin Marianne, but when she outgrew it, it was handed down to me—like everything else in my life.

I pulled my tangled hair into a loose braid, not bothering to look in the mirror. What was the point?

I already knew what I would see—dull brown eyes, a tired face, skin that hadn’t felt the warmth of care in years.

I was just Elara. The unwanted orphan.

Downstairs, the house was alive with the scent of warm bread and fresh butter, the crackle of the fireplace, the faint sound of laughter drifting from the dining room. Their world.

I moved through it silently, unnoticed, heading straight to the kitchen.

Mrs. Hartley, the cook, barely spared me a glance as she handed me a tray filled with eggs, bacon, and golden-brown toast. “Take this to the table. And don’t dawdle.”

I nodded and carried the heavy tray into the dining room, where my aunt and cousins were already seated.

They didn’t acknowledge me.

My aunt, Lady Evelyn Harroway, sat at the head of the long oak table, her delicate fingers wrapped around a porcelain teacup. Her golden hair was pinned in a perfect twist, her deep blue dress made of the finest silk. Next to her sat my uncle, a broad-shouldered man who rarely spoke to me unless it was to remind me of my place.

Across from them were Marianne and Victor, my cousins.

Marianne, with her honey-blonde curls and perfect smile, was the darling of the household. She had everything I never would. Beautiful dresses, friends who adored her, suitors who sent her gifts.

Victor was only a year older than me, but he looked at me the same way the servants did—like I was beneath him.

I placed the tray on the table carefully, keeping my head down.

“Finally,” Marianne sighed, reaching for a piece of toast. “You’re so slow, Elara.”

“She’s always slow,” Victor muttered, smirking as he poured himself tea. “You’d think she’d be better at this by now.”

I said nothing. I had learned not to.

My aunt lifted her gaze to me, her cold blue eyes narrowing. “Since you’ve taken so long, you can eat after you’ve finished the morning chores.”

My stomach clenched, but I simply nodded. I had expected it. I was always the last to eat—if there was anything left.

I turned to leave, but before I could, Marianne stuck out her foot.

I didn’t see it in time.

I stumbled, the edge of my dress catching under my foot, and the corner of the tray slipped from the table—knocking over a teacup. The porcelain shattered against the floor, spilling dark liquid everywhere.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

“Elara!” My aunt’s voice cut through me like a knife.

I flinched. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You clumsy, stupid girl!” She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “Do you know how expensive that was?”

“It was an accident,” I whispered.

Marianne laughed, a soft, cruel sound. “Of course it was. That’s all you ever are—an accident.”

My face burned, shame curling in my stomach.

My aunt turned to Mrs. Hartley. “No breakfast for her today.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, swallowing down the hunger, the frustration, the pain.

Then, without another word, I bent down and started picking up the broken pieces.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of work, hunger, and exhaustion. I scrubbed the floors until my knees ached, washed the dishes until my fingers wrinkled from the water, dusted the bookshelves in the library while Marianne played the piano, her laughter filling the air.

She lived in the same house as me, but we existed in two different worlds.

She belonged here.

I never had.

By the time I was finally allowed to eat, the bread was stale, the soup cold, the hunger in my stomach raw.

I ate in silence.

That night, I curled up beneath my thin blanket, my body aching, my mind heavy.

I should have been used to this by now. The hunger. The loneliness. The feeling that I would never truly belong.

But I wasn’t.

I still wanted more. Even if I didn’t know what “more” meant.

I turned onto my side, staring at the small window above my bed. The night sky stretched endlessly beyond the glass, the stars flickering like distant dreams.

I wished I could be anywhere but here.

I wished for a different life.

I wished—

For something to change.

And soon, it would.