Chapter 1 The Unpolished Stone
I have always known that I am loved. My father, King Alaric, has never let me forget it. Even when his throne room is crowded with nobles whispering of my uselessness, his voice thunders in my defense. My mother, Queen Isolde, holds me in ways that remind me I am her child before I am anyone's disappointment. And my sisters—Maerielle the proud, fierce heir, and Elendreth the dazzling beauty—have never once made me feel lesser, even if the world insists on telling me that I am.
It is only the nobles, with their sharp eyes and sharper tongues, who strip me down to nothing. They compare me endlessly: Maerielle's sword gleams, Elendreth's smile blinds, and I—plain Serenya—have nothing but quietness. They bow when I enter, yes, but their bows are shallow, as though I were but a shadow cast by my sisters' brilliance.
I remember one feast when I was still a child, barely old enough to sit upright at the long tables. A visiting duke raised his goblet to toast my sisters, praising Elyndria's "daughters of light." He did not mention me. I kept my hands folded, pretending not to notice, but Maerielle nudged my knee under the table and Elendreth pressed a honeyed fig into my palm, as if to remind me that in their world, I mattered. I never forgot that small act, though the duke's omission was repeated by many others in years to come.
In truth, I do not crave crowns of gold or songs sung in my name. What I crave is understanding—why those who hardly know me seem to see something I cannot. For even when they scorn me, there are glances, curious and unspoken, as though a question trembles on their lips.
Sometimes, in the gardens where I hide myself among roses and ivy, I dream of a different kind of gaze. I imagine the eyes of men who rule empires and wear crowns heavier than my father's. Rumors reach even my ears: of Prince Kaelen of Veythar, who commands armies as vast as seas; of Crown Prince Dorian of Thalandre, whose silver tongue bends kingdoms without a single drawn sword; of Emperor Rhystrad, whose shadow stretches far beyond his own borders. I have never seen their faces, yet I hear the servants murmur that even such men look toward Elyndria with questions—and with longing.
It makes little sense. I am not Elendreth, with her beauty. I am not Maerielle, with her fire. I am Serenya, the unnoticed one, the unpolished stone among gems. Yet somehow, there are whispers—foolish, wild whispers—that the world awaits me.
Perhaps that is why, when the nobles glance at me, I feel the sting not only of dismissal but also of fear. As though they see something hidden even from me.
I do not yet understand it. But I feel it waiting, like a storm beyond the horizon.
And though I am only Serenya, the unseen daughter, I know that storm will come for me.
