Moon Chosen: Awakening

I was born in a house that never wanted me.

Vaelthorn Manor stood like a crown of stone, cold and proud, its towers rising into the mist of High ridge Vale. Inside, everything gleamed silver mirrors, marble floors, velvet chairs embroidered with the family crest. But beneath the beauty, the walls whispered cruelty.

My name is Elara Vaelthorn. But no one in this house says it with kindness.

My father, Lord Cassian, is a noble of great power a Sky Weaver, respected across Aurelis. My mother, Marianne, is a servant. She was never meant to bear his child. She was a mistake. And I… I am the reminder.

His true wife, Lady Celestine, sits at the head of the table in her high-collared gown of midnight silk, her silver ring glowing with Sky Sight. Her eyes are sharp, her voice sharper. She does not speak to me unless it is to correct me.

Her children Seraphine and Dorian are everything I am not.

Seraphine, eighteen, commands fire with a flick of her fingers. Her hair is braided with silver thread, her coat embroidered with flames. She walks like a queen.

Dorian, seventeen, bends wind to his will. He wears storm-grey, his boots polished, his ring flashing with power. He speaks like a soldier.

They are the heirs.

I am the stain.

“Move faster, Elara,” Seraphine snaps, lifting her goblet. “Father does not like delays.”

I lower my eyes. “Yes, Lady Seraphine.”

I do not call her sister. She does not call me that either.

Lord Cassian sits at the center of the table, his coat lined with constellations, his ring glowing faintly. He does not look at me as I serve him roasted venison and spiced root stew. He never does.

On his left sits Lady Celestine, her fingers wrapped around a crystal goblet, her gaze cold.

On his right, Seraphine and Dorian laugh and boast about their training. The rest of the table is filled with nobles uncles, aunts, cousins all powerful, all cruel, all pretending I do not exist.

At the far end, my grandparents watch with disdain. Lady Virelle’s lips are pressed tight. Lord Theron’s cane taps the floor with quiet judgment.

Behind them, near the wall, stands my mother.

Marianne wears a plain grey dress, her hair tied back, her hands folded. She is not allowed to sit. She is not allowed to speak. She is tolerated only because Lord Cassian once desired her.

Her eyes meet mine for a moment.

Then she looks away.

“Girl,” Lady Celestine says sharply. “You are standing wrong. Are you simple?”

I flinch. “No, Lady Celestine.”

“Then act like you belong.”

Seraphine laughs softly. “She doesn’t.”

Dorian smirks. “She’s the Hollow One. No power. No place.”

Laughter ripples down the table.

I keep my eyes on the floor.

This is normal.

This is every night.

I move from plate to plate, refilling goblets, replacing dishes, ignoring the whispers.

“She still has no power?”

“Fourteen and nothing. Shameful.”

“She should have been drowned.”

“She’s not even a real Vaelthorn.”

I swallow the words like stones.

In Aurelis, every child awakens their power at fourteen. Seraphine summoned fire that lit the sky. Dorian called wind that shook the banners.

When it was my turn, nothing happened.

No fire. No wind. No water, stone, or sight.

Just silence.

The priests whispered. The nobles stared. My father turned away.

A hollow child.

A mistake.

A servant in noble skin.

“Enough,” Lord Cassian says suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter. “We have guests arriving tomorrow. We will not sound like drunk villagers.”

The hall falls quiet.

He lifts his goblet, still not looking at me.

“High ridge Vale expects strength,” he says. “We will show them nothing less.”

His gaze slides past me.

“Even if some of us fall short.”

The words sting more than the laughter.

I finish my work in silence.

When the plates are cleared and the wine is gone, the nobles drift away to their rooms. My mother and the other servants begin to clean.

“Elara,” Marianne says quietly, not looking at me. “Take the scraps to the kitchen. Then go to your room.”

Her voice is flat. Tired.

“Yes, Mother.”

I gather the leftover bread, the bones, the half-eaten meat. My stomach growls, but I do not eat. Servants are not allowed to take food from the lord’s table.

And I am less than a servant.

Our room is a storage closet near the servant quarters — two narrow beds, a cracked chest, bare stone walls. The only window is a slit near the ceiling, letting in a thin line of moonlight.

I love that window.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet, I lie awake and watch the moon move across the sky. It is the only thing that ever looks back at me without judgment.

That night, after the hall is cleaned and the kitchen is quiet, I slip into our room and sit on my bed, hugging my knees.

Marianne comes in later, her shoulders slumped, her hands red from scrubbing.

She does not sit on my bed.

She never does.

“You made Lady Celestine angry again,” she says, untying her apron.

“I was just standing,” I whisper.

“You were standing wrong.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I cannot do anything right, can I?”

She pauses.

For a moment, I think she might say something kind.

Instead, she sighs.

“You were not supposed to be born,” she says quietly. “You know that.”

The words hit harder than any slap.

“I did not ask to be,” I whisper.

“I know.” Her voice is tired, not cruel. That almost hurts more. “But you were. And now we both pay for it.”

She lies down and turns her back to me.

The moonlight falls across my hands.

I stare at it.

In the stories, the moon is a goddess, Selunara Lady of Light, the one who watches the forgotten and the broken. Children pray to her for comfort. Warriors pray to her for courage.

I have never prayed.

But that night, I whisper:

“If you are real… I wish I was someone else.”

The moon does not answer.

Not yet.

I do not know it then, but that is the last night I will sleep in Vaelthorn Manor.

The last night as the hollow girl.

The last night before the carriage, the mountains, the monsters.

The last night before the moon answers me.