Alena had seen many things in her life—cruelty behind velvet curtains, scorn behind noble smiles, silence where there should have been justice.
But nothing struck her heart deeper than the way Ansel's eyes glowed that night.
Not with magic—but with something rarer.
Hope.
"I want to go," he said again, clutching the worn book she had given him, its frayed spine trembling in his small hands. "I want to protect you. I want to make friends. I want to go to Valeon."
He sat on the cold wooden floor of their small servant's room, where the stone walls always carried a chill and the single candle flickered as though it, too, feared being snuffed out.
Alena's heart ached.
She had tried for years to shield him—from pain, from rejection, from the bitter truth of their world. She had accepted her place as the Count's hidden third wife. Accepted the sneers, the whispers, the cold food served hours late. She had endured it all so that Ansel could grow quietly, safely—even if he would never be accepted.
But this—this tiny light in his voice, this fire in his eyes—it changed something in her.
He still believed the world might let him in.
And for the first time in many years, Alena wondered if she had been wrong to stop believing it too.
No… she thought. Even if the world doesn't let him in, I'll tear a path through it for him.
The next morning, before the sun had even touched the towers of the estate, Alena dressed in silence. She wore a modest, clean gown—the best she had. She braided her dark hair with steady fingers and looked into the cracked mirror hanging above the washbasin. She looked tired. But there was resolve in her reflection.
"Stay here, Ansel," she said, kneeling beside him. "I won't be long."
"Are you going to see Father?" he asked, his voice small.
Alena nodded. "Yes. For you."
They lived in the servant's wing of the Greenal estate—a cramped space separated from the manor's grand halls by stone passages and heavy wooden doors. They were forbidden from entering the main chambers without permission. The Count's room, in particular, was sacred ground for only his acknowledged family, advisors, and heirs.
Alena walked that forbidden path.
As she stepped into the halls of polished marble and embroidered rugs, heads turned. The other wives' maids whispered. A guard frowned and moved to block her.
"You're not allowed here," he said flatly.
"I am Lady Alena Greenal," she said calmly. "And I request audience with the Count."
He scoffed. "You're barely a lady—"
Alena's gaze hardened, and for a moment, even the soldier hesitated.
"Tell him it's about his son."
The word son rang down the corridor like a challenge.
After a moment of silence, the guard finally stepped aside. "Wait here."
She stood still as minutes dragged like hours. Memories clawed at her—the day she was brought here, the day Ansel was born, the day the Count refused to even look at him. Every step she had taken in this house had been silent. Every breath, careful.
But not today.
Today, she would speak.
Because her son still believed in hope.
And that was a fire she would not let the world extinguish.