The marble hallway was cold beneath Alena's feet as she stood in silence, just outside the Count's chamber. The polished floors and gilded walls were a world apart from the servant quarters where she and Ansel lived. This place wasn't built for her. She had always known that.
Yet today, she stood in its center—not as a shadow, not as a whisper—but as a mother.
For Ansel, she reminded herself. For the fire in his eyes.
Then came the sharp, unmistakable click of heels.
Alena turned.
From around the corner emerged a tall woman cloaked in velvet blue and embroidered gold, her presence as chilling as the first frost. Lady Velindra Greenal, the Count's first wife—and the sister of King Eryndor of Eldoria.
Her gaze fell on Alena like ice.
"What are you doing here, filthy commoner?" Velindra sneered, her voice laced with venom. "Strayed too far from the kitchens, have you?"
Alena stood tall, swallowing the insult. "I came to speak with Count Veron."
Velindra's lip curled. "You? Speak to my husband?"
Her voice dropped, dripping with disgust. "You were a mistake. A passing fancy. You think giving birth to a bastard makes you more than the dirt you came from?"
Alena didn't flinch.
"It's about his son," she said simply.
Velindra's eyes narrowed to slits. "That thing without mana? That disgrace?"
Alena's hands trembled, but her voice remained firm. "He deserves a chance."
Velindra took a step forward, her presence suffocating. "You are nothing. He is nothing. Return to your hole before I ensure you and your little mistake are thrown from this house entirely."
Alena stared into the eyes of the king's sister and, for the first time, didn't lower her gaze.
"No," she said.
Velindra blinked.
"I will speak with him. You may hate me, but even you don't decide the future of a child with fire in his heart."
Before Velindra could speak, a voice called from beyond the doors.
"…Let her in."
The corridor fell silent.
Even Velindra's expression faltered.
Alena stepped past her.
The grand doors creaked open, and she entered Count Veron's private study—a towering room of old power. Warm light spilled across ancient tomes and thick rugs. A massive desk stood at its center, and behind it, cloaked in nobility and silence, was Count Veron Greenal.
He hadn't changed. Still tall, still composed, still cloaked in silence.
His gaze found hers.
"You've never requested my audience," he said without emotion. "Why now?"
Alena's hands curled into fists at her sides. "It's about Ansel."
Veron turned toward the window, gazing over the misty grounds. "The child born without mana."
"He wants to attend Valeon Academy."
A pause.
He looked at her over his shoulder. "The academy does not accept commoners."
"He's your blood," Alena said, stepping forward. "You can vouch for him."
"And disgrace my house with a powerless heir?" Veron's voice was cool steel. "The boy is weak. The world will break him."
Alena met his eyes. "Then let him prove you wrong."
The fire in her chest had burned for too long, quiet and hidden. But now it blazed.
"He studies harder than your other sons. He dreams, he fights, even when everyone around him tells him he shouldn't exist. That's strength."
Veron stared for a long while, then turned fully toward her. "Why do you care so much for a child destined for failure?"
Alena stepped closer. "Because he's not a failure. He's your son. And mine. And he still believes he can make something of himself."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"And I won't let this house—your silence—crush that belief."
A long silence followed.
Then Veron turned back to the window.
"I will think on it."
It wasn't a promise.
But it wasn't a refusal.
Alena bowed her head slightly. "Thank you, my lord."
As she left the chamber, the cold air of the manor met her once more. The whispers, the glances, the danger—they hadn't vanished.
But something else had awakened.
A door had opened.
Even if only a crack.
And sometimes… a crack is all light needs to get in.