The world outside was pale and expectant, as if it too held its breath for something to begin.
Serenya Veyr stood barefoot by her window, her fingertips resting lightly on the frame as she watched the distant towers of the castle gleam in the morning sun. The scent of thyme and warm bread floated from the kitchen below, yet she couldn't eat.
Today was supposed to be a day of endings.
Her last day at the High Hall. Her final moments in a life she'd managed to carve out in shadows and silence.
But something twisted in her gut — a warning that felt older than her years.
Behind her, footsteps padded softly over the floorboards. She didn't need to turn.
"Maerys," she said quietly.
Her adoptive mother's arms wrapped around her from behind. The embrace was strong, the way only someone who had lost too much could hold on.
"I was going to let you have a quiet morning," Maerys murmured into her hair. "But things have changed."
Serenya closed her eyes. "The castle."
"They summoned all the eligible graduates with advanced education. The boy—Elion—has frightened off ten caretakers in a month. But he must be given a companion. You're one of the few they haven't tried." Maerys pulled away slightly. "They might choose you."
Serenya turned, eyes narrowing. "Then I'll make sure they don't."
Maerys exhaled. "I said the same thing when I was your age. That I'd never be chosen. That fate wouldn't touch me." She stepped to the corner drawer and pulled something small from a velvet pouch. "But we don't always get to avoid what we are."
She opened her hand.
A silver pendant, no larger than a coin, lay curled on her palm. The center glowed faintly — not with fire, but with warmth. It was etched with an ancient rune: a crescent moon flanked by twin stars.
Serenya's breath caught. She knew this piece.
"My pendant," she whispered.
"Your mother's pendant," Maerys corrected gently. "The last thing that survived that night with you."
The weight of it in her hand was heavier than any truth she had ever carried.
"I can't wear this."
"You must. Hidden, but on you. You were born under the sign of twin stars — the rarest celestial omen for a Witchborn. It will protect you if… if anything happens."
"If I lose control," Serenya said, her voice thin.
"If someone tries to break you," Maerys said softly.
Later that morning, the High Hall glistened with ceremony and farewells. Girls hugged and wept and exchanged promises they would never keep.
Serenya walked alone.
By noon, the summons arrived — an invitation to attend the selection for the royal child's educator.
She followed the rest of the girls down the marble steps and through the sunlit halls toward the amphitheatre where the Alpha King himself was to speak.
But then it happened — a streak of silver and gold across the hall.
A child, maybe four years old, running wildly after a fluttering blue-winged moth. His laugh — high, sweet, breathless — echoed in the marble corridor until it abruptly turned into a yelp.
He'd tripped.
Serenya moved before she even realized her feet had taken her forward. The boy sat on the floor, bottom lip trembling, his knee scraped, small hands clenched at his sides. Tears clung to impossibly long lashes.
She knelt beside him.
"Hey, little flame," she said softly, her voice warm as summer sun. "That fall sounded loud. Are you made of stone, or did that hurt?"
He sniffled. "H-Hurt…"
"Oh no," she gasped. "I think your bravery got a little scuffed. Lucky for you… I carry bravery patches."
She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small bandage — decorated with tiny glowing moon-mice. She gently cleaned the scrape with water from her flask, blew on it, and applied the patch.
The boy watched her with wide, fascinated eyes.
Then he flung his arms around her neck.
"You're mine," he said fiercely.
Serenya blinked. "I'm… what now?"
"You're mine," he repeated stubbornly, snuggling into her shoulder. "You fixed me. I pick you."
"I don't think that's how this works," she laughed.
"Don't care." He clutched her harder. "You smell like stars. I want you to stay. Forever."
"Eli!" a voice called, elegant and clear.
A woman appeared at the far end of the corridor — tall, graceful, golden-haired and radiant in a flowing gown of soft gold silk that shimmered as she moved. She had the bearing of royalty and the eyes of someone who had seen war.
"Mama!" the child squealed, waving one arm while still clinging to Serenya.
The woman — Leira, as Serenya would soon learn — rushed forward and scooped the boy up.
"Goddess help me, child, you'll give me gray hairs," she said, kissing his forehead. Then she turned to Serenya. "Thank you."
"He's… spirited," Serenya said carefully.
"He's a hurricane," Leira replied, eyes softening. "And for some reason, you're the calm eye he just ran into."
Elion wiggled in his mother's arms and reached for Serenya again.
"I want her, Mama," he whined. "Can we keep her?"
Leira tilted her head. "Would you be willing to sit beside me at the presentation?"
"I… suppose," Serenya said, heart thudding.
The amphitheatre was packed. Velvet banners bearing the crest of House Dravyn — a silver wolf beneath a moon — hung like sentinels along the stone walls.
Leira led Serenya to a quieter section, where she sat with Elion still stubbornly curled into her lap.
Then, the room fell silent.
And he entered.
Kaelith Dravyn — the Alpha King.
He wore deep obsidian black, his high-collared tunic tailored perfectly to his tall, broad frame. Silver filigree curled over the sleeves and lapels like frozen vines. No crown adorned his brow — only the silver mark of the Alpha, etched like fire across his temple.
He didn't just command attention. He devoured it.
When he stood upon the dais, his voice rang out — low, clear, controlled.
"You have heard the stories of the boy. That he is untamable. Wild. That he has driven away every tutor, every guard, every hand that tried to tame him. You heard right."
A murmur passed through the audience.
"Because no one ever listened to him," Kaelith continued. "No one saw that grief makes monsters of children."
The room hushed completely.
"My sister and I have lost much," he said. "But we did not lose hope. Elion is not a burden. He is not a problem to be solved. He is a future. One that deserves love. Laughter. And protection."
He stepped forward, the shadows curling around him like a second cloak.
"Today, I was prepared to make a selection based on skill, merit, and experience. I had advisors. Lists. Background checks. Twenty-eight qualified women."
He paused.
"But my nephew has already chosen. Not from resumes. Not from titles."
His eyes — those cold, silver eyes — found her in the crowd.
Serenya felt her blood freeze.
"He chose with the honesty only a child can possess."
The entire amphitheatre turned toward her.
"He scraped his knee," Kaelith said softly, "and cried. She healed him. And he claimed her. And I — we — have never seen him smile like that."
A breathless hush fell.
"I will not challenge fate," Kaelith said, his voice echoing. "The girl will come to the castle tonight. Her name is Serenya."
Elion clapped, beaming.
Serenya forgot how to breathe.
That evening, Maerys didn't cry.
Not when she packed Serenya's best cloak. Not when she gave her food for the road. Not even when she brushed Serenya's hair one last time.
"I don't want to go," Serenya whispered.
"You were born for this," Maerys said. "Born for more than hiding."
"I'm scared," Serenya admitted.
Maerys pressed the pendant into her hand, folding Serenya's fingers over it.
"You come from fire," she said. "And fire survives anything — even being forgotten."