Elaria's POV
The sun had barely crested the horizon when I was already scrubbing the floors of the Ashthorn Bar, my hands raw and aching. The scent of stale ale, wood polish, and the faint tang of smoke clung to every corner, thick and unyielding. I had long since ceased noticing it. It was as familiar as the cold stone beneath my knees and as constant as Lady Virelle's sharp gaze.
"Move faster, girl!" Lady Virelle's voice rang out from behind the counter, crisp and commanding. "The patrons will not wait for your slow, trembling hands!"
I bent lower, scrubbing a stubborn patch near the hearth, my heart heavy. Lyssara leaned against the counter, idly inspecting her nails, her face painted with that calm, almost cruel amusement she always wore when watching me toil.
"Do you intend to finish before sunset?" she murmured, loud enough for me to hear, her lips curling in mockery. "Or shall the bar be polished only by the sweat of your tears?"
I lowered my gaze, pressing the sponge into the wood harder. "I shall do my best," I whispered, voice small and wary.
"Best?" Lyssara echoed, a soft, melodic scoff. "Your best is never enough. Never. Mother knows it. I know it. Even the rats know it."
A shiver ran down my spine, but I forced myself to continue. I could not rise to anger, not here, not under her sharp eyes. Each word, each glance, was meant to remind me that I was nothing, that I existed only to serve.
Hours passed, each one heavier than the last. Patrons came and went, their laughter and clinking mugs blending with the smell of roasted meat and spilled ale. I worked silently, my back bent, my fingers raw from scrubbing and carrying trays.
And yet, in the quiet moments between their noise, I could feel it stirring. The song inside me, trembling and faint, like a candle flickering in a draft.
I closed my eyes, letting the melody rise softly from my chest, a fragile thread of sound meant only for myself. The notes drifted through the air, curling among the tables, slipping past the chatter.
And then it happened.
A small mouse, brown and timid, emerged from a crack near the hearth. It paused, whiskers twitching, ears lifted as though listening to something it had never known. It stayed, drawn to the quiet power of the song, unmoved by the chaos of the bar or the harsh tones of Lady Virelle.
Lyssara noticed it immediately, her eyes narrowing. "A mouse? So you attract vermin now, sister?" she said, her tone smooth and cruel. "Perhaps you are destined to charm only the lowly creatures of the earth, and nothing higher."
I pressed my hands into the wood, grounding myself. "It is nothing," I whispered.
"Nothing?" Lady Virelle's voice cut like a whip. "You dare to waste your voice, your hours, and your labor on nothing? Perhaps the bar itself will demand a reckoning for your carelessness!"
I bowed my head, trying to shrink smaller than the stinging heat in my chest. Yet even as her words fell over me, the song lingered, swirling through the bar like a secret current only the mouse seemed to feel.
The patrons paused for a moment, some catching the faint melody as if carried on a breeze they could not name. For a heartbeat, the bar softened. The wooden walls, the tables, even the smoke seemed to sway in tune with the invisible thread of my voice.
Lyssara's smirk faltered slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. "Sing all you wish, sister. The world will not bend to your whims. But mark my words, your music will not save you from what is to come."
I did not respond. I only let the song die slowly, sinking into the corners of the bar like a secret treasure. The mouse twitched its nose, then scuttled back into its hiding place, leaving me with a faint warmth in my chest.
Even here, beneath the weight of cruelty, in a place filled with noise, smoke, and bitterness, I felt the first real pulse of something beyond this life. A power that belonged to me, no matter Lady Virelle's sharp words, no matter Lyssara's envy.
And as I straightened, shoulders aching, hands raw, I knew this. One day, my song would reach farther than the walls of this bar. One day, it would reach the world itself.
For now, it was only a melody, fragile, secret, and mine.
---
Far beyond the small village where I toiled, the kingdom of Aurelion was falling into disarray. Without a ruler to guide it, the once-vibrant land seemed to lose its pulse. The forests, mountains, and rivers all alive with magical energy stirred uneasily. Creatures of every kind, from the towering gryphons of the northern cliffs to the whispering sylphs of the misted woods, moved nervously, sensing the imbalance. Even the tiniest sprites and woodland foxes carried an air of worry, their movements sharper, more alert, as if the kingdom itself trembled beneath them.
Only a handful of humans remained within the kingdom's heart. Lord Malrec Veythorn, the Crown Sanctum's vigilant overseer, paced the high hall, his expression grave. Around him gathered the Sentinels of Aurelion, their eyes sharp and voices steady as they monitored the magical disturbances that rippled through the land. The Supervisor, keeper of records and arcane correspondences, recorded every fluctuation in the kingdom's balance with meticulous care.
"The magic grows restless," one Sentinel reported, his voice low and tense. "The creatures sense the absence of a ruler. They wander too close to the Sanctum, behaving unlike themselves."
"Yes," Lord Malrec replied, his tone commanding yet weighed with worry. "Even the oldest wards are weakening. The kingdom calls for a new voice, one capable of restoring the harmony that has kept this land safe for centuries. If the chosen does not appear soon, the unrest will spread further."
From the skies, gryphons circled in tighter patterns than usual, while river nymphs whispered urgently to one another along the banks. The forests rustled as if alive, and even the elemental spirits of wind and flame shifted uneasily, seeking the guidance that only a ruler could provide.
Time pressed upon them, every day leaving the kingdom more unsettled, more desperate. And while the creatures could sense the need, they could do nothing to answer it. Only a human with a rare gift a voice capable of influence, of magic could restore balance.
Somewhere far from Aurelion, hidden in the mundane world, that voice was stirring. A young girl unaware of her destiny, singing to soothe her own heart, would soon become the kingdom's hope.
---
Lord Malrec Veythorn stood atop the central dais of the Sanctum, his dark robes flowing like shadows around him. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the vast chamber. The walls, etched with ancient runes and the sigils of past rulers, seemed to hum with quiet disapproval. The power of the kingdom itself, though invisible, was palpable here.
He had long nurtured a plan to step into the vacant throne and claim Aurelion for himself. His mind, brilliant and precise, had calculated every advantage. If only he could convince the few remaining humans the Supervisor and the Sentinels that he alone was capable, he could seize the crown without a trial, without waiting for the traditional ceremonies that bound the kingdom's magic to its next chosen ruler.
But the kingdom would not allow it.
From deep within the halls and forests, whispers rose soft at first, like rustling leaves, then stronger, carrying urgency and warning. The gryphons perched on the cliffs screeched in protest. The elemental spirits of wind swirled impatiently, tugging at the edges of his robes. Even the trees seemed to lean away, their branches creaking in silent admonishment.
"You seek power without merit," a voice intoned. It was neither man nor woman, but the combined will of the kingdom itself, felt rather than heard. "The crown is not claimed by ambition alone. The chosen must rise according to the old ways. Only then shall the balance be restored."
Lord Malrec's jaw tightened. "I am the strongest, the most capable," he said, though his voice betrayed a hint of frustration. "If I do not act, this kingdom will crumble!"
A rustling through the chamber warned him he was not alone. The creatures of the realm the guardians, sentinels of magic, and watchers of the ancient laws had gathered, silent but resolute. Eyes glimmered in the shadows: gryphons, horned stags, and other beings whose forms flickered between the material and magical planes. Their gaze pierced him, unyielding, demanding obedience to the traditions he sought to bypass.
The Supervisor stepped forward, voice firm yet respectful. "Lord Malrec, we honor your loyalty, but the kingdom does not bend to ambition alone. The trial of the chosen is not merely ritual it is law. The balance will not permit violation."
Malrec's eyes narrowed. "And if the trial is delayed? If the throne remains empty? Chaos grows stronger every day."
"Chaos cannot dictate destiny," the eldest Sentinel replied, his voice steady and commanding. "The creatures, the magic, and the traditions will not allow an unworthy hand to claim what is not yet earned. The kingdom itself protects the law, and the law protects the balance."
Malrec's ambition flared, mingled with frustration and impatience. He had spent decades preparing, calculating every advantage. Yet here, in the presence of Aurelion itself, he realized that the kingdom was alive not merely a land to be ruled, but a force with memory, awareness, and will.
Outside the Sanctum, winds stirred violently, rattling the banners and setting the fires in the torches to flicker wildly. Gryphons soared overhead, their wings cutting arcs of sharp protest across the sky. Even the rivers seemed restless, murmuring as though warning of consequences that could not be ignored.
And somewhere, beyond the distant reaches of the kingdom, a faint, unheard song rose in the human world. A melody soft and trembling, yet full of power, waiting to reach the ears of those who could restore what had been lost.
The creatures of Aurelion and the humans in the Sanctum waited patiently, knowing that ambition alone would never claim the throne. Only the chosen, following the proper and sacred ways, could bring the kingdom back from the brink.
Lord Malrec's lips pressed into a thin line, the fire of his desire undimmed, but the realization struck him like ice: the crown would not be his by cunning or will alone. He would need patience… and cunning beyond what even the kingdom's magic could foresee.