Eunice of the Silver Moon
Chapter One
I was born on a night when the silver moon refused to leave the sky, lingering above the Valemont estate with a glow that seemed almost alive, as if it had been commanded to witness my arrival. The wind whispered through the towering trees surrounding the mansion, carrying a stillness that pressed against my mother's laboring body, and though I do not remember that night, I have felt its weight for as long as I have lived. My mother, Lady Seraphina, told me she wept the moment she held me, not from pain but from relief and answered prayers. She had waited for a child through years of silence and longing, and when the midwife finally announced that I was a girl, her smile shone brighter than any candle in the room. She named me Eunice and pressed her lips to my forehead, promising that she would love me fiercely, enough to shield me from the world and its harsh expectations. My father, Lord Hadrian Valemont, did not smile. He was a man whose wealth built cities, whose name bent kings and merchants alike, and whose lineage had produced only sons who carried the Valemont name proudly. When he looked at me, I saw not pride but disappointment, a weight heavier than all the gold in our vaults. "A daughter," he murmured once, and the word fell like a stone into my chest. My mother lifted her tired eyes and said softly, "She is enough." He did not answer. Instead, his gaze drifted to the ancestral banners hanging on the walls, each marked only with fathers and sons, reminding me that I had been born a failure in the eyes of our legacy, and I felt the cold truth settle in my bones long before I understood it. From that night onward, I learned to see the world in shadows and silences, in the space between words and in the pauses where affection might have been. I grew surrounded by opulence, wrapped in silk, fed the finest foods, taught by the most brilliant tutors, and praised for my intelligence and grace, yet love from my father remained rare, measured, and distant. I learned to hide my disappointment, to observe more than I spoke, to smile when the silence pressed against me, and to seek refuge in my mother's chambers where love flowed freely and without condition. Even so, the whispers from the family council, the hushed conversations behind closed doors, told me the truth: I was not the heir they wanted. A daughter could not inherit the Valemont legacy in full. A daughter weakened it. A daughter was not enough. The words etched themselves into my heart. Beneath the silver moon, I cried quietly, asking it why I had been born wrong, yet still, I learned to find joy in small wonders, in moonflowers that only bloomed at night, in stories my mother told of queens and warriors who changed the world despite their seeming limitations. Those stories planted courage in me even as doubt tried to root itself deep inside.
Everything shifted the year I turned sixteen. Lady Mireya arrived beneath a sky darkened by clouds, her presence sharp, deliberate, and beautiful in a way that demanded attention. She was introduced as my father's new mistress, chosen to give him sons—the heirs my mother could not. The mansion grew colder overnight. Laughter faded. Servants walked lightly, afraid to show preference or make a mistake. My mother withdrew into quiet grief, and I felt anger, shame, and helplessness twist together inside me, though none of it was mine to claim. Then the dreams began. I saw silver forests bathed in moonlight, ancient paths etched with glowing runes, and voices carrying my name on the wind. In those visions, I ran freely, unburdened and powerful, my heart pounding as though it had finally recognized its own strength. When I awoke, my hands tingled as though they held light itself. One sleepless night, driven by instinct I did not understand, I followed the pull through a forgotten corridor to a door etched with strange symbols. When I touched them, the carvings shimmered and the door opened silently, revealing a hidden chamber filled with relics, ancient maps, and a tall mirror framed in moonstone. I stepped before it, and my reflection shifted. I no longer saw a frightened daughter of a disappointed father. I saw myself beneath a silver moon, fierce, radiant, and unafraid. "You are not unwanted," a voice whispered softly, reverberating through my mind. "You are chosen." The vision faded, but the certainty did not. The chamber was silent, yet I felt something awaken within me, a force I did not yet understand, but knew would shape the rest of my life. At dawn, a horn sounded sharply in the courtyard. A messenger arrived bearing letters sealed with the royal crest, and urgency rose in the hallways, disturbing the stillness of the estate. I stepped to my window as the sky lightened with the first glow of day. My heart raced, not with fear, but with anticipation. Whatever awaited me beyond my chamber, it had arrived. I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and whispered a promise to the fading moon: I would answer it. Then, from somewhere in the corridor below, I heard the faintest shuffle of movement, deliberate and calculated. Footsteps drew nearer, echoing like drumbeats through my chest. My pulse quickened. The shadows in the hallway shifted, and I sensed that this was only the beginning. Whatever secret, whatever power, or whatever threat had followed me here was about to reveal itself, and I knew, with a thrill and a chill intertwined, that nothing would ever be the same again. I could not see who approached, and yet I felt it—the first step into a world I had only glimpsed in dreams, a world of magic, danger, and destiny, moving closer with every heartbeat, waiting to claim me. My fingers tightened on the windowsill, and I drew a deep breath, bracing myself for the unknown. The silver moon was gone, but its promise remained, glowing in my veins and echoing in the silence of the house. And I knew, with a certainty that made my chest ache and my blood race, that I could not turn back. Whatever came next, whatever walked these corridors toward me, I was ready to face it—but I would not face it alone, and I would not face it unprepared.