Beneath the pale light of the full moon, the forest stood still—shadows draped over the trees like a shroud. Crickets chirped faintly in the distance, but their rhythm was soon broken by the voice of a young boy echoing through the clearing.
"I may be leaving today," the boy shouted, his voice raw with emotion, "but remember this—one day I will return. And I will avenge my mother's death. Go and tell your master—he will pay for what he did to my family. I will not spare him."
He was barely eleven, his clothes torn and dirt-stained, but the fire in his eyes burned brighter than the moon above. His name was Kalen Ravencrest—a name once spoken with pride in noble halls, now discarded like dust.
The group of men standing before him began to laugh. Loud, cruel laughter that bounced off the trees like a mockery of fate.
One of them stepped forward, the mirth fading from his face. "If you had even a flicker of the strength you speak of, boy," he sneered, "do you think our master would've cast you out like garbage? You're in this state because you're nothing. Worthless. A failed heir. You should thank our master for sparing your life. You and your traitor mother."
Kalen clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, his body trembling—but not from fear.
He glared up at the man, hatred simmering just beneath the surface. Then, in a low voice, he murmured, "Throwing me away will be your master's greatest mistake."
The man scoffed and turned without another word. The others followed, their laughter fading into the trees as they disappeared into the night—returning to celebrate a false victory.
Kalen was left alone, standing in the middle of the clearing with only the moon to witness his vow.
He dropped to his knees, his hands digging into the damp earth, jaw clenched in silent rage.
One day… he would return.
And when he did, the Ravencrest name would no longer be something to shame—it would be something to fear.
Kalen stood rooted in place long after the men had vanished. The weight of betrayal hung heavy on his young shoulders, and the silence of the forest wrapped around him like a cold, invisible cloak.
He didn't know how long he had stood there—hours, maybe more. It wasn't until the faint glow of dawn spilled over the treetops and the soft chirping of birds filled the air that he blinked, as if waking from a trance. The darkness had gone, but the pain in his heart remained.
His body ached, stiff from standing in the same position all night, but he didn't complain. Instead, he slowly reached inside his tunic and pulled out the one thing he had left—a blue emerald pendant, cool against his skin, hanging from a silver chain.
His mother's final gift.
He closed his fingers around it, drawing strength from its warmth, from the memory of her voice, her smile.
With a deep breath and fire still smoldering in his heart, Kalen Ravencrest took his first step toward a new beginning—one filled with secrets, survival, and the silent promise of revenge.
The black car came to a soft halt outside Maple Crest Home. The tall iron gates stood quiet, ivy creeping along their frame, casting long shadows across the gravel path. The sky above was pale grey, and a light breeze stirred the leaves that lined the driveway.
The rear door opened with a click. An eight-year-old girl stepped out, her light brown hair fluttering as she adjusted the delicate satchel clutched to her chest. Her shoes were polished, but a little dust clung to the edges now. She stood silently beside the car, her wide eyes scanning the orphanage grounds—taking in the crooked sign, the patchy grass, the distant laughter of children beyond the gate. Every detail was committed to memory. A woman in a modest gray coat stepped out after her and started walking without a word. Eirene followed, quiet and composed, but her eyes didn't stop moving. Eirene Valestra had been raised to observe before she acted.
They walked into a small wooden cabin just near the front lawn. The inside smelled of old wood and clean linen. Seated at the desk was a man with graying hair and a calm, unreadable face.
"Mr. Maeron," the maid greeted, her voice low and respectful.
He nodded and stood up. They exchanged a few quiet words, too soft for Eirene to hear. She shifted slightly, pretending to adjust her satchel, trying to catch what was being said. But she heard only fragments: "safe," "preparations," and "observe."
Moments later, the maid turned to Eirene and knelt down before her. Her voice trembled with emotion.
"Your Highness," she whispered, "I must take my leave now."
Eirene's eyes widened. "Wait—what?"
She tried to grab the maid's hand, but the woman gently pulled away.
"Please trust Mr. Maeron. He's here to guide you. You'll learn many things here, things that may one day help the queen… and your people." Her voice wavered. "Please… consider this place your home, even if only for a little while."
Eirene opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, Mr. Maeron softly cleared his throat.
"Miss Eirene," he said gently, "come sit. We can talk."
She turned, startled, and when she looked back—the woman was already gone.
The door creaked shut behind her. Eirene stared at it, frozen. Her chest tightened.
"She left…" she muttered under her breath.
Anger flickered in her eyes as she turned to face Mr. Maeron. He gestured calmly to the chair across from him.
She sat down stiffly, keeping her back straight and arms crossed.
A long silence stretched between them.
Mr. Maeron eventually leaned forward. His voice was warm, yet measured. "Welcome, Miss Eirene. I understand this may not be the place you wanted to be. But I assure you, you're safe here."
"I don't want to stay," she said coldly. "Take me back. I want to go home."
"I know," he said quietly. "But home… is not safe right now."
Eirene's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"There's unrest," he explained, choosing his words carefully. "A war has begun. Your homeland is in the middle of it. The queen gave a single order: to keep you far from danger, where you might grow… learn… and one day, choose how you wish to serve your people."
Eirene looked away, her throat tightening.
"I don't want to hide," she whispered. "I'm not afraid."
Mr. Maeron nodded. "I know you're not. That's why you must stay. Not as a prisoner… but as a student. What you learn here may shape what you become. And when the time comes, you'll be ready—stronger, wiser."
She didn't respond. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap. But she didn't get up either.
"I'll stay," she said at last, voice low but steady. "But only until I'm strong enough to go back."
Mr. Maeron gave a small, respectful nod.
"That," he said, "is more than enough."