Elena Valenrose was not exiled. At least, that’s what they said. The nobles called it a “respectable relocation.” A political decision, for her safety. But everyone knew: she had been cast aside.
The old wooden carriage rumbled to a stop in front of the forgotten building. There were no guards. No servants. Not even a single crest of House Valenrose. Elena clutched her small suitcase—two faded dresses, her mother’s ribbon, and an old leather journal were all that remained of her status.
The carriage door creaked open. Cold air rushed in. An elderly guard stood at the half-open iron gate. His grey cloak was tattered, his eyes dull.
“Welcome,” he murmured. “To the Forgotten Wing.”
Elena stepped down carefully. The soles of her shoes touched mossy ground, damp and cold. Pebbles cracked beneath her steps. She didn’t answer the greeting. She simply gripped her suitcase tighter and followed him.
The dormitory towered like a shadow from the past—grand, yet decaying. Massive pillars supported the cracked porch. The walls were lined with peeling paint, revealing greenish-grey wood beneath, stained by time and weather.
As they stepped into the main corridor, the smell of old wood, dust, and iron filled her nose.
The hallway walls were lined with ancient portraits—ladies in lavish gowns stared down at her with eyes full of forgotten secrets. Some frames hung crooked. Some had lost their glass. The faces seemed alive, watching her like ghosts of a nobility long dead.
Above them, a grand chandelier hung lifeless. Its bulbs were long burnt out, wrapped in cobwebs like funeral lace. The wooden floor groaned beneath their feet. Torn wallpaper exposed the bones of the building—cracked beams and mildew.
There was no warmth. No welcome. Only silence.
“Stairs to your left,” the guard said flatly. “Your room is upstairs. Last door in the hall.”
The spiral staircase creaked under their weight. Elena looked up at the ceiling stained with water and the cracks that branched like veins through the plaster.
The second-floor hallway was darker. A small window at the far end gave little light. Dust floated in the air, and a cold breeze slipped through the broken glass. Most of the doors were shut. A few swung slightly on broken hinges.
They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door marked “21.” The number was barely hanging on.
The guard fished out an old key from a rusty chain around his belt. The lock turned with a groan.
“This is your room.” “Dinner’s at six, if you care.” “No one’s waiting for you.”
Without another word, he walked away—leaving Elena alone in the hallway, her fingers trembling slightly.
The room was dusty and silent. The bed was hard. The blanket, thin. The pillow, flat.
A cracked mirror stood in the corner, splitting her reflection in two: one calm, one broken.
There was a desk by the wall, old and slanted. A single wooden chair with a missing leg. The faded rug couldn’t hide the broken floorboard underneath.
Elena set down her suitcase, opened the narrow window, and sat at the edge of the bed.
The wind brushed her cheek like the memory of a lost mother. In the distance, the palace bells chimed softly—night had arrived. Perhaps elsewhere, the court was celebrating. But here, only silence welcomed her arrival.
She opened her journal.
Today I arrived at the place where the forgotten ones rot. But I will not surrender. Let this place embrace my wounds, not bury me with them.
Then—three gentle knocks on the door. Silence. Soft footsteps.
“Who is it?” she asked quietly.
“Alira,” said a girl’s voice. “They assigned me as your roommate.”
Elena opened the door. A girl with short black hair and oversized clothes stood holding a thin notebook. Her eyes were sharp, yet tired.
“I don’t like talking,” she said plainly. “But I don’t like seeing people alone either.”
Elena looked at her, then stepped aside. “Come in. I don’t like talking much either… but I do like honesty.”
They sat in silence. Alira read. Elena wrote. The small candle on the desk cast long shadows on the walls, making the room seem alive.
Suddenly, Alira looked up. “Listen. Someone’s heading to the library.”
Elena frowned. Heavy steps. Slow. But deliberate.
Alira whispered, “Not the old guard. He comes every night. But no one dares speak of him.”
“Who is he?” Elena asked.
Alira just shook her head. “If you’re curious… go. But don’t scream.”
Curiosity burned stronger than fear. Elena took her shawl, slipped through the door, and crept down the hallway.
The spiral stairs groaned again under her weight. She moved quietly, breath held.
At the far end, a pair of old oak doors stood half-open—the library.
She pushed it open gently… and there he was.
Kael Drayven. The King of Avernia.
He stood by the tall window, back turned, dressed in a black cloak trimmed with gold. The moonlight painted him like a figure in a forgotten legend.
Elena froze. “I… didn’t know you—”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he interrupted, without turning.
“Elena Valenrose wasn’t supposed to be exiled either,” she replied, her voice calm but bitter.
Kael finally turned. His eyes were sharp as winter.
“You weren’t exiled. You were protected.”
Elena gave a small, dry laugh. “Then this must be your idea of protection… Dust and ghosts?”
Kael stepped forward—close, but not too close.
“There are no poisoners here. No traitors. No spies.”
“But there is abandonment,” Elena whispered. “And that kills slower… but deeper.”
Kael said nothing.
But before he turned to leave, he murmured:
“A crown is not always worn on the head, Elena.” “Sometimes… it’s the wound we never show.”
The door closed behind him, leaving her alone in the hollow room. But something had shifted.
Back in her room, Elena wrote one last line in her journal:
They think I am forgotten. Powerless. Alone. But they forget… a Valenrose is never born to kneel. If I must rise from the dust to reclaim the throne, so be it. Let it begin… from the Forgotten Wing.