Vexen's jaw clenched. The sight of Nyxtriel beside Dameon—it twisted something in her chest. Not jealousy. Not exactly.
No, it was the memory.
She had once dreamed of wearing the crown. Not as a servant. Not as a shadow in someone else's court. But as queen.
Back then, her name was Verena Elowen Raventhorne, daughter of House Raventhorne—one of the most powerful viscount families in Varyndor. Her father was a proud, upright man. Too proud, maybe. Because when the rotten nobles needed a scapegoat, they framed him for treason. He was executed in public.
Only her mother's friendship with the former queen saved her. Verena was taken in, renamed Vexen, and quietly raised inside the palace walls. The promise was whispered: One day, you may wear the crown.
