All she had ever wanted was her birthright.
All she had ever wanted was what she deserved.
And yet, it was ripped away from her as though she had no claim to it. As though her existence—her purpose—was less than nothing. Forgotten. Disregarded.
And when she dared to take matters into her own hands, when she dared to act instead of quietly enduring, they silenced her. They drowned her voice beneath the roar of their praise for her sister. They called her a villain.
A villain.
When Mira opened her eyes that morning, something in her shifted. She saw the world for what it was—not the dream she'd clung to as a child, but a cruel story already written. And in that story, she was not the heroine.
Here, in Astraella, she was the side character.
Her sister Nerina was the main character—the golden girl, quite literally. Nerina, with her luminous turquoise hair that shimmered like shallow waters in sunlight. Nerina, with her gleaming amber eyes—eyes exactly like Mira's, and yet they sparkled differently in others' eyes. They shined on Nerina. They dimmed on Mira.
They had been born into a radiant kingdom—Astraella, a land kissed by starlight and surrounded by the ocean's eternal song. It was a place of breathtaking cliffs and rolling hills that overlooked a village as charming as any fairytale. The royal palace stood atop the highest hill, cloaked in sea breezes and morning fog, its towers carved of white stone and its banners fluttering with pride.
From the moment they were children, the contrast between them was as stark as moonlight and shadow.
Mira—firstborn, regal, composed—had hair the deep, shifting shade of storm-tossed waves. Midnight blue with undertones of black, cascading to her waist in elegant sheets. Her golden eyes were steady, thoughtful, patient. There was grace in her silence. There was purpose in her stillness.
She had been chosen, blessed by the ancient spirits of Astraella with a gift of power. The ocean bowed to her will. She could summon tides with a whisper, sculpt water into art with the curl of her fingers. The sea was her companion, loyal and ancient, humming beneath her skin.
Nerina, by contrast, had no powers. And yet, she never needed any. She breezed through life like it was her stage. Loud, cheerful, endlessly talkative—Nerina was the kind of person people were drawn to instantly. She mingled freely with the villagers, laughing at their jokes, dancing in the square during harvest festivals, feeding the doves with flour-dusted bakers and silver-haired grannies who adored her.
And they adored her because she was so present. So open. So simple.
Mira, meanwhile, was refined, measured. She didn't speak just to fill silence. She didn't forge shallow friendships for the sake of approval. But she was never rude. When spoken to, she responded with warmth and dignity. When the villagers came to her, she listened—always with genuine concern, always offering wise, clear words. But it was not enough.
It was never enough.
She was the more responsible daughter—always had been. When Nerina lost track of time or wandered off or ruined her lessons, it was Mira who was blamed. You are the eldest, her father would say with cold eyes. Set an example.
So Nerina would come back to find the table set with sweets and music—and Mira would be grounded, reprimanded, and dismissed from the evening feast.
It was so unfair.
And as the years went by, it only worsened. The whispers became clearer. The looks became more blatant. The bias more painful.
Their parents, King Theron and Queen Alia, always talked about Nerina. Always praised her. Always put her forward. They spoke of her laughter, her beauty, her kindness. They boasted of her charm at diplomatic gatherings and made sure she was the one introduced to foreign nobility. Nerina, Nerina, Nerina.
And Mira? Mira was the one who memorized the treaties. Mira was the one who stayed up late crafting speeches, overseeing the guard's training schedules, maintaining order in the royal court while her parents danced with diplomats.
But none of that ever earned her even a single candle of attention.
At royal balls, Nerina was the one who wore the shining gowns and twirled beneath chandeliers. Nerina was the one who stole glances and drew crowds and walked away with roses tucked behind her ear.
And Mira stood in the shadows of golden halls, her quiet presence unnoticed. Her own parents would forget she was even there—unless someone spilled wine or a guest needed escorting. Then suddenly she mattered again. But only for duty.
Even when Mira excelled, she was ignored. Her accomplishments were footnotes, her strength invisible. Her power—her rare, divine gift—was treated like a party trick. Something to entertain children, not to be honored.
She felt like a ghost in her own home.
Until he came.
The prince from the Netherlands—Prince Elias—was unlike anyone she had ever met. He was soft-spoken but intelligent, graceful but sincere. He had a quiet confidence that reminded her of her own. He saw things others missed. He saw her.
They met in the palace gardens. Not during any grand ceremony, but by accident, during a twilight stroll among the flowering moonlilies. He bowed to her, not out of obligation, but with genuine respect. He spoke to her like an equal, not a formality. And when they talked… gods, they talked.
Their conversations stretched like silver threads through the days. Politics. Poetry. History. Even silly things—dreams of sailing to hidden islands, their favorite pastries, the best hiding places in the castle as children.
Mira smiled with him. Laughed.
It was dangerous, the warmth that bloomed in her heart. But she allowed it. Just a little. She thought, Maybe… maybe this time, someone chooses me.
But she was wrong.
The night of the ball arrived—a grand celebration thrown by her parents, all glittering crystal and gold. The ballroom gleamed, and chandeliers spilled light across polished marble. Everyone was there.
Then came the announcement.
A booming voice over the music. A proud declaration.
Prince Elias would be betrothed—to Nerina.
The room erupted in applause. Cheers. Toasts. Even Nerina's eyes were shining with joy as she waved to the crowd, feigning surprise. But she knew. She saw Mira's expression across the ballroom. The pain. The confusion. The betrayal.
And she smiled anyway.
Mira stood frozen in the sea of celebration, the noise falling away into a hollow silence. She turned to Elias, desperately hoping for something—an apology, a look, anything.
But he wouldn't even meet her gaze.
The light in Mira's chest extinguished.
Later that night, she didn't remember how she got there. Her feet carried her without thought, through secret corridors, into the hidden chamber below the palace.
The Forbidden Room.
A place spoken of in half-whispers and bedtime stories. A place where only heirs were permitted, and only when the time was right.
There, floating above ancient stone, were two orbs—pearls of honor and power. They pulsed with magic, soft light radiating in rhythmic waves like the sea.
One for Nerina.
One for her.
When the time came, they would receive these pearls. And Mira—The eldest, the rightful heir—would be crowned queen. Nerina would be princess. That was how it was meant to be.
Her destiny was here. Not in the arms of a prince. Not in the affection of a fickle court.
She didn't need love.
Love betrayed. Love lied. Love chose her sister over and over.
But this power—this legacy—was hers. No one could take that from her.