The manor was crumbling, just like the family that lived inside it.
Time had not been kind to the last remnants of House Velmira. Once praised for their wisdom and purity, they were now a stain on the empire's memory—tolerated only because no one believed they could rise again.
Milena was three days old when she understood that silence ruled this house.
Not just the kind that filled empty halls, but a deeper quiet—a silence of shame, of fear, of loss so deeply buried it no longer bled.
The woman who held her was called Lady Helena. Her features were sharp and beautiful, like shattered glass that once belonged to a mirror too grand for its time. She looked at Milena with hollow eyes, as if unsure whether to love her or mourn her.
"She's healthy," the midwife said, tying her cloak with quick fingers. "But I warn you, my lady… the name Velmira still invites danger. Be cautious."
Lady Helena didn't answer. She only nodded once, and the midwife left like a shadow slipping out before dawn.
Milena—reborn, aware, silent—watched the world from her tiny cradle. Her infant body was new, helpless, but her mind belonged to a girl who had once run through golden halls, whose family had been condemned for crimes they never committed.
She remembered what they had taken from her.
Now she was nothing more than a child in a disgraced family, hidden deep in the northern reaches of the kingdom. No servants. No guests. No future.
The estate had no guards. No banners. The once-glorious phoenix was gone from every tapestry. Even its name had been changed.
They called it Hollowrest now.
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Time passed, slow and quiet. Days bled into nights with only firelight and distant winds to mark their passage. Helena rarely spoke. When she did, it was to pray, or to curse the empire under her breath.
Milena listened. She watched.
And she waited.
By the time she turned four, she had learned to read the expressions behind Helena's cold eyes. Her mother—though she never called her that aloud—had lost more than just a husband and a title. She had lost her will to believe the world could be just again.
But Milena had not.
One evening, as the snow fell gently on the broken stone paths outside, Helena stood by the window, whispering a name Milena hadn't heard before.
"Alaric…"
There was pain in the word. Longing. Guilt.
Milena filed it away. Just like the countless other pieces she gathered: stories half-spoken, rumors in the wind, the torn crest sewn into an old curtain in the attic.
The truth hadn't died.
It had only been buried.
And Milena, born again in silence, was going to uncover it—piece by piece, lie by lie.
Because the world had erased her name once.
It would not do so again.
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Let me know when you're ready for Chapter 3: A Family Without a Future.