Elaris Astren had always known she was meant to lead. From the moment she could walk, she had been trained in strategy, diplomacy, and the art of ruling. She memorized the family's history, studied trade routes and alliances, and honed her mind sharper than any blade. Among the Astren noble house, where wisdom was valued above brute strength, she had believed that her path was certain—until the night her grandfather named her cousin, Varian, as heir to the Astren estate.
She had expected shock, perhaps even quiet murmurs of protest, but instead, the family hall erupted in applause. Varian, her lesser in every way, smiled at her from across the grand table, as if he hadn't just stolen everything she had worked for.
"Elaris, my dear," her grandfather said, his deep voice steady and final. "You are brilliant, but our house must have a leader the people will follow without question. Varian is a son. It is tradition."
Tradition. The word burned in her throat like acid.
That night, Elaris sat alone in her chamber, staring out at the vast expanse of their estate. The fields, the towers, the legacy she had sacrificed everything for—none of it was hers. It never had been. No matter how hard she tried, she would never be enough in their eyes.
The realization was crushing.
But devastation was a fleeting thing, easily replaced by something fiercer.
Determination.
She would not stay. She would not waste another breath waiting for the approval of men who had already decided her worth. There were other paths in the world, other ways to carve her name into history. The magic towers—yes, they were rumored to be the center of knowledge, power, and creation itself. If the Astrens would not recognize her, then she would rise above them in ways they could never imagine.
When the halls of her home fell silent and the last of the torches dimmed, Elaris donned a simple cloak, took what little coin she had, and slipped into the cold embrace of the night.
She did not look back.