The day began like every other: with the golden-haired hero basking in glory, and me, a flicker in the crowd, clapping with the rest.
The kingdom hailed his victory—the Demon King's forces had been pushed back, and the sun set a little slower just to shine on his face. Sir Kael, they called him. Savior of the Realm. A title that rolled off the tongues of bards like a prayer.
And I?
I was Elian.
No surname worth remembering. No prophecy etched in the stars. Just a page in someone else's tale.
I stood among the others, a glass of watered wine in hand, smiling at the speech I'd heard rehearsed behind the barracks. My cheers were polite. My heart, hollow.
It happened when I saw the Princess lean into Kael. A whisper, a smile, the kind that artists would immortalize in oil and gold. And for a second, just a second, she glanced in my direction. Her eyes—shimmering amethysts—looked straight through me.
Like I wasn't even there.
That's when it hit me.
I wasn't the chosen one.
Not the love interest.
Not the tragic backstory that would drive him forward.
I was just a name, barely inked, destined to fade in the folds of a tale that wasn't mine.
Later that night, while the feast roared on with music and laughter, I slipped away. The castle gardens were quiet, the roses still wet with dew. I sat beneath the moonlight, listening to my own silence. That's when I opened the old journal I'd carried since I was fifteen—the one I never dared write in.
And for the first time, I penned a truth.
"I am not the hero.
But maybe… just maybe, I can become the author."
From that night on, something inside me changed. I watched the story from the edges, not as a prisoner to fate, but as a quiet observer ready to rewrite what was broken.
And maybe—just maybe—I'd find a way to matter.
Even if the world wasn't watching.