The Gilded Cage
The sun, a molten orb melting behind the serrated amethyst peaks of the Dragon's Tooth Mountains, bathed the world in hues of gold and crimson. Its last rays touched the white spires of House Valerius, transforming the estate into a dream sculpted in light. Marble archways gleamed. Silken banners, embroidered with the family crest—a phoenix wrapped around a sword—fluttered gently in the breeze. The scent of roses wafted through the air, carefully cultivated in the palace gardens like everything else in Eliana Rooin Valerius's life.
House Valerius, perched high above the capital city of Eosteral, was not merely a palace. It was a statement—of wealth, of lineage, of power etched into every alabaster column and glimmering chandelier. Courtyards bloomed with exotic flowers from foreign lands, fed by crystal fountains enchanted to shimmer even under moonlight. The Grand Hall alone could seat five hundred, its ceiling painted with a fresco of celestial battles between gods and beasts, while gold-leafed balconies lined the upper walls like heavenly tiers.
Eliana sat on a velvet chaise near the grand balcony of her room, the evening air brushing against her skin like a whisper. Her room overlooked the eastern garden, where white peacocks roamed like ghosts between hedge mazes and marble statues of long-dead ancestors. Every corner of her chamber was a blend of artistry and indulgence—pillars carved with celestial runes, stained glass windows that sang soft lullabies when touched by light, and a wardrobe of silks and satins that glowed in twilight like living stars.
This was her world: golden, fragile, pristine. A world of handmaidens brushing her hair with combs of ivory, of harpists playing lullabies by candlelight, of lessons in court diplomacy, arcane etiquette, and ancient family lineages. Even the air smelled faintly of lavender and old books. It was a life of luxury, yes—but also a cage, gilded and locked with invisible keys.
She was Eliana Rooin Valerius—the only daughter of House Valerius, heiress to a legacy older than the kingdom itself. At just seventeen, she stood on the cusp of womanhood and power. In less than a month, she would be crowned Duchess of Valerius on her eighteenth birthday, an event that the nobility awaited with both reverence and dread.
With her coronation would come unprecedented influence: control over one of the largest landholdings in the realm, political sway in the royal court, and command over ancient alliances sealed with blood and gold. Her name alone could tip the balance of power between squabbling lords and faltering kings.
But power, she had learned, was a throne built of knives.
And one of them was already aimed at her back.
The Damsels in Distress
Though the palace glittered with perfection, not all who walked its halls were free. Many noble daughters were sent to House Valerius to be trained in the "refinements" of high society—etiquette, charm, obedience. These girls, draped in fine gowns and weighed down by golden collars of fealty, were little more than birds in borrowed cages.
Eliana had seen them. She dined with them. Danced with them. Heard them weep softly at night behind thick curtains when they thought no one was listening. Some were promised to cruel lords they had never met. Others were political hostages, dressed in silk to hide their chains. Eliana pitied them—these delicate flowers destined to be crushed in the gardens of men's ambitions.
And yet, even among them, Eliana stood apart.
She was no rose waiting to be picked.
She was the heir of a phoenix.
But it was precisely that fire in her eyes, that spark of defiance, that made her dangerous.
The Snake in the Marble Halls
Theron Valerius.
Her uncle. Her father's younger brother. The man who had guided House Valerius after her father's untimely death.
To the court, he was a man of great poise and intellect—a strategist, a scholar, a patron of the arts. His speeches moved senators. His donations rebuilt cities. His fingers reached every corner of the kingdom's politics.
But Eliana knew better.
He wore the mask of civility too well. His words were always kind, but never warm. His smiles never reached his eyes. And his touch—too cold, too controlled—always lingered a moment longer than it should have. His gaze, when no one watched, carried weight. Hunger. Calculation.
He had mentored her after her father's death, shaped her public image, guided her hand in matters of court and coin. But as her eighteenth birthday approached, the mask began to crack. He no longer saw her as a child.
He saw her as a threat.
As long as Eliana lived, she would inherit the duchy. She would command the treasury. She would sit in the High Council and speak with the voice of House Valerius.
Theron—second-born, always in his brother's shadow—had waited too long to let the prize slip from his fingers.
In the shadows of the palace, rumors whispered of strange visitors to Theron's chambers—cloaked figures, alchemists with dead eyes, and priests of forgotten gods. Hidden passageways beneath the palace stirred at night. Guards vanished without explanation. Even the most loyal stewards dared not speak his name after dusk.
Lady Isolde, Eliana's mother, had noticed it too.
They had once walked the ancient catacombs beneath the family chapel together, tracing runes etched by their ancestors, symbols of protection and prophecy.
"There is rot in these halls," Isolde had murmured, her voice low. "We must tread carefully, my firebird."
Eliana remembered that moment well—the way her mother had clutched her hand too tightly, as though trying to shield her from the very stones that bore their name.
And now, as twilight swallowed the sky and stars blinked into existence, Eliana could feel it more than ever.
The cage was shrinking.
The velvet turned to thorns.
And though her birthday approached with promise, the air smelled less of roses—and more of blood.
The Poisoned Crown
At seventeen, Eliana Rooin Valerius stood on the precipice of power, months away from inheriting the full mantle of her title as Duchess of House Valerius. Her future, gilded with promise, glimmered like the marbled halls of her estate—vast, sun-drenched corridors adorned with stained glass, rose-veined pillars, and ceilings painted with the myths of her bloodline. The palace itself was a song of opulence; white marble floors stretched like polished ice beneath chandeliers of dragon-glass and crystal. Golden archways, engraved with phoenixes and swords, led into rooms perfumed with incense and secrets. Courtyards bloomed in calculated elegance—gardens where starpetal lilies shared soil with blood roses, where fountains whispered lullabies and doves cooed under enchanted oaks. Every breath of air was scented with lavender, every servant's step rehearsed like a dance. It was a world woven for a duchess.
But beauty had turned brittle.
Everything changed the day her uncle, Lord Theron Valerius, returned to the estate. Tall, composed, and clothed in silks as black as midnight wine, he arrived months before her eighteenth birthday with words dipped in honey and eyes cold as northern ice. He said he came to assist with the transition of power. Her mother, Lady Isolde—the current duchess—knew better. Theron had always been dangerous. A man of subtle malice and charming cruelty, he played politics like a musician played strings: never loud, always precise. He smiled often, and never with sincerity. Isolde had long feared him, and now that Eliana's ascension drew near, she feared more than ever what he might do.
Isolde's first instinct was to protect her daughter, but her actions built a cage. Eliana's daily freedoms vanished under the guise of caution. Outings were quietly canceled. Her loyal ladies-in-waiting were replaced with stiff-eyed strangers. Guards changed overnight—old ones dismissed without notice, new ones stationed outside her door like watchful statues. Letters from the royal court no longer reached her. No more invitations to state councils. Even the palace library—a sanctuary of her youth, where ancient tomes whispered secrets of magic and history—was suddenly declared "under preservation." She was barred from entering, her footsteps halted by cold-eyed guards who spoke nothing.
Eliana felt the world closing in.
At first, she blamed her mother. The velvet prison, the isolation, the silence from old friends—it all bore Isolde's seal. But beneath her anger, she sensed the truth. This was fear. Not of her, but for her. And though Isolde never spoke it aloud, Eliana saw it in her eyes—in every half-spoken word, every tension-laced embrace. Her mother feared Theron. So did Eliana.
That night, Eliana sat alone in her chambers, the wind pressing through the open balcony like the breath of something cold and ancient. An oil lamp flickered beside her, shadows moving across silk-draped walls and portraits of dead nobility. Her room was too clean. Her books—gone. Her bed, too neatly made. Her mirror, subtly replaced. Linette, the only servant who had treated her like a person rather than a title, had vanished days ago, dismissed without cause. Now, meals came in silence, served by blank-eyed staff whose names she didn't know. She could feel the edges of her reality being scraped away, her life being buried one perfect, quiet change at a time.
The garden below swayed in the moonlight—poisonous and lovely. Rows of blood roses and nightshade shimmered in spectral beauty, arranged like a graveyard painted in art. As a child, she'd run through those same paths barefoot, laughing with her mother as enchanted bees buzzed among lavender. Now, she wasn't allowed there without escort. "Protection," they said. But from whom? No one ever answered.
And always, always—Theron.
He haunted the palace like a smile too wide to trust. He never raised his voice, never lost his temper. His tone was smooth silk, every word coated in elegant charm. But Eliana heard the venom behind his poetry. He watched her—not like an uncle, not like a protector—but like a predator calculating distance before the kill. Every hallway echoed with his presence. Every conversation ended when he walked by. No one confronted him. No one ever would.
But Eliana—though young, though caged—was not afraid to fight.
She was not a soldier, but she was a scholar. And knowledge, in the right hands, was sharper than steel. So she listened. She documented. She traced the subtle decay infecting her home—the dismissed staff, the locked doors, the whispered orders at dusk. In the dead of night, she scribbled in ink and tucked her notes behind the mirror's false back, inside hollow bricks behind the hearth, beneath loose floorboards. Maps of corruption. Names. Patterns. Secrets. Her room became a war room. Her mind, a weapon.
Let them think her docile. Let them think her weak. She smiled when they expected tears. She bowed when they demanded it, but only for now. Because once she turned eighteen—once the crown was no longer ceremonial, once the estates, the title, the laws were hers—she would take everything back. Not with rage, but with fire wrapped in velvet. She would strip away the masks. Burn out the rot. And Theron would learn the cost of underestimating her.
The wind howled through the balcony like a warning, but Eliana did not flinch.
She stood in the lamplight, hair loose, eyes hard with promise.
She would become Duchess. She would reclaim House Valerius.And she would never be afraid again.
The Night the Rising Star Fell
The day of Eliana Rooin Valerius's eighteenth birthday arrived with sun-kissed skies and air fragrant with lilacs from the east gardens. Her coronation as Duchess was not until sunrise, but the celebration—the final grand feast under her mother's reign—was already ablaze in motion. In every corridor, preparations roared like a rising tide. Servants scurried, polishing silver until it gleamed like blades. Musicians tuned enchanted instruments that hummed with ghost-notes. Chefs wove spices and gold dust into the feast. This was no ordinary banquet. It was a declaration to the world: House Valerius stood unshaken, untouched, and eternal.
The ballroom had been reborn in splendor. Massive chandeliers of floating crystal hovered above the crowd like galaxies suspended in air, refracting starlight across polished marble. The floor shimmered beneath hundreds of noble boots and heeled slippers, dancing like a sea of silk. Tables overflowed with delicacies—phoenixfruit tarts, sea-glass eels, honeyed boar, and goblets of ever-chilled rosewine. The scent of rosewood candles mingled with laughter and the subtle thrum of enchantments. Nobles from the Northlands and beyond had arrived in gowns threaded with silver dragons, crimson moons, obsidian feathers. Foreign emissaries bowed with rehearsed grace. High merchants from distant empires cloaked themselves in titles, draped in sapphires and lies. Even the Crown Prince himself made an appearance—young, tall, his eyes the color of storm-silver, his voice soft and kind as he congratulated her with a practiced yet gentle smile. The world, it seemed, bowed to her tonight.
Eliana stood by her mother, Duchess Isolde, radiating elegance. Her gown was deep twilight, stitched with silver constellations that shimmered as she moved, as if the stars themselves blessed her path. A sapphire circlet nestled atop her braided hair, and light danced in her violet eyes. Tonight, she looked not like a girl, but a sovereign. Regal, poised, unshakable.
But beneath the steel of her posture, her heart pulsed with cautious fire.
Soon, she would take the reins of House Valerius. And when that hour came, she would cleanse her domain. The rot hiding beneath silk curtains, the corruption whispering through the halls, the masks of loyalty shielding betrayal—she would tear them all away. And at the center of that decay stood Theron.
He was across the room now, watching. Clad in ceremonial black with a crimson sash, his hair slicked back like polished obsidian, a goblet of wine held with the elegance of a practiced liar. When their eyes met, he smiled. That same, empty smile. The one that spoke of poison and patience.
Eliana didn't flinch.
She stood taller.
This was her night.
Her moment.
Her crown.
And no shadow would take that from her.
Then, the first crack.
It was small—a twitch in her temple, like a passing headache. She blinked, shook it off, smiling as another noble offered blessings for her rule. Perhaps it was the stress leaving her body. Or the weight of expectation loosening its hold.
Then came the gasp.
A sudden, wet, guttural sound. Eliana turned, half expecting to see a spilled goblet or a fainting maid. But her world stopped.
Duchess Isolde staggered forward, one step, then another, her hand clutching her chest. The pale silk of her dress bloomed with red—deep and spreading like ink dropped in water. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted.
No words came.
Only blood.
The music died mid-note. The crowd froze. Then came the screams—sharp, discordant, echoing like bells of doom. A dozen guards surged from the walls, weapons half-drawn, but too slow, always too slow. Eliana didn't breathe. Couldn't. Her mother crumpled like porcelain—so elegant, so composed—even in death. Foam bubbled at her lips. Her limbs spasmed once. Her eyes stared through her daughter.
"No!" Eliana's voice cracked the silence as she bolted forward, the world a blur of gold and screams. "Mother!"
But she was too late.
She knelt beside her, hands trembling, eyes wide with disbelief, her breath coming in ragged sobs.
Theron was already there.
Kneeling, whispering something into Isolde's ear, something Eliana couldn't hear. His face wore sorrow like a mask crafted by gods—wet-eyed, voice cracking with grief. Too perfect. Too rehearsed. When he stood, he turned to the crowd with a voice that demanded obedience.
"She was poisoned," he declared, gaze sweeping across the stunned ballroom. "Fetch the apothecaries. Seal the gates. This was an assassination attempt!"
Gasps. Whispers. Terror.
The celebration collapsed into chaos.
Guards ran. Nobles pressed back against marble walls. Some cried. Others whispered treason. The prince backed away, his hand on his sword, unsure.
And Eliana—still beside her mother—felt something else.
A sting.
A sudden, searing pain between her shoulders, white-hot and spreading. Her breath hitched. She tried to turn, but her limbs moved sluggishly, as though time had thickened around her. Her legs buckled. She reached instinctively behind her, and her fingers brushed something slick. Wet. A blade? Yes. And then—it was gone.
Poisoned.
She gasped, stumbling backward, her vision fracturing like shattered glass. Shapes melted. Voices blurred. The world tilted. Faces loomed above her like specters.
And then Theron appeared again.
Calm. Composed. Watching.
He leaned in as she crumpled to the floor, her vision tunneling.
"There can only be one heir," he whispered, his tone devoid of warmth, of pretense, of humanity. "Sleep, little bird."
The last thing Eliana saw was her mother's glassy eyes and the soft, triumphant curve of her uncle's smile.
And then the stars fell away.
And darkness swallowed her whole.
The Night That Never Ended
They say death is loud—that it comes with thunder, agony, and a scream clawing its way from your throat. But when it came for me, Eliana Rooin Valerius, it came quietly. Not like a thief in the night, but like a betrayal wearing perfume, cloaked in silks, smiling as it slid the knife between my ribs.
I remember the searing heat of the poison coursing through my veins. The sharp steel that followed it. The look on his face—my uncle's face—as the light began to dim. There was no kindness in his eyes. Just a cold, calculating stillness. "Sleep, little bird," he had whispered.
And then… nothing.
No pain. No noise. No light.
Just stillness.
A black so complete it felt like falling into ink. I remember wondering if this was the end—if this was all that remained after life peeled away its skin. No golden gates. No fire. Just… absence.
But strangely, it didn't hurt. I wasn't afraid. The silence was almost tender. It wrapped around me like a cloak of warmth, like I had slipped beneath the thickest blankets on the coldest of nights. It was like… that divine moment when your bed becomes a portal to another world—a sacred dimension where there are no duties, no worries, no need to move or speak. I was drifting. Floating in darkness that didn't feel dead, just... muted.
I couldn't tell how much time had passed—whether it was days, weeks, or eternities. There was no hunger. No thirst. I did not breathe, and yet I did not suffocate. I didn't move, and yet I never felt trapped. It was as though time had lost all meaning, and I had become a speck in the still void of existence, neither alive nor gone.
I was surrounded by something. Thick. Wet. Warm. A strange fluid cradled me—heavy and soft, a gentle tide that kept me buoyant. I should have been repulsed, but I wasn't. Not entirely. It was comforting. Disgustingly so. Like being held by something ancient, primal.
Then, I began to notice the sounds.
Dull. Muffled. Throbbing. Rhythmic. Like a distant drum echoing underwater. A heartbeat—steady and slow. Not mine. Not familiar. Just... there. Sometimes, I'd hear the gurgle of movement, the rise and fall of something massive breathing. Occasionally, faint voices would drift through, distorted by the barrier between us. I was... not alone.
Where was I?
Why was I still here?
I tried to scream, to demand answers—but I had no mouth. I tried to move—nothing responded. I couldn't even tell if I still had a body. I was trapped, not in a prison of stone and bars, but in a space both intimate and infinite. A coffin made of warmth.
And then it happened.
Pressure.
A sudden, crushing, unrelenting pressure. My peaceful cocoon clenched. The world around me began to move. I was being squeezed, pushed, forced through something tight and suffocating. My body—yes, I had one now—compressed painfully, head first, my tiny limbs curling in instinctive defense. I was moving down a canal, through a tunnel, with walls that throbbed and flexed around me like a beast in labor.
I panicked. This was wrong. I had just found peace. Why was I being forced into pain again?
Then, like a dam breaking, the world split open.
Cold.
A slap of air, like ice across bare skin. The wet warmth vanished, replaced by emptiness. And then—sound. Sharp, high-pitched noises. Voices. Shuffling. Crying. And I—I—gasped.
My lungs, unused and frail, heaved against the chill. I coughed, sputtered, breathed. For the first time in what felt like eternity, I breathed. The shock jolted through every nerve in my body. I opened my mouth to scream, to shout that I was here, that Eliana Rooin Valerius still lived—and only the wail of a newborn escaped.
My cries rang out, thin and pitiful, and I could do nothing else. My eyes, blurred by new tears, saw nothing but dim light and vague shapes. I tried to move, but my limbs were wrong. Small. Unresponsive. Like stubs of flesh that twitched without meaning.
I was... an infant.
No.
No, no, no.
My breathing quickened. I could feel the truth clawing up from the pit of my gut like bile. I couldn't speak. Couldn't sit. Couldn't move with purpose. My body was soft. Frail. Weak.
I had been reborn.
That warm, wet, dark place wasn't a tomb—it was a womb. All those strange, muffled heartbeats and whispers… they belonged to my new mother. The amniotic fluid that cradled me had been her gift of life, not some purgatorial sea.
I had spent all that time curled inside her, waiting. Unknowing.
The realization broke something inside me.
Because I remembered everything.
The betrayal. The poison. My mother's death. The knife. The lie on my uncle's lips. The smile.
I remembered it all.
And now, I had been given another chance.
No, not given—I had taken it. Somehow, some way, my soul had refused to fade. It clung to existence like a curse. And now, here I was, in a new body, in a new life, with the weight of vengeance already blooming in my chest.
This time, I wouldn't be the little bird in the cage.
This time, I would grow claws.
This time, I would remember.
And gods help those who stood in my way—because Eliana Rooin Valerius has been reborn.
And I have nothing left to lose.
Cradle of Rot
There are fates worse than death. I know that now.
I had died once—cleanly, cruelly, with betrayal as my lullaby—but it is living that stripped me of everything I once was.
I woke again, not in a bed of silk, but in a prison of flesh and filth.
My body—small, weak, utterly dependent—was no longer my own. My movements were jerky, uncoordinated; my voice was not speech, but shrill, instinctive wails that I could not control. If I wanted comfort or warmth or food, I had to cry. That was the only language I could speak now. I, Eliana Rooin Valerius, once the jewel of noble halls, reduced to an infant mewling for sustenance like an animal.
And the worst part… the worst part was needing it.
I loathed the feeling of helplessness, of being held like a doll, positioned against the coarse skin of a woman I could only assume was my new mother. She would offer her breast, and I would suckle, my hunger gnawing through my pride until I obeyed instinct. Her milk was warm and slightly bitter, but it kept me alive. My tiny fists would rest against her chest, feeling the way her body trembled after every feeding, as if she were holding back a tidal wave of grief that threatened to break her open.
Sometimes, I would cry—not for food, not for attention—but simply because the silence was too heavy. When I soiled myself. When I pissed where I lay. When the shame of existing in this state gnawed at me until I wanted to scream. There was no dignity in it. The sticky, organic filth clung to me until she cleaned it—manually. Hands that should have raised flowers now scraped feces from my infant skin. Her touch was rough, callused. Hardened. Not the hands of a noblewoman or a maidservant. These were the hands of someone who had worked too long, suffered too much.
Still, she did it without complaint.
Sometimes she'd cry when she thought I was asleep. I could feel her body tremble as she lay beside me on the floor—the cold, wet, suffocating floor. We had no bedding. No warmth. Just our bodies and the worn cloth she wrapped around us both like a shroud.
Her voice, when she spoke, was hushed, soft. Not in any language I recognized. Her words were more like hums, vibrations in her chest. Comforting. Ancient. Tired. The dim light above barely illuminated the contours of her face, and though my infant eyes struggled to adjust, I began to see her more clearly over time.
Her skin was… not right.
Green. Not the pale olive of sickness or the light mossy tint of some bloodlines. No, it was deep. Earthen. As if her very flesh had been born from soil and ash. Her features were vaguely human, yet… elongated. Harder. More primal. More brutal. But her eyes—they were gentle. And when she held me, I felt warmth. Not just heat, but an emotion that softened the darkness.
Was she a monster? A beast? Some savage creature of this hidden world?
No. She was my mother now.
And this—this hollow chamber of stone and shadows—was my new world.
The room had no windows. No light save a single dying lamp near the ceiling that buzzed like a dying fly. No furniture. No warmth. The floor was stone, stained and cracked, and we never left. There was only one door. One exit. Always shut. Always locked. Sometimes, men came through it, silent and faceless, to drop stale bread and half-rotted meat on the floor. They never spoke. Never looked at me. Never touched her.
Until he came.
I remember it with a clarity that aches.
The door creaked open—not with indifference, but intention. The air shifted. Heavy. Sharp. The dim light flickered, and something inside me—a primal, buried instinct—screamed.
He stepped inside. Towering. Twice the size of my mother, maybe more. His frame was broad, thick with muscle and menace, his silhouette filling the doorway like a mountain cast in shadow. The moment he entered, the air became wrong—thicker, colder. My mother froze, her body trembling so violently I could feel it in her heartbeat.
She didn't cry. She didn't speak.
She simply sweated. Her face drenched in fear.
And then he reached for me.
Two massive fingers clamped around my leg, lifting me into the air as if I were a sack of meat. Dangling. Powerless. My small body flailed, and rage burned in my heart like a star. How dare he? I was Eliana. A noble. A daughter of blood and legacy. He had no right to touch me—especially not like this.
And then our eyes met.
And everything stopped.
His eyes... gods, those eyes. Like gold drowned in tar. Deep, golden-yellow orbs slit with black. Serpentine. Alien. Cruel. They stared into me, not just at me, and in that moment, all pride fell away.
I screamed.
Not from pain. But from terror.
His smile twisted into something vile. And then—he threw me. Just tossed me across the room like garbage.
Death should've come again.
But it didn't.
My mother—my monstrous, fierce mother—caught me. Her body twisted unnaturally mid-dive, arms reaching out like iron to cradle me before I hit the stone. She held me close, her chest heaving, and then—like a beast unleashed—she turned on him and roared.
Not screamed. Roared.
She charged. A blur of muscle and fury.
And then…
Silence.
Wet silence.
Something warm splashed across my face. I gasped, blinking as the taste of iron filled my mouth. I couldn't understand what I was seeing at first. I turned—slow, trembling—and saw her.
Her body collapsed.
Headless.
Her head rolled across the room, eyes still open, expression frozen in primal rage and desperate love.
The man—no, the monster—was laughing. Giddy. Cheerful. He hummed a tune as he wiped the blood from his hands. Then he walked out. Closed the door. Locked it.
I was alone.
For days, I lay there beside her. The body grew cold. Then stiff. Then soft again as rot set in. Flies came. The stink was unbearable. Wet meat. Shit. Mold. I couldn't crawl far. Could barely breathe. My cries went unheard. My strength waned.
And then, one day, I saw myself.
Reflected in a pool of blood on the floor.
Bulbous, yellow eyes stared back. My teeth—sharp. Jagged. My face—elongated. Snouted. My skin—green-gray and sallow. My limbs—too long, too twisted. Not human.
Not noble.
Not me.
I screamed.
It wasn't a baby's cry. It was a howl—a monstrous, broken sound that reverberated off the walls and into my soul.
Who was I now?
What had I become?
I curled against the cold, against the stench, against the truth.
My name… my title… my legacy… my mother…
All gone.
I was alone, in the cradle of rot, with nothing but death beside me.
But I was alive.
And I would never forget.
Not the man.
Not the eyes.
Not the sound of her head striking the floor.
Not what I had lost.
Let this cursed body rot, let the world forget my name.
But I will remember.
And one day…
So will they.
The Mirror of the Monster
I didn't want to believe it—not at first. Not even when my clawed fingers twitched against the filthy floor, or when my reflection shimmered in a shallow puddle of old blood. But no matter how many times I blinked or whimpered, the truth stayed anchored, buried deep inside the marrow of my bones like a sickness that refused to die.
I was no longer human.
I was a goblin—a malformed, filth-born abomination.
The realization tore through me like fire through parchment. I looked down at myself, my greenish-gray limbs no longer soft or familiar but twisted, wiry things, trembling with infantile weakness. My skin was clammy and thin, stretched too tight over sharp bones and knotted muscle, as though my body had grown from decay rather than birth. My hands were too long. My fingers too crooked. My nails like yellowing talons. My body, once poised and delicate, was a wretched mockery of life. A creature born from muck, not royalty.
Eliana Rooin Valerius was dead.The girl who once dined under golden chandeliers, who studied under scholars and swam in sunlit marble baths, had been drowned in the black waters of this nightmare and replaced by a crawling, squirming disgrace.
I curled into myself, clutching my arms as if they could protect me from what I had become. The floor beneath me was cold—suffocatingly so—and my mother's corpse still lay nearby, stiffening, her blood painting the stone like a grotesque mural of loss. The room stank of old milk, iron, rot, and feces. A cradle of filth. A prison of shadows.
And I couldn't stop crying—not out of grief alone, but out of shame.
I remembered the books I once read in secret, old tomes kept behind locked glass in the castle's restricted wing. Stories of monsters. Myths that nobles whispered about only when drunk or terrified. Goblins. They weren't creatures; they were terrors.
They lived in darkness, nesting like insects in the rotting roots of the world—twisting through tunnels carved from old bones and forgotten crypts. Their skin was said to hang loose and wet, like old cloth soaked in bile. Their teeth were not shaped for feeding but for ripping—jagged, uneven, always gnashing. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dark, too wide, too alert, as though seeing things that shouldn't be seen.
Savage. Disgusting. Unnatural.
Goblins were pack monsters, nocturnal predators who moved in screeching herds, hissing and clicking to one another like insects. They were smart enough to trap, ambush, deceive. They didn't hunt for food alone—they hunted for sport. They relished in suffering. They played with their prey, ripping limbs while their victims still breathed, dancing in blood with deranged joy.
And now… I was one of them.
I wasn't just reborn in filth—I was filth.
The thought made me retch, dry and painful, as if my soul itself tried to vomit out my existence. I clawed at my face. My arms. My chest. Trying to peel away the truth. But the skin didn't come off. The horror didn't fade.
Worse still, I could feel the instincts inside me. Something alien coiling beneath my skin. A twitch in my throat when I heard scuttling noises in the wall. A hunger I couldn't name when I glanced at my mother's corpse. I flinched at the thought—no, the urge—to crawl toward it.
I screamed.
The sound came out wrong. Too shrill. Too broken. More beast than girl. It echoed off the walls like a wounded animal begging for death.
I pressed my head against the stone floor and sobbed. There was no warmth left. No comfort. Just cold air that bit into me and the slow rot of the only person who had shown me kindness in this new life. Her head—her head—had rolled to the far end of the room, eyes still wide in fear, mouth frozen mid-scream. She had tried to protect me. She had died for me.
And I couldn't even remember her name.
The monster who killed her had laughed as he walked away, leaving us—leaving me—alone in that sealed chamber. No one came. No one mourned. Time passed only through the smell—flesh curdling, organs leaking, maggots whispering secrets in the dark.
And then, one night, I dreamed.
A dream soaked in dread, familiar and foreign all at once. I stood in a village from my childhood—a peaceful place with lanterns and laughter. But the light dimmed. The air thickened. The shadows twitched.
Then I heard them. The clicking.
And the screaming started.
From the trees, from the wells, from under the dirt—they came. Goblins. Swarming. Grinning. Howling. They ripped open throats, laughed as children cried, danced with the entrails of the dead. They mimicked the voices of mothers calling to their children, only to bite off the hands that reached out.
In the center of the massacre… was one goblin sitting on a corpse, smiling with blood dripping from its chin.
It was me.
I awoke with a gasp, cold sweat slicking my body. My hands shook. My eyes darted. And still, that dream clung to me, coiled like a snake around my ribs.
Something inside me had changed.
I wasn't Eliana anymore. I was something else. Something angry. Something watching.
But even in this monstrous body, even as shame and grief crushed me—I felt something else stir.
Resolve.
If this world wanted a monster, then it would have one. If I had to crawl through gore and fire, I would. I would not die a forgotten worm. I would not rot in a cradle of bones. I would not let that laughing monster be the last thing I saw as I faded.
No, I would rise.
Not as a human. Not as a noble. But as the deadliest goblin this cursed world would ever know.
Let the darkness come. I would become its child.But I would teach it to fear me.
The Spark in the Ashes
Hunger was no longer a pang. It was a demon gnawing at her insides.
Eliana hadn't eaten in days. Not since she was reborn in this damp, rotting chamber of stone and silence. The blood that once stained the walls had dried into black crusts. Her mother's corpse lay bloated and stinking beside her—limbs stiff, belly distended, face warped by the slow kiss of death.
And still, Eliana hadn't moved. Not out of grief anymore.
But because she couldn't.
Her limbs trembled with every twitch. Her stomach had shriveled into a knot of agony. Her gums bled from chewing nothing but air and desperation. Her eyes, wide and hollow, flicked again and again to the body beside her. To the meat.
The meat.
No. No, no, no…
She curled into herself and sobbed, but even the tears had dried up. Her throat was too parched. Her soul too wounded. Her noble blood, her pride, her dignity—all rotted away. Now there was only a whisper, an instinct, a thought that crept louder with each passing second:
Eat.
She gagged at the idea. She was her mother. Her warmth. Her last protector. But the stench of death had grown sweet. Her mind began to betray her. Her tongue moved of its own. Her jaw ached to bite.
She reached out. Just an inch.
Then—CLANG.
The sound shattered the silence like a sword splitting bone.
The door. The rusted slab of iron that sealed her in this crypt—it groaned open, scraping against the stone like a blade against a whetstone. Hope flickered behind her dead eyes. For the first time in days, her cracked lips parted in a silent gasp.
Someone had come.
I'm saved, she thought, the thought so foreign now it tasted like poison. Someone heard me. Someone will help me.
Two shadows lumbered in, thick and wide, filling the doorway like grotesque statues. Their shapes were wrong—bulging muscles, hunched backs, warped legs. Their feet slapped wet against the floor as they entered.
Two goblins. Bigger than her. Older. Covered in grime and dried blood. One wore a necklace made of human teeth. The other dragged a club of splintered bone.
She tried to speak. To beg. To cry. But her voice cracked into a whimper.
The goblins stared at her with glowing, yellow eyes—hungry, cruel. They didn't speak. They didn't ask. They simply walked past her.
And tore into her mother.
Ripping.
Gnashing.
One bent low and bit into the corpse's neck, pulling away flesh in stringy clumps, slurping wetly as blood dribbled down its chin. The other laughed, pounding the corpse with a fist for no reason other than cruelty.
Eliana screamed. It was a shrill, broken sound, half breath and half horror.
They turned to her.
And began to beat her.
She was too weak to run, too frail to block. Fists like stone slammed into her ribs. Her head struck the wall. Her vision blurred. She felt teeth scrape her ear, felt fingers dig into her chest and throw her across the room like garbage.
She didn't move. She couldn't.
Blood pooled beneath her. Her bones screamed. Her ears rang with laughter as they dragged more from her mother's remains and vanished through the doorway—leaving behind only the stink of death and bruises blooming like flowers across her twisted body.
She lay there, barely breathing.
Cold. Starving. Dying.
She didn't even have the strength to cry anymore. Her eyes stared blankly at the stone ceiling. A fly landed on her lip. She didn't swat it away.
But she wasn't dead.
Not yet.
And something inside her—small, pathetic, defiant—refused to let her be.
She rolled.
It took everything she had.
She crawled—inch by inch—dragging her broken frame toward the door those monsters had left open.
The smell hit her first. Smoke. Ash. Burning fat.
And then—sound. Screams. Growls. The crack of whips. The hiss of molten metal. Voices like knives in the dark.
She pulled herself out of the tomb and into hell.
The goblin tunnels were worse than the stories.
Carved deep beneath the earth, the warren sprawled like a spider's nest—twisting corridors, chambers lit by guttering torches, pits of fire surrounded by silhouettes screaming under chains. The walls were soot-stained. The air choked with smoke. Filth caked every surface. Rats, malformed and bold, skittered over half-eaten corpses.
Children fought in the dust, tearing at each other for scraps of moldy meat. Goblin elders sat atop piles of bone, cackling as they beat the sick and the weak. Overseers—larger goblins with red scars and sharpened sticks—stalked the shadows like wolves, kicking those who moved too slow.
There were no names here.
Only shrieks.
Only survival.
And Eliana—no, the thing she had become—was no longer special.
She was just another whelp in the pit.
They seized her before she could collapse. Threw her into the labor pens. Shoved her into chains. No words. No comfort. Just iron around her wrists and rocks three times her weight.
She worked. She failed. She bled. She was kicked. She cried.
But she did not forget.
Not her name. Not the castle. Not the man who murdered her. Not the warmth of her mother's embrace. Not the smell of summer grass on the breeze. These things—they were her weapons now. Her armor.
While others screamed, she watched.
While others fought, she learned.
She saw how the smarter goblins manipulated the stronger ones. How the overseers barked orders to hide their fear. How food could be stolen, hidden, buried beneath stone. She mimicked the snarls. The hisses. She bit when struck. She scraped when starved. She survived.
Day by day.
Night by night.
The goblin that had once been Eliana became something else. Not stronger in muscle—but in will. In hatred. In clarity.
"I will return," she whispered each night into the dirt, curled in a crack in the wall where the rats didn't go. "I will rise."
The world above had forgotten her. Her murderer believed her ashes scattered, her name erased. Her kingdom gone.
But vengeance grows well in the dark.
She was not just a goblin.
She was Eliana Rooin Valerius—a name now carved not in gold, but in blood.
And the road back to light would be paved with corpses.