Narration: Zephyra point of view
The grand hall was a flurry of movement as servants rushed to prepare for the arrival of the guests. Polished silver trays, sparkling glasses, and silk-draped furniture made it clear: today was different. I could feel the weight of the day on my shoulders, but I moved quickly and quietly like everyone else. This was the kind of day when mistakes weren't tolerated.
I passed through the hall, adjusting tablecloths and fixing arrangements, my fingers brushing the polished wood of the grand dining table. In the distance, voices drifted through the doors leading into the ballroom, low and confident—voices that belonged to people whose world was very different from mine.
There was no point in looking at them directly, but I caught glimpses of the elites from the corner of my eye. They stood in small clusters, laughing, wearing fabrics that shimmered in the soft light. They spoke in low tones, comfortable, as if they didn't even realize we existed. One of them—tall, with hair the color of sunsets clouds—stood apart from the others. Her posture was upright, almost rigid, exuding a quiet confidence that seemed to hold its own space in the room. Her presence was undeniable.
Thessara Valendor.
I felt the name more than I thought it, like a knot tightening in my chest. The last time I'd seen her was a lifetime ago—or at least, it felt like one. When we were children, we hadn't been strangers. She was older than me by a few years, always standing in the spotlight while I lingered at the edges of it. My memories of Thessara weren't ones of kindness or warmth, but neither were they of cruelty. Back then, she was simply… distant. An enigma of the Valendor family—untouchable even within her own household. She hadn't seemed to care about me then, and judging by the way she glanced through the room, she certainly didn't care now.
As I watched her now, her eyes swept lazily across the room, glossing over the servants and slaves like they were little more than furniture. She didn't even blink as her gaze passed right over me, moving on without a flicker of recognition. It was as though I didn't exist. That stung more than I wanted to admit. I wasn't expecting a reunion, but to be so utterly disregarded by someone who had once been part of my life… it twisted something inside me.
Was it possible she didn't remember me? Or worse, had she chosen not to?
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to steady myself, but my hands still trembled slightly at my sides. The familiar weight of resentment pressed down on me. Here she was, thriving in the life that had been stripped from me, continuing the legacy that my family had once contributed to—and there I stood, shackled by circumstances that she likely never even thought about.
The soft cotton-candy pink of her hair gave her an almost ethereal presence, a stark contrast to the sharpness of her expression.
She raised her hand to adjust a lock, her fingers adorned with delicate rings. Her movements were slow, deliberate, the kind of motions someone makes when they know the world is watching. I realized with a sinking feeling that I knew her so well because I had studied her from afar for most of my life. Even before our fall, I had envied her. Now that envy had turned into something sharper.
I stole another glance at her. Her face was impassive, her lips barely moving as she engaged in a low conversation with another elite. Her eyes were cold and calculating, more interested in the next business deal or technological breakthrough than the room around her. There was no spark of curiosity or warmth, only a hardened professionalism that seemed at odds with the lively laughter of the other elites nearby.
I couldn't stop the bitter thought: She's living the life that should have been mine.
I gripped the hem of my worn tunic, feeling the rough fabric under my fingers. Memories of my father's workshop flooded my mind—the scent of metal shavings, the sound of gears turning under his skilled hands. We were Valendors once, just like her. We shaped the world with our hands, but now those same hands were calloused from scrubbing floors, fetching water, and bowing to those who looked down on us.
The tension in my chest tightened further as I caught sight of Thessara's smile—small, reserved, yet practiced, as though she knew exactly what she was doing and what effect it would have. Her aloofness was a shield, and I couldn't decide whether it was meant to protect her or to remind everyone else of their place beneath her.
Suddenly, she glanced in my direction, her eyes brushing past mine like they had before. For a heartbeat, they lingered—just long enough to make me question whether she recognized me or whether it was just my imagination. Then, her gaze drifted away again, dismissive and indifferent. The silence between us was deafening, louder than any words could have been.
I straightened my posture slightly, though it felt useless. I was a slave now—barely more than a ghost from her past. To her, I was insignificant, someone not even worth remembering. My father's downfall had erased us from the Valendor name, and it was clear she wasn't going to acknowledge the history we shared. Perhaps she thought it was too dangerous to do so, or maybe… she simply didn't care.
The thought gnawed at me as I stood there, my heart thudding in my chest. My mind raced, replaying fragments of our past encounters, trying to find any trace of warmth, any sign that she might still remember the days before everything fell apart. But nothing came. In all our years together in the Valendor estate, she had never truly looked at me—not in the way I had always hoped she might. And now, in this moment, it was clearer than ever that she never would.
My gaze lowered to the ground, my fingers loosening their grip on my tunic. I didn't need her validation. I had survived without it for this long, and I would continue to survive. The fire that had once burned in my family's forge was still alive inside me, no matter how deeply it had been buried.
But even so, as I walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling of being unseen—of being forgotten by a world that once knew my name.
---
In the kitchens, the pace was even faster. Orders flew around the room, the overseers pacing behind us with sharp eyes. I was tasked with preparing a serving tray, aligning each piece perfectly. It wasn't hard, but the atmosphere made everything feel heavier, as though every step I took could lead to a mistake. And mistakes… weren't forgiven easily.
As I worked, a clatter rang out behind me, followed by a harsh shout. I turned just in time to see Corrin—one of the stable boys—drop a crate of wine bottles. He stumbled back, his face pale, and the overseer was on him before he could pick up a single piece.
I moved toward the doorway, close enough to hear the overseer's reprimand. His voice was sharp, and I saw Corrin wince as the man's hand came down on his arm.
"Worthless," the overseer muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Corrin stood still, eyes wide, face tight with pain as he bent down to retrieve the bottles, now rolling under the tables. My hands stilled on the tray as I watched. Around me, the other servants pretended not to see. But I couldn't.
I slipped into the back of the room as Corrin picked up the shattered glass. It would take too long for him to clean everything up by himself, and the overseers weren't known for their patience. I kneeled next to him and started gathering the larger pieces into a pile.
Corrin glanced at me. "You don't have to," he whispered.
I didn't respond. Talking would draw attention. We worked in silence, and as we finished, I handed him a cloth to cover the bleeding on his hand.
He nodded at me in gratitude before scurrying off to continue his duties. I returned to my tray, but the feeling stayed with me—the weight of how easily lives were dismissed. Even though the elites weren't in the room, their influence was everywhere.
---
The gathering of elites dragged on, the sounds of their laughter echoing through the halls. By evening, the last of them had left for their private quarters, and the rest of us began to clean up the remnants of their feast. In the quiet that followed, I noticed something: one of the silver candlesticks was loose, the hinge connecting the base to its stand bent and unstable.
I glanced around. No one was watching.
I quickly slipped the candlestick under the table and, with nimble fingers, felt for the spot where the mechanism had weakened. The bend wasn't hard to fix, but the elites would throw it out the moment they noticed it wobble. I took out a small scrap of wire I'd found earlier and twisted it tightly around the hinge, securing the loose part. In a few moments, the candlestick stood firm again, the wobble gone.
I set it back on the table and stepped away just as one of the other servants passed by, carrying another tray of dishes. No one had noticed, but I couldn't help feeling a flicker of satisfaction.
It wasn't much, but it was something. Small repairs, hidden improvements—they were things no one would notice, but they mattered to me. It felt good to make something work again, to put something back together.
---
The elites left soon after, disappearing into their world, leaving us to clean up the aftermath of their visit. I wiped my hands on my apron, glancing toward the entrance where Thessara Valendor had stood earlier. She was gone now.
But as I glanced around the empty room, I caught sight of Corrin, bandaging his hand with the cloth I'd given him. He nodded at me, a small gesture of thanks.
In that moment, I realized something: I couldn't change the world I lived in.
I wouldn't be like them—the elites with their glittering inventions and endless power. But I had my own kind of power, even if it was small, even if it went unnoticed.
And that was enough.