Maria's PoV
Many years ago, when I was still a child, I lived in a county far from Greyhollow.
Not in the main house, mind you. In the servants' quarters—a collection of small rooms tucked behind the kitchens, where the air always smelled of lye soap and old wood.
My father was a count. My mother was a servant.
She died giving birth to me. I never knew her face, never heard her voice. The other servants raised me—passing me between them like a responsibility no one particularly wanted but everyone felt obligated to share.
They called me "the count's child." Always with "bastard" attached. Sometimes before, sometimes after, but always there.
I had many siblings. Half-siblings, technically. Born from my father's legitimate wife and from other servants he'd... visited. The mansion was full of children who shared his blood but little else.
The only legitimate children were two—my older brother and Calla. Both born the same year as me, within months of each other.
Calla from the lawful wife. Me from a servant who'd caught his eye.
The difference between us was everything.
The count had many daughters. Many sons. Too many to count if you included all the bastards.
When we turned eleven, we were sorted.
The sons—legitimate and otherwise—were sent for knight training if they showed promise.
The daughters learned magic, alchemy, etiquette. Different paths, but all leading somewhere.
All except the bastards who showed nothing special.
Those, we didn't talk about.
***
I remember the day of the appraisal with perfect clarity.
We were taken to the Church of Tethion—the goddess of Sword and Book, patron of warriors and scholars both.
The building was beautiful in that cold, imposing way important places always were. White stone. High ceilings. Stained glass that painted the floor in colors that hurt to look at.
One by one, we were called forward.
My half-brothers went first.
Some received good appraisals—Knight of the Silver Blade, Protector of the Realm. Those boys smiled, stood taller, already seeing their futures.
Others received mediocre results—Iron Knight, Bronze Protector. Their faces fell. They knew what those titles meant. Border duty. Frontline fighting. Short lives spent bleeding for the kingdom.
Then came my half-sisters.
A few got strong appraisals—Alchemist of the Third Circle, Healer's Hand. They would be married well, used to forge alliances.
Most got middling results—Cauldron Witch, Mortal Elemental Mage. Enough talent to be useful, not enough to be valued.
And for those who received nothing? Who touched the orb and saw only dim light?
The sons would die on the frontlines as expendable soldiers.
The daughters would be sold. To merchant houses if they were lucky. To brothels if they weren't.
If sons got potential for mage they were refused the path, if daughters got the path of warrior they were forced to forget the dream.
That was just how things were.
***
When my turn came, fear clutched my heart so tightly I could barely breathe.
I approached the altar where the priest waited. The appraisal orb sat on a velvet cushion—clear crystal that seemed to contain its own light.
"Place your hands," the priest intoned. His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged space.
I did, palms flat against the cool surface.
He began to pray. Words in the old tongue, asking Tethion to reveal my nature, to show my path.
I closed my eyes. Prayed my own silent prayer.
Please. Please let it be something. Anything. Just don't let me be worthless.
The orb grew warm beneath my hands.
Then hot.
Then blazing.
My eyes snapped open.
Light poured from the crystal—brilliant, blinding gold.
It formed a shape above the orb, solidifying into an insignia that hung in the air like a brand burned into reality itself.
A golden hammer crossed with a feather. The symbols shone so bright they cast shadows across the entire church.
The priest's hands flew up in shock. "By the Goddess—"
Gasps rippled through the assembled crowd.
I stared at the insignia, not understanding. Not daring to hope.
"High Enchanter," the priest breathed. His voice shook. "Unbound potential. The goddess has blessed this child with a gift seen once in a generation."
Joy exploded through my chest. Relief so powerful it made me dizzy.
So, I won't be sold?
I turned to look at my father.
He stood among the noble observers, face carved from stone.
He wasn't smiling. Wasn't pleased.
He was looking at Calla—his legitimate daughter, standing with her mother, waiting for her own turn.
And I understood.
There should only be one daughter in the spotlight. Only one girl the count could use for political advantage, for forging powerful alliances.
That daughter was supposed to be Calla.
Not the bastard from the servants' quarters.
Not me.
But there was Calla smiling at me.
Calla walked to the orb, she lifted her hand and put on the orb.
She took a long breath.
Then the priest chanted, and the orb glowed.
The insignia appeared, a silver arrow and now with leaves...
An archer with wind attribute.
Strong yet useless...
She was never taught the path of a warrior, the only she learned was manners and spells.
She was a doll, a precious doll cherished by count but his dream of making her mage admired my many wasn't shaping.
He wanted son as the strongest and daughter as most adorned.
For him my existence became a blight on her daughter's drape.
The church asked him to send me to the Royal Academy.
Yet, he refused.
I was dragged back to the manor...
The moments we reached the land, he grabbed my arm, the first time he ever touched me.
Yet instead of warmth there was pain,
He pulled me to the quarters and threw me in the room.
Then the lady of manor, countess walked out of the shadow, the servants filled her in and her eyes turned red—
She yelled and the servant bought a stick.
"You- you disgusting swine! You- you dare to look down on my daughter!" She yelled and striked me.
My cries filled the room...