Chapter 1: Eiravelle’s Birthday Gift To Arisia

The grand banquet hall of Manor, Arthion gleamed with an almost ethereal radiance, every surface was polished, reflecting the warm golden light cascading from the crystalline chandeliers suspended high above.

Thousands of tiny luminescent crystals, enchanted to mimic the soft glow of captured starlight, hung in delicate cascades from the vaulted ceiling, their gentle illumination was dancing across the marble floors and alabaster pillars that lined the expansive chamber.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of exotic flowers that were imported from the distant elven kingdoms—night-blooming azaleas, silver-petaled moonlilies, and the rare twilight roses that only unfurled their petals in the presence of magic.

Servants moved through the chaos of preparation, their footsteps were soft against the polished stone as they arranged towering floral centerpieces, adjusted gossamer drapes, and positioned ornate chairs in perfect geometric alignment.

"Careful with that arrangement, you clumsy fool!" Barked by the head coordinator, a severe-looking elf with silver-streaked hair and eyes that missed nothing. "Lady Arisia’s birthday celebration must be flawless. The entire noble court including the royal family will be in attendance, and I refuse to have our house’s reputation sullied by a single misplaced petal."

The servant in question bowed hastily, nearly dropping the crystal vase she carried, her face was flushed with barely concealed panic. "Forgive me, Master Thalion. It won’t happen again."

"See that it doesn’t." Thalion’s gaze swept across the hall with the intensity of a general surveying a battlefield. "The musicians must be positioned precisely at the eastern alcove—their melodies must carry throughout the hall without overwhelming conversation. The dining tables require an additional three inches of spacing to accommodate the honored guests’ robes. And someone—" he whirled around to face a group of younger servants huddled near the grand entrance,

"—someone had better inform me that the ice sculptures have arrived from the frost mages in the northern district!"

A young servant boy, barely past his fourteenth year, scrambled forward. "They arrived this morning, Master Thalion. They’re being carefully positioned in the central courtyard as you requested."

"Good. Finally, some competent work." The head coordinator allowed himself the barest hint of approval before returning to his relentless inspection.

Through the organized chaos, a small figure stood near the grand archway that connected the main hall to the eastern corridor.

Eiravelle watched the flurry of activity with barely contained excitement, her soft pink curls bouncing slightly as she shifted from foot to foot. Her eyes, the color of morning pink ruby, sparkled with joy as she observed the preparations unfolding around her.

Today was Arisia’s birthday—and there is no doubt that today would be perfect. Nothing could spoil such a wonderful day.

She clutched the small package in her hands, running her thumb over the carefully wrapped paper.

"I hope she likes it," Eiravelle whispered to herself, her voice was barely audible above the bustling activity around her.

She had spent countless hours on the gift, working by candlelight when she was supposed to be asleep, pricking her fingers more times than she could count as she carefully arranged the petals into perfect patterns as the design of the gift.

Every imperfection had been removed, every petal was positioned with loving precision. It wasn’t grand or expensive, not like the jewels and silks that Arisia would undoubtedly receive from their powerful family members, but Eiravelle had poured her heart into it.

A servant brushed past her without acknowledgment, nearly knocking her off balance. Eiravelle stumbled slightly, catching herself against the wall. She looked up, expecting an apology, but the servant had already continued on, her attention was fixed on the task at hand.

"Excuse me," Eiravelle called out softly, but the servant didn’t turn.

"Move aside, girl. You’re blocking the passage," another servant muttered as he carried heavy plates through the archway.

Eiravelle pressed herself against the wall, making herself as small as possible. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be in the way."

The servant didn’t acknowledge her apology, simply continuing on his way as if she hadn’t spoken at all. Eiravelle’s shoulders drooped slightly, the familiar sting of dismissal settling in her chest. She had grown accustomed to such treatment over the years, but it still hurt. It always hurt.

She smoothed her simple dress—a pale lavender garment that had once belonged to Ariphale but had been passed down to her when her sister outgrew it. The fabric was slightly faded from multiple washings, and the hem showed signs of careful mending where Eiravelle had repaired it herself after a tear.

Unlike her sisters’ elaborate and most finest silk robes, which were commissioned from the finest designers in the realm, Eiravelle’s wardrobe consisted entirely of hand-me-downs and carefully preserved pieces.

But she didn’t mind. Not really. She had learned to make do with what she was given.

A group of servants passed by, their voices was carrying clearly despite the surrounding noise.

"Did you see the gift her father is presenting at the feast tonight?" One woman whispered, her eyes were bright with gossip. "A necklace of enchanted sapphires from the Meridian mines. I heard it’s worth more than this entire estate."

"Lord Arthion is generous to his daughters," another servant replied, nodding sagely. "Though one might wonder why he’s never bestowed similar treasures upon the youngest."

The first servant’s expression turned knowing. "Well, everyone knows why. It’s the talk of the household, has been for years. That child isn’t his. Just look at her—no elven features, no Lycan traits, nothing. She has her mother’s coloring, perhaps, but without a drop of the power that should accompany noble blood. It’s obvious."

"Perhaps Lord Arthion simply doesn’t acknowledge her," the second servant murmured, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. "He’s too honorable to say otherwise, but no one would blame him for refusing to claim a child born of... of an affair."

Eiravelle’s breath caught in her throat. She pressed herself harder against the wall, her small hands are trembling against the package she still clutched to her chest. The words were familiar, the same whispers she had heard since she was old enough to understand them. But they never stopped cutting like sharpened blades.

"The mother was a favored one, that’s true," the first servant continued, her voice was dropping lower. "A deer goddess’s daughter, beautiful beyond measure. But even the most beautiful noblewoman can fall from grace. And that child—" she nodded in Eiravelle’s vague direction without actually looking at her, "—is the evidence of that fall."

"The only being in the entire family with no power," the second servant agreed. "No wolf, no magic, no blessing. It’s almost unnatural."

Eiravelle felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall. She had promised herself long ago that she wouldn’t cry over the whispers. Crying didn’t change anything. It didn’t make people to stop staring, and didn’t erase the pity or scorn in their eyes.

She looked down at her hands, pale and small against the wrapped gift. It was true, wasn’t it? She had no powers. No wolf ears like Arisia, no deer antlers like Ariphale, no elegant elven height and magical affinity like Arielle.

Nothing but soft pink hair, pink eyes and a heart that ached with longing for something she couldn’t name.

"But I am father’s daughter," she whispered to herself, the words were fragile and desperate. "I must be. Mother wouldn’t... She wouldn’t..."

She couldn’t finish the thought. Her mother, Elaria, was kind. Gentle. But she never treated Eiravelle with love, instead it was nothing but coldness.

Her mother’s gaze was warm, yes, but sometimes there was something else there when she looked at her youngest daughter. Something that looked almost like... Regret and hate.

Eiravelle shook her head firmly, pushing the thought away. Today was not the day to dwell on such things. Today was Arisia’s birthday, and she was determined to be happy, to celebrate with her family.

She pushed off from the wall and continued down the corridor, her steps are quick and light as she made her way toward Arisia’s bedchamber.

The hallway stretched before her, lined with portraits of her ancestors—proud elves, powerful Lycans, and long generation of deer goddesses and gods, guardian of the nature whose stern gazes seemed to follow her as she passed. She had never felt worthy of their scrutiny, and today was no different.

"I’m going to give my gift," she murmured to herself, trying to lift her spirits. "Big sister Arisia will see it and smile. She’ll see how much I love her. And today will be perfect."

She passed by a window that offered a view of the estate’s sprawling gardens. The flowers were in full bloom, a riot of colors that seemed almost too vibrant to be real. Gardeners moved among the beds, trimming hedges and pruning roses, ensuring every aspect of the estate was immaculate for the evening’s festivities.

She continue walking, her footsteps were echoing in the empty corridor. The further she went from the main hall, the quieter it became. The chaos of preparation faded into the background, replaced by the soft creak of ancient floorboards and the distant chirping of birds from the gardens outside.

Finally, she reached Arisia’s bedchamber. The door was massive, carved from dark oak and inlaid with gold filigree that depicted scenes from the Great Hunt, a legendary event in Lycan history. Eiravelle had always admired the craftsmanship, the way the wood seemed to come alive with the intricacy of the carving.

She could hear voices from inside—her sisters, laughing and chattering excitedly. Her heart lifted at the sound. They were happy and today was going to be wonderful.

Eiravelle pushed the door open with a gentle hand, stepping inside.

The sight that greeted her was breathtaking. Arisia stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a swirl of servants and attendants, her gown was still being adjusted by the bustling designer.

The dress was a masterpiece of elven craftsmanship—the color of the fabric was midnight starlight, embroidered with threads of silver and gold that caught the light and shimmered like liquid magic.

The neckline was adorned with tiny gems that sparkled with an inner fire, and the skirt flowed down to the floor in graceful waves.

Arisia’s features were soft and delicate, her expression was gentle but with an underlying sharpness that spoke of her Lycan heritage. Her wolf ears twitched occasionally, catching sounds that human ears would miss, and her tail swayed gently behind her, though she had partially suppressed its movement for the sake of the dress fitting.

Her hair, a soft color white that mirrors her as the white omega wolf of their family, it was piled elegantly atop her head, with a few curled tendrils escaping to frame her face.

Arielle stood nearby, her tall elven frame was towering over the servants. Her features were sharp and refined, with the ethereal beauty that marked her elven lineage.

Her silver-blonde hair cascaded down her back in a waterfall of shimmering silk, and her piercing blue eyes held a warmth that softened the cold perfection of her features. She was dressed in a simple but elegant gown of deep blue, her relaxed posture was suggesting she had been here for some time.

Ariphale, the second sister, sat in a cushioned chair near the window. Her deer antlers, delicate and adorned with small pearls, caught the light as she tilted her head to examine Arisia’s dress.

Her expression was one of cool appraisal, her lips were curved into a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her coloring was warmer than Arielle’s, brown hair with hints of gold and a complexion that seemed to glow with an inner warmth that spoke of her divine heritage.

"Wow~~~ big sister Arisia is so beautiful with her dress!" Eiravelle’s voice burst out, unable to contain her excitement any longer. She stepped forward, her eyes are shining with admiration. "You look like a princess from the old stories!"

Arisia’s gaze flicked toward her sister for a brief moment, but her expression remained carefully neutral. Before she could respond, the elven designer stepped forward, positioning herself between Eiravelle and her work.

"Please step outside if you’re going to cause trouble here, Lady Eiravelle," the designer sneered, her voice was dripping with contempt. Her eyes swept over Eiravelle’s worn dress and messy curls, her distaste became evident. "The lady’s gown is delicate, and I cannot have someone of your... Carelessness... disrupting our work."

Eiravelle stopped mid-step, the warmth was immediately drained from her expression. "I—I wasn’t going to cause trouble. I just wanted to see—"

"You’ve seen enough," the designer interrupted dismissively. "Now if you’ll excuse us, we have work to do."

Arielle sighed, stepping forward and placing a gentle hand on her youngest sister’s shoulder. "Eira, please just wait outside for me, okay? I’ll be there. Just give us a moment."

"But—" Eiravelle’s eyes darted toward Arisia, who still hadn’t looked directly at her.

"No buts, Eiravelle, just go," Arisia commanded, her voice was flat and disinterested. She finally turned her head slightly, but her gaze was fixed on her own reflection in the large ornate mirror before her. "Please don’t ruin this for me. You know how important today is."

Eiravelle’s heart clenched. "Uhm... Sister, I just... I want to give you this gift." She raised the small package, holding it out with trembling hands. The wrapping paper was slightly crumpled from her grip, but the design she had put on it—a small flowers—was still visible.

Everyone in the room glanced at each other, exchanging glances that ranged from awkward to contemptuous. The designer rolled his eyes. One servant whispered something to another, and a barely suppressed snicker followed.

Arisia’s expression flickered with something—irritation, perhaps, or embarrassment—before she composed herself. "Thank you," she said flatly, not looking at the gift. "I appreciate it."

A servant stepped forward, snatching the package from Eiravelle’s hands before she could react. The girl walked to a corner of the room and placed it on a small table, where it would be forgotten among the other, grander gifts.

Eiravelle watched as her carefully wrapped package was relegated to obscurity, her heart sunk into her chest.

She had thought... She had hoped...

"Okay, then," Eiravelle whispered, forcing a cheerful smile onto her face despite the tears burning in her eyes. "I’ll wait for you, big sister Arielle! Hehe!"

Before anyone could respond, she turned and rushed out of the room, her footsteps were quick and desperate. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

She made it halfway down the corridor before the tears finally spilled over, hot and bitter against her cheeks. She pressed her back against the cold stone wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor snd her knees were drawn up to her chest.

Behind her, she could hear the muffled conversation continuing in Arisia’s bedchamber.

"Sister, why are you even talking to Eiravelle?" Ariphale’s voice was flat, lacking any warmth. "You know how her clumsiness could cause an immediate mass of misfortune to the people around her."

"Eiravelle is still our little sister—" Arielle began, her voice was gentle but firm.

"Not until proven that she is father’s daughter." Arisia’s voice cut through the conversation, sharp and cold. "Are you saying you believe that our mother had an affair with another Alpha?"

There was a pause, and Eiravelle’s breath caught in her throat. She pressed her hand against her mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatened to escape.

"Maybe not, maybe I am," Arisia continued, her tone dripped with sarcasm. "Not until mother proves it."

Eiravelle heard a rustle of fabric, followed by Ariphale’s voice. "Sister, I really think you should keep your distance from Eiravelle. For your own good."

A door creaked open, and Arielle’s voice came through clearly, firm and resolute. "No. Blood or not blood, Eiravelle is my little sister."

The grand door slammed shut, and Eiravelle heard footsteps approaching. She scrambled to her feet, hastily wiping her tears with the back of her hand. She couldn’t let Arielle see her crying. Not now. Not when today was supposed to be perfect.

"Eira?" Arielle’s voice was soft as she rounded the corner and saw her youngest sister pressed against the wall. Her blue eyes were immediately filled with concern. "Eira, what’s wrong? Did you hear—"

"No!" Eiravelle shook her head vigorously, forcing a bright smile onto her face. "I didn’t hear anything! I was just... I was just waiting for you, like you asked!"

Arielle’s expression softened with a mixture of sadness and understanding. She stepped forward, reaching out to brush a stray curl from Eiravelle’s face. "You’re crying."

"I’m not!" Eiravelle protested, even as tears continued to stream down her cheeks. "It’s just... It’s allergies! The flowers in the garden... They’re making my eyes water!"

Arielle’s lips quirked into a small, bittersweet smile. "Of course," she said gently, not believing a word of it. "The flowers."

"They’re very... Very strong flowers," Eiravelle added, her voice was wobbling slightly. "The strong ones make me cry. Always."

Arielle pulled her youngest sister into a warm embrace, holding her close despite the slight difference in their heights. "You don’t have to pretend with me, little one," she murmured into Eiravelle’s hair. "You know that, right?"

Eiravelle’s carefully constructed facade crumbled. She buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, and her small body began shaking with silent sobs.

"Why doesn’t they love me?" She whispered, the words were muffled against Arielle’s gown. "Why doesn’t anyone love me?"

"Oh, Eira." Arielle’s voice cracked with emotion. "I love you. Mother loves you. Father loves you, even if he’s not always... Even if things are complicated."

"But everyone else—"

"Everyone else doesn’t matter," Arielle said firmly. "You’re my sister, and nothing will ever change that. Do you understand?"

Eiravelle pulled back slightly, looking up at her sister with red-rimmed eyes. "But what if I’m not? What if she’s right and I’m not really—"

"You are," Arielle interrupted, her gaze was fierce. "Whatever anyone says, whatever you might hear, you are my sister. That’s the truth that matters."

Eiravelle wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe with all her heart that she truly belonged. But the whispers had been there for so long, the doubt was so deeply ingrained, that she couldn’t quite make herself believe.

"Thank you, sister," she said quietly, wiping her eyes once more. "I should... I should go get ready for the celebration. I don’t want to miss anything."

Arielle studied her for a moment, clearly not convinced, but she nodded. "All right. But if you need anything—anything at all—you come find me. Promise?"

"Promise," Eiravelle echoed, managing a small, wobbly smile.

She watched as Arielle turned and walked back toward Arisia’s bedchamber, her tall figure disappeared through the ornate door. The moment her sister was out of sight, Eiravelle’s smile faded.

She stood alone in the empty corridor, the sounds of the estate’s bustling activity echoing around her like a distant song. She could still hear the servants murmuring in the distance, and the weight of their judgment.

"Blood or not blood," she whispered to herself, the words felt both foreign and achingly familiar. "What if I’m not?"

She didn’t have an answer. No one did. And perhaps that was the cruelest part of all—the never-ending uncertainty, the constant questioning of her own existence.

But she pushed the thoughts away, just as she had always done, and straightened her shoulders. Today was Arisia’s birthday. Her sister’s happiness was what mattered. Even if Arisia didn’t love her, even if she never truly saw her as a sister, Eiravelle would still hope.

Tomorrow, the whispers would continue. Tomorrow, she would still be the odd one out. But today—today she would pretend. Today she would be happy.

She took a deep breath, fixed her smile back into place, and continued down the corridor, ready to face whatever the day would bring.

***

Back in the bedchamber, Ariphale approached Arisia with a questioning look. "So, what are you doing about the gift?"

Arisia shrugged, not even glancing toward the small package that had been relegated to the corner table. "I suppose I’ll have it disposed of later. Or perhaps I’ll give it to a servant. It’s probably some cheap trinket she found somewhere."

"You’re being unnecessarily cruel," Ariphale observed, though there was no real criticism in her voice. "She didn’t ask to be born."

"She’s a reminder of something that should never have been," Arisia replied coldly. "Every time I see her, I’m reminded of the shame. Of the embarrassment. Of what everyone says about our family."

"The gossip will never stop, sister. You know that."

"The gossip stops when the source is no longer around," Arisia said with a sharp smile. "And Eiravelle’s presence makes the gossip worse. If she were to fade into the background—become truly invisible—then perhaps people would forget."

Ariphale watched her sister with a mixture of concern and indifference. "You truly hate her that much?"

Arisia didn’t answer. She simply turned back to the mirror, examining her reflection with cold precision.

Hate was a strong word. What she felt for Eiravelle was something more complicated than hate. It was resentment, yes. Embarrassment. A deep-seated frustration at having her perfect family tainted by something—someone—who shouldn’t exist.

"Let’s not discuss this any further," she said finally. "Today is supposed to be a celebration. I won’t let that girl ruin another moment."

Behind her, in the corner, Eiravelle’s carefully wrapped package sat forgotten, its simple beauty dwarfed by the glittering splendor of the more expensive gifts that filled the room.