Chapter 128: My masterpiece
Vexen's jaw clenched. The sight of Nyxtriel beside Dameon—it twisted something in her chest. Not jealousy. Not exactly.
No, it was the memory.
She had once dreamed of wearing the crown. Not as a servant. Not as a shadow in someone else's court. But as queen.
Back then, her name was Verena Elowen Raventhorne, daughter of House Raventhorne—one of the most powerful viscount families in Varyndor. Her father was a proud, upright man. Too proud, maybe. Because when the rotten nobles needed a scapegoat, they framed him for treason. He was executed in public.
Only her mother's friendship with the former queen saved her. Verena was taken in, renamed Vexen, and quietly raised inside the palace walls. The promise was whispered: One day, you may wear the crown.
She believed it. Especially after meeting Prince Aleric. Back then, he was a kind, naive boy who snuck away from his tutors to walk the garden walls. That's where they met. And where they kept meeting. Every stolen moment wove them closer.
But everything changed when the prophecy came.
The holy church announced it: the demon king and the hero would be born—both from royal bloodlines. Panic spread. The queen's court turned cold. Vexen, once praised as a potential bride, was now a threat. The nobles whispered that she might bear the demon king.
So they stripped her of everything.
She was just fifteen when they arranged her marriage to a minor baron in the west. A political exile. No ceremony. No farewell. Just a locked carriage and silence.
She had cried that night—cried until her throat went raw. She prayed to the goddess to fix it. To take her back. To make someone, anyone, see the injustice.
But no answer came.