I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 353: Part 1 - Rhys Flashback

Twelve years ago, the Caeloria Palace stood as a monument to elven supremacy, white spires reaching toward the heavens. Within its crystalline halls, where light refracted through enchanted walls in prismatic displays, lived a child who would never be allowed to touch that light.

Rhys stood at the window of his quarters, small hands pressed against the glass that separated him from the royal gardens below. Rhys was eight years old.

Below, three figures moved through manicured gardens with the effortless grace that marked true elven nobility. His half-sisters. Legitimate daughters of King Maelor and the Queen, whose name Rhys had learned never to speak aloud.

Miravelle noticed him first. She was the eldest, perhaps appearing twelve, with silver-blonde hair that caught sunlight like captured starlight. Her finger pointed upward toward his window, and her lips moved in words Rhys couldn’t hear but could easily imagine.

Elysanthe followed her sister’s gesture, her darker hair falling in elaborate braids that required hours of a servant’s attention each morning. She laughed at the young boy.

Rosethiel, the youngest of the three, merely smiled with that particular expression children wore when witnessing someone else’s humiliation. Her hand covered her mouth as she mocked him, and her eyes beamed.

”Look,” Miravelle’s voice drifted up through the open window, intentionally loud enough so he could hear. ”The half-breed is watching us again.”

”Mother says he’s a stain on our family,” Elysanthe added. ”A reminder of Father’s... poor judgment.”

”Why does he even live here?” Rosethiel inquired, as if she were confused. ”Shouldn’t mistakes be corrected rather than preserved?”

Rhys’s hands clenched against the glass, but he didn’t move away. To retreat would be to show weakness. To show weakness would be to confirm everything they believed about human blood, making someone inferior.

A knock at his door broke the moment. Rhys turned from the window, his small chest still tight with emotions he’d learned to contain, and called out permission to enter.

Claudia stepped through the doorway like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. This was his one hope.

”My darling,” she said softly, crossing the room with arms already opening. ”I brought you something.”

Rhys crashed into her embrace. He had learned early that affection was rare currency in this palace. She smelled like bread and honey.

”They were talking about me again,” Rhys said into her shoulder, his voice muffled by the fabric. ”Miravelle and the others. They always talk about me.”

Claudia’s hand stroked his hair with the gentle rhythm that had soothed him since infancy. ”I know, sweetheart. I know it’s hard.”

”Why do they hate me?” The question burst out again, hoping for a different answer. ”I didn’t choose to be born. I didn’t ask to be... what I am.”

His mother pulled back just enough to look at his face, her hands cupping his cheeks with warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold perfection surrounding them. ”You are not a mistake, Rhys. You are not a stain. You are my greatest joy, and you are more than they will ever understand.”

”But Father....” Rhys started.

”Your father is the King,” Claudia interrupted gently but firmly. ”He has duties, responsibilities, obligations that go beyond what he might want personally. Do you understand?”

Rhys nodded, though understanding and accepting were entirely different things. He’d spent his whole life watching Maelor from distances that might as well have been continents.

Formal ceremonies where the King’s gaze never drifted to the hidden gallery where his bastard son observed in silence. State dinners where Rhys ate alone while his half-sisters dined at their father’s table. Celebrations where champagne flowed, and Rhys’s existence remained carefully unacknowledged.

”Tell me about the human world,” Rhys said suddenly, desperately wanting to think about anything except his isolation. ”Tell me about the markets and the people and the places where nobody cares about bloodlines.”

Claudia’s expression softened. She settled onto the floor, an action that would horrify any proper elf, sitting on the ground like a common servant. She pulled Rhys into her lap and cuddled him softly.

”The markets are loud,” she began, her voice taking on that storytelling quality that made the world beyond the palace feel real. ”So wonderfully, chaotically loud. Merchants call out their wares, competing for attention. Children run between stalls, laughing and playing, without anyone checking their lineage first. The bread smells like heaven, and the spices make your nose tickle, and everyone argues about prices because that’s expected.”

”Do they have magic?” Rhys asked, his child’s mind fixated on that particular detail.

”Some do,” Claudia confirmed. ”But it’s not everything. Humans value skill, cleverness, and hard work. We don’t live for centuries, so we learn to appreciate what we can accomplish in the time we’re given rather than assuming endless years to perfect anything.”

”I wish I were human,” Rhys whispered, the confession falling out before he could stop it. ”Then I wouldn’t be... broken.”

”You are not broken,” Claudia’s voice became firm with anger, not directed at him, but at the circumstances that caused him to feel this way. ”You are both, Rhys. Human and elf. That makes you special, not damaged. One day, you’ll understand that combining two worlds makes you stronger than either world alone.”

Footsteps in the hallway interrupted the moment. Claudia’s expression shifted instantly, and she stood with Rhys, positioning herself slightly in front of him

The door opened without the courtesy of knocking. Three figures entered like a swat team.

Miravelle led, her hair perfect despite the strong winds. Elysanthe followed with that cruel smile playing at her lips. Rosethiel brought up the rear, her younger face already learning to master the same contemptuous expressions her sisters wore so naturally.

”We heard the human was visiting,” Miravelle said, her voice turning the word ’human’ into an insult through pure intonation. ”How... quaint.”

”My son wanted to see me,” Claudia replied with dignity that refused to bend despite the apparent power imbalance. ”As is his right.”

”His right?” Elysanthe’s laugh was like breaking glass. ”The bastard has no rights. He exists here through Father’s misplaced mercy, nothing more.”

”Watch your tongue,” Claudia hissed. ”You speak to the boy who shares your father’s blood, whether you acknowledge it or not.”

”Tainted blood,” Rosethiel chimed in, emboldened by her sisters’ presence. ”Mixed with human weakness. It’s disgusting that he’s allowed to breathe the same air as true-born royalty.”

Rhys felt his mother tense, felt her preparing to defend him with words that would accomplish nothing except making his isolation worse.

He stepped forward, his chin raised, trying to project confidence he absolutely didn’t feel.

”If I’m so beneath you,” he said, his child’s voice cracking slightly but carrying determination, ”why do you bother visiting? Surely true-born royalty has better things to do than torment someone so insignificant.”

The three sisters exchanged glances that communicated without words, a privilege of growing up together, of sharing legitimacy and acceptance that Rhys would never experience.

”Consider it furthering your education,” Miravelle said finally. ”You should understand your place early. That way you won’t harbor foolish dreams about ever being one of us.”

She moved closer, her perfection somehow more intimidating than any threat could be.

Magic crackled faintly around her fingers, not enough to actually harm, but enough to remind everyone present that she could.

”You’ll never sit at Father’s table,” she continued, each word precisely calibrated to cut deeply. ”You’ll never wear royal colors. You’ll never be acknowledged publicly as anything except an embarrassment we’re forced to tolerate. Your mother may have seduced the King, but she can never change what you are.”

”A mistake,” Elysanthe added helpfully.

”A stain,” Rosethiel finished, as if they’d rehearsed this performance.

Claudia’s hand found Rhys’s shoulder, squeezing hard from the fury rising up. But before she could respond, new footsteps echoed in the hallway. Heavier, carrying weight that made everyone in the room straighten unconsciously.

She was beautiful in the way ice sculptures were beautiful. Perfect, cold, emotionless, and absolutely devoid of warmth.

She wore her silver hair in a complex arrangement of interwoven plaits. A voluminous Dutch braid curved around the side, meeting a textured crown and culminating in a low, structured bun featuring a distinct braided rosette.

Her gown was made of white silk threaded with silver. Her green eyes, when they met Rhys’s, conveyed a profound aversion that went beyond simple dislike.

”Girls,” she said, her voice carrying command that brooked no argument.

”Leave us.”