The guide's voice was low, steady—like a song long forbidden but finally sung aloud.
"In a world ruled by men, in a kingdom where a woman's name held less weight than dust on a soldier's boot, she was born."
The chariot rolled on, but the Demon King no longer saw the road. His eyes drifted toward memory, pulled by a tale that felt uncomfortably close to his own.
"She was born under starlight," the guide said. "But no stars shone for her."
The King of Aeloria had long awaited a son. When a daughter was born instead, he left the chamber in silence. Not a word. Not a look. Not even a name. He returned to his wine and war plans, declaring publicly that his true heir was yet to come.
So she was named Alira—by her mother in secret.
Alira.
A name whispered into shadows, unrecorded in royal scrolls. She bore the title princess, but only in name. The maids were ordered not to bathe her. The guards were told she didn't need protection. The people… were told she was a burden born of a cursed moon.
When her brother was born three years later, there were fireworks across the kingdom.
The boy was raised with silk and steel, trained in swordplay, statecraft, and ceremony. The king would parade him through the streets, holding him high. "My son, the future of Aeloria!"
Alira was nowhere to be seen.
Not even in the shadows.
She was raised in a forgotten wing of the palace—no tutors, no mentors, not even affection from her mother, who feared her husband's wrath too much to disobey. The only people who ever acknowledged Alira were the servants—and even they mocked her behind her back.
Some spat in her food.
Others whispered "waste of a womb."
And the guards? They were the cruelest. Some took turns humiliating her, betting how many bruises she could hide before anyone noticed.
No one noticed.
No one ever did.
"But she endured," the guide said. "Not because she was strong. But because she had no other choice."
She read stolen books by moonlight.
She practiced sword swings with tree branches behind the palace garden.
She eavesdropped on council meetings through cracks in the stone.
She bled. She cried. She broke bones.
And she learned.
While her brother grew arrogant and soft under praise, Alira hardened in silence.
Years passed.
On her twelfth birthday, her father hosted a grand tournament for his son. Champions from across the realm came to display their skills. Alira was not invited. She watched from the shadows behind the stands.
There, she saw the swordmasters dance like wind and fire.
That night, she didn't sleep.
She spent the entire night mimicking their footwork in the dark until her feet bled.
At fifteen, her brother was appointed the kingdom's future ruler. The king called him "the Dawn of a New Era."
The same night, Alira was ordered to serve wine at the celebratory feast—dressed as a servant.
That was the moment she snapped.
"They wanted a slave," the guide said. "They raised a Queen instead."
Alira vanished for three years. Rumors spread—some said she died. Others claimed she ran away to avoid shaming the crown.
The truth was far stranger.
She wandered into the forbidden forests, where witches were rumored to dwell.
She trained under exiled mercenaries, poisoners, and shadow-priests.
She forged a mind sharp as steel and a body harder than iron.
She returned to the kingdom on the night of her brother's coronation.
Dressed in royal black, face half-veiled, sword sheathed in white fire.
She entered the Great Hall alone.
The guards tried to stop her. She broke their legs without unsheathing her blade.
The nobles mocked her. She silenced them with a stare.
The king shouted at her: "Know your place, girl!"
She replied:
"I have. It was beneath your boot. Now it's on your throne."
And in front of the entire court, she challenged her brother to a sacred duel of succession—an ancient law long buried, which allowed royal blood to contest the crown through combat.
No one believed she could win.
But Alira wasn't there to win.
She was there to end it.
She disarmed her brother in three moves.
Shattered his pride in one.
And before the king could raise his voice, she raised her sword—
—then threw it down at his feet.
"I will not rule like you," she said. "I will not inherit poison."
Then she turned to the crowd.
"If you would kneel to strength, kneel now. But not to my birth. Not to my name. Kneel to change."
There was silence.
Then, one by one…
They knelt.
Even her enemies.
Especially her enemies.
That night, Alira became the First Queen of Aeloria.
Not by inheritance.
Not by mercy.
But by defiance.
By force.
By truth.
"She was like a sword forged from rusted chains," the guide said, his voice tinged with reverence. "Once unwanted, now unbreakable."
The Demon King was quiet for a long time.
Even his brother said nothing.
Then, softly, the Demon King whispered:
"…She was me."
But the guide shook his head.
"No, my king. She was what you could have been—had someone looked your way before the world turned you into a monster."
The guide's voice continued, soft but unwavering:
"But defeating her brother didn't win her the kingdom. It only gave her the right to fight for it."
Even after her victory in the sacred duel, most nobles refused to acknowledge her. Many called her reign a disgrace. Priests claimed the gods would never bless a queen. Assassins were sent within the week—five, in total. Three died. Two were spared—then employed.
She found loyalty in strange places.
The forgotten. The castaways. The crippled, the shunned, the disgraced.
She offered them purpose. Not out of pity—but because she knew what it meant to be overlooked.
The people didn't love her right away.
In fact, most feared her.
But then, winter came early that year. The granaries were empty, and the merchants hoarded their stores. Alira ordered all the royal stockpiles opened to the poor—and personally supervised the distribution in the snow.
"A queen should be cold," a noble mocked.
She replied, coatless and barefoot in the frost:
"Then let my cold keep them warm."
The people saw that.
When a plague swept through the lower wards, nobles fled the capital. Alira stayed. She walked the diseased streets alone, bandaging wounds herself when the priests refused.
She bled beside beggars.
She fed the orphans with her own hands.
She buried the dead when no one else dared.
She even collapsed once—feverish, hallucinating. But when the healers surrounded her bedside, she only asked:
"Have the children eaten?"
The people remembered.
And little by little, they began to kneel out of love, not fear.
She reformed the laws.
Made education free.
Appointed women as judges, scholars, even generals—not because they were women, but because they were worthy.
Her army became the first in history to welcome anyone—male or female, noble or peasant—based purely on ability.
At first, kingdoms laughed.
Then they lost wars.
Under her reign, Aeloria bloomed like never before.
No more starving winters.
No more forgotten districts.
No more second-class children.
The same nobles who mocked her now bowed.
The same priests who cursed her now praised her name in scripture.
She didn't just sit on the throne.
She rewrote what a throne meant.
"She was not loved because she demanded it," the guide said quietly. "She was loved because she deserved it."
In the chariot, the Demon King stared blankly out the window.
His hand still bled, the bandages soaked in red. But he hadn't noticed.
His brother turned, almost afraid to ask.
"Do you… envy her?"
The Demon King didn't respond.
But he didn't need to.
The silence was the answer.
He wasn't jealous of her power.
He had that.
He wasn't jealous of her strength.
He surpassed it.
But he had never known what it meant to be loved for who you are.
She was hated—yet turned her pain into compassion.
He was hated—yet turned his pain into ruin.
One world. Two tragedies.
One became the flame of hope.
The other became the abyss.