The air in the castle passages was thick with the scent of fear and damp stone, a fitting backdrop to Helena’s screams. Victor, a man burdened by tradition and hope, paced outside, each echo a stab to his heart. He prayed, not for a son, not for a lineage, but simply for survival.

Three times before, the castle had claimed his offspring. Now, with Helena, his only concubine, the weight of a dying wish pressed upon him. He was a prince, second in line, yet powerless against the barbaric laws that dictated their lives. A son meant Helena’s death; a daughter, a return to the convent, a life sequestered from the world, destined for the grueling dhampir trials.

Then, silence. Followed by a fragile cry. The midwife emerged, her face grim, a silent shake of her head confirming his fears. “It’s a female,” she whispered, her words barely audible above the rising hum of the waiting court.

Victor closed his eyes, a brief moment of defeat, before turning to face the expectant faces. “Lady Viktoria of Ezorona has been born.” He spoke the title, a small, defiant act against a world that refused to acknowledge his daughter’s rightful place.