The girl who would one day be known as Wer—Aephelia—once lived in a house that smelled of spoiled milk and wet timber. They called it an orphanage, but it was little more than a forgotten warehouse with beds lined against the walls and a cracked roof that leaked during rainy days.

The children huddled close when night came, sharing body heat and whispering stories of what they would do if they got adopted or when they were old enough to live someplace else.

Aephelia was four years old, but she was clever in ways that frightened even the older kids.

She learned early that tears accomplished nothing and silence bought her time. Whenever she heard the director's boots tap across the floorboards, she knew to lower her gaze and say exactly what he wanted to hear: "Yes, sir," "Thank you, sir," "I'll be good, sir."

She didn't mean a word of it, but she learned that those phrases bought her half a slice of bread and a ladle of thin soup.

Other children cowered when the man's cane struck the walls. But Aephelia counted the seconds between his outbursts. She tried to learn everything to survive; when he drank, when he slept, when he forgot to lock the pantry.

Intelligence, in that small, damp world, meant survival.

By six, she had become something like an older sister to the rest. She tied rags into slings for the smaller ones, divided stolen crumbs, and whispered lies about a mother who would come for them all someday.

The others believed her, so she told the story again each night.

It made them have hope in the future, and that was enough.

Then one morning, that story ended.

The day began as it always did. Cold air seeping through the cracks, scent of watered down soup, and the director's voice laughing jolly somewhere in the building.

But when the door burst open, it wasn't him who appeared.

A group of strangers stood there.

Their coats were dark and spotless, with red designs that emulated flames. Aephelia had never seen such clean things before. At their front was a man with a trimmed beard going gray and eyes dark, like burnt coal.

He looked around without interest, as though already disgusted by what he saw.

"This one?" he asked, pointing his head at her.

A younger man beside him, dressed like a butler, face composed, nodded. "Yes, sir. According to the letters we found from your sister. She matches the description."

The old man studied her for half a second longer. "Take her," he said. Then, turning slightly, added, "And clean this place up."

The words were so simple that the meaning didn't reach her until the first different scent erupted.

The sound split the air, louder than thunder. The director fell backward across his desk, red flames blooming across his chest. One of the cooks screamed and tried to run. Another bolt of fire silenced her. Then another.

The children's voices turned into shrieks. Aephelia stumbled backward, clutching the edge of a bed frame. She saw the old ladies who washed their sheets drop where they stood. The overbearing scent of burnt flesh made her dizzy.

She tried to run, but a gloved hand caught her by the arm and pulled her aside before the flames spread. The butler's voice spoke near her ear, calm and detached. "Stay still, child. You do not belong here."

Belong. The word burned colder than the fire crawling up the curtains.

Aephelia screamed until her throat gave out. She kicked, clawed, bit. But none of it mattered. The men moved through the orphanage with mechanical efficiency, shooting fire and burning everything. The building became a furnace of screams and smoke.

Through the blur of heat and tears, she saw the old man watching from outside the doorway, his expression unmoved. When their eyes met, he simply turned away.

Within half an hour, the building was gone.

They carried her out past the burning husk, the butler's hand firm on her shoulder. The world smelled of ash and iron. Her ears rang. The sky looked too blue for what had just happened.

When she finally spoke, her voice was nothing more than a whisper. "Why… Why am I alive?"

The butler didn't answer. He only offered her a folded handkerchief and led her toward the waiting carriage. The door closed behind them with a soft click, shutting out the wailing fire.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Inside, the air was warm and clean.

She pressed her face against the window as the carriage rolled away. Behind her, the only home she had ever known collapsed in on itself, embers rising in the sky.

Before she knew it, Aephelia found herself in a house so large it could have swallowed the orphanage ten times over.

The ceilings stretched higher than any tree she'd ever seen. Every corner smelled of oil, lavender, and something sharp that reminded her of burning incense.

Hands descended on her from every direction.

The maids stripped her rags without ceremony, guided her into a steaming bath, and scrubbed her skin until it burned pink. When she flinched, they said nothing. When she whimpered, they kept scrubbing. The scent of soap… real soap, filled her nose. By the time they were done, her hair clung to her shoulders in damp strands, and her skin was red enough to sting with every breath.

They dressed her in soft fabric that rustled when she moved, heavier than anything she'd ever worn. The dress was pale ivory with ribbons down the sides, and shoes that clicked on the marble floor when she walked.

She stared down at herself in the mirror and didn't recognize the girl looking back.

Later that night, she was led to a room so enormous it might as well have been another world. A long table stretched across it, polished to a mirror's shine, set with more plates and forks than she could count.

At the table sat children… no, heirs. Some barely older than her, others nearly grown. They wore the same kind of fine clothes, their postures trained and identical.

The butler pulled out a chair for her near the middle of the table. She climbed up, legs barely reaching the seat's edge.

"Her name is Aephelia," the butler announced. "Fourth daughter of the Infernal Clan. Tenth in the line of succession."

No one spoke, but their glances said enough. A stranger, brought from nowhere, now wearing silk and sitting among them.

The man at the head of the table leaned back in his chair. He was the same man who she saw at the orphanage.

"I am your uncle," he said at last. His voice was low, a voice that expected obedience. "But from this day forward, you will call me father."

Aephelia blinked. The word "father" was something she wished for, but was now lodged in her throat like something was stuck.

The man continued. "Your mother, my sister, chose to leave this family many years ago. We did not know what became of her until recently. Letters surfaced confirming your existence."

Aephelia didn't know how to respond. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. The silence stretched until the butler spoke again.

"The patriarch has decided to take responsibility, as is tradition," he said. "Lady Aephelia's place among the family will be formalized once the paperwork is complete."

The patriarch, her adoptive father, nodded once. "Blood defines talent. That much, this clan has never forgotten." His voice was calm, but there was something buried underneath it, a coldness sharper than any flame. "And though your mother's choices were… regrettable, you have this clan's blood in your veins."

He set down his cup. The sound of porcelain meeting glass was louder than it should have been.

Dinner went by quickly in silence.

The food was the best she had ever seen. There were roasted meats, vegetables cooked with spices she didn't know, and soup thick enough to taste salt and oil. But she only took small bites.

Every time the smell of meat reached her nose, she remembered the fire and the smoke from the orphanage. It felt like she could still taste it on her tongue.

When the meal ended, she was led out of the dining hall. The butler guided her down a long hallway until they reached a room with high ceilings and a single tall window.

"This will be yours," he said.

Aephelia stepped inside.

The bed was so large. she didn't understand why anyone would need one that big. The pillows were stacked in neat layers, and there was a carpet soft enough to sink her feet into.

She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for someone to tell her what to do next.

No one did.

She lay down after a while, staring at the ceiling until her eyes grew heavy. Everything around her smelled clean. She couldn't sleep. The silence made her nervous. Every flicker of the lamp reminded her of fire.

It took hours before she finally drifted off.

Days passed like that.

She woke up early every morning and was given lessons. An old woman in a black dress taught her how to sit, stand, and move properly. She learned how to hold a cup, how to greet people by their titles, how to use the right words. When she made a mistake, the teacher would simply repeat the instruction again and again until she got it right.

After lessons in manners came lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic. The books were heavy, full of long words she didn't understand at first, but she learned fast. Learning made her feel safe. It was something she could control.

Afternoons were for reading and history. She learned that the Infernal Clan was one of the twelve houses of power in a land known as the Demonic Lands, the continent infamous for its cruelty.

Her teacher said the clan chose to live there because the ground and air was filled with more mana, and people who grew up here had a higher chance of awakening.

Aephelia, at the time, didn't know what awakening meant.

In time, she memorized maps, bloodlines, ancient treaties. She could recite the names of the founding Lords, the lineage of the current Patriarch, the duties expected of an Infernal child.

But none of that made her one of them.

The other children, her new brothers and sisters, didn't talk to her much. When they passed her in the hall, they nodded and moved on. At meals, they spoke to each other, not to her. No one was rude; they just acted like she wasn't there.

She didn't know how to act around them either. They already knew everything she was still learning. Their clothes fit perfectly, their words sounded smooth. She always felt like she was a step behind.

Still, she followed the routine. She memorized what they did, when they stood up, when they sat down, how they spoke. She practiced the same tone when answering her tutors. She ate everything on her plate, even when she didn't like the taste.

She didn't know if she liked this place, but she understood that she was supposed to stay here now.

So she learned, listened, and waited, because that was how she had always survived.

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