Beyond The Firstborn

The bells of Drenmoor Keep tolled six times, their bronze voices echoing through stone courtyards and ivy-wrapped towers. Lady Seraphine Valcourt listened from her chamber window, her fingers curled around the sill. She had grown up with that sound—an unbroken rhythm of rule and ritual. It was a rhythm that shaped her life, but never her destiny. For Seraphine was not the heir. She was the spare.

Her brother Alaric had been the sun since the day he was born. Golden-haired, bold, always greeted with smiles and applause. She loved him once—still did, somewhere in her heart—but she could not deny the shadow he cast. As children, he was given the toy crown at festivals while she held the basket of flowers. At lessons, tutors praised his wit while overlooking her sharper answers. And in the evenings, when she sat by their mother’s side with quiet patience, Alaric was the one who received their father’s laughter.

She learned to smile, to nod, to hide the bite of being second. But at night, when she lay awake, she wondered: If I were first, would they see me? Would they love me the same?

When Seraphine was eight and Alaric eleven, they used to sneak into the stables after lessons. Alaric would dare her to climb the hayloft, to balance on beams, to race across the yard. Once, when she fell and scraped her knee, he lifted her gently and pressed a wildflower into her palm.

“Braver than the knights,” he whispered, proud. “Don’t tell Father you cried.”

Moments like that had bound them—her admiration for his daring, his secret admiration for her courage. But slowly, those moments thinned. When Alaric began training with the knights, Seraphine was left behind. She remembered standing at the edge of the yard, watching him swing a wooden sword while their father clapped. No one noticed her clutching her book of histories, desperate to be asked about her lessons.

Later, when she bested Alaric in a riddle at twelve, he laughed too loudly, as though her answer had been a joke. Their father joined in, patting Alaric’s shoulder for being a “good sport.” No one mentioned that Seraphine had been right. She began to learn that her victories were invisible unless they came through him. And as the years wore on, the wildflowers and whispered encouragements faded. He became heir. She became shadow.

During a feast thick with roasted meats and spiced wine, Seraphine observed Alaric from across the high table. He slouched in his chair, spilling wine as he roared with laughter. Nobles forced mirth, though she saw the thinness of their smiles. He was charming, yes, but careless with it—like a boy tossing coins into the river just to hear the splash.

Beside her, her aunt Lady Veyra leaned close. “He reminds me of your father at that age.”

Seraphine’s throat tightened. “Father has always favored him.”

“Favors are fleeting,” Veyra murmured. “Blood lasts. And blood flows through you as well.”

Seraphine lowered her eyes, stung by how much she wished her aunt’s words felt true.

That night, in her chamber, Seraphine was intercepted by her tutor, Master Oryen. His beard was streaked with silver, his eyes still sharp as when she was a child learning her letters. “You were quiet tonight,” he said.

“I had no place to speak,” she replied.

“You always have a place to speak,” Oryen said gently. “But you bite back your words, as though your voice were a thief stealing what belongs to another.”

Her chest ached. “What use is my voice, when all they ever hear is his?”

“Because one day,” Oryen said, “they will need yours. Perhaps more than his.”

The scandal came swiftly. Alaric was caught beyond the palace walls, drunk and raging in a gambling den. He had wagered away a shipment of grain meant for the poor quarter, then struck a merchant who protested. By morning, the story spread like wildfire.

King Edric’s fury was the first Seraphine had ever seen. But beneath his anger, she recognized fear. Fear for the crown, fear for the kingdom—and perhaps, though he would not say it, fear for his son. Seraphine sat alone in her chamber, hands folded tightly. She should have felt vindicated. Instead, she felt hollow. Alaric was her brother. She remembered his laughter in the stables, the flower pressed into her palm, his whispered praise when no one else noticed. He was flawed, yes, but not only his flaws. And yet his ruin meant her rise.

When the king summoned her, his voice was heavy. “Your brother shames us. The council speaks of disinheriting him. If they do… it falls to you.”

Her heart leapt and broke at once. She wanted to shout yes, to seize the moment she had longed for, but a part of her recoiled. Was she betraying him by standing ready? Or betraying herself by shrinking back?

“I will serve if called,” she whispered. “Not because I wished for his fall. But because the people deserve steadiness.” For the first time, her father looked at her as though truly seeing her.

The weeks that followed were a strange, aching blur. She sat at council, listened to the lords, soothed merchants, spoke carefully, thoughtfully. Whispers grew: Seraphine speaks with wisdom. Seraphine could lead. And yet, each victory felt stolen from her brother’s ruin.

Late one night, Alaric came to her chamber. He smelled of wine, his eyes red. “You think this is yours,” he rasped. “But it’s mine. Always mine.”

“Brother—”

“No!” He slammed his fist on her table. “Even if they crown you, you’ll always be second in his eyes. In everyone’s.” His voice cracked. He staggered, then left her trembling in the silence.

She did not sleep. Instead, she remembered—how he once dared her to climb the keep wall, promising he’d catch her if she fell. How he cheered when she read her first passage of poetry aloud. How he whispered, “You’re cleverer than I’ll ever be.” Those fragments warred with the man who now lashed out in bitterness. And she wondered if her hunger to be seen had helped widen the gap between them.

Spring brought the council’s decree: Alaric was stripped of succession. Seraphine was named heir. Trumpets blared. Banners unfurled. Her father placed the circlet upon her brow. Outwardly she stood with grace. Inwardly she felt as though she were watching her brother drown, and she was climbing ashore.

That night, she found Alaric in the stables, slumped by his horse, eyes hollow. He did not look at her. “Enjoy it,” he muttered. “You won.”

Tears stung her eyes. “I never wanted to win this way.”

He laughed bitterly. “You always wanted it. Don’t lie now.”

She knelt beside him, heart breaking. “I wanted to be seen. Not to see you fall.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, so softly she almost missed it, he whispered, “Then be better than me. For both of us.”

Later, in the torchlit gardens, Master Oryen found her. “You carry sorrow with your crown.”

Seraphine wiped her eyes. “All my life, I thought I wanted this. To be first. To matter. And now that it is mine… it feels like loss.”

“Perhaps,” Oryen said, “it was never about being first. Perhaps it was about being ready when the time came. And you are ready.”

She lifted her gaze to the darkened city beyond the walls. The people did not cheer for Alaric or Seraphine—they cheered for hope, for steadiness, for someone to see them. For the first time, she saw herself not as a shadow, not as a replacement, but as a person who could carry their trust.

She drew a breath. “Then I will be heir—not to eclipse my brother, but to honor what he could not. To serve them all.”

The bells tolled again, solemn and steady. Seraphine stood taller, no longer only the spare. She was the heir of Drenmoor. And she would carry both her crown and her brother’s memory, together, into the future.