Chapter 7

“Oh please, Alana. You once cried because your cloak got wrinkled at the winter ball.”

Gasps. Glorious gasps. The queen smirked. Alaric coughed into his glove, and I swear to all the dungeons, that man was hiding a laugh.

The king raised a hand. “Enough. We heard the rumors. We summoned witnesses. The poisoning was real. The mistreatment? Verified. The knight? In the infirmary. And the spy?”

A guard stepped forward with a mangled cloak and half a boot. “We found him in the forest edge, Your Majesty. Crashed through two trees. Still unconscious.”

I smiled.

“Oops.”

The queen smirked.

Alaric? He looked curious.

Then the king stood.

Everyone shut up.

“You wield a power the royal archives marked as extinct. Not even our bloodline bears lightning anymore. Yet you—untrained, unwanted—awakened it in a moment of fury.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you know what this means?”

I tilted my head. “That I’m special and should be given snacks and a title?”

The queen actually laughed. A short, sharp one. It sounded like a dagger being unsheathed. Beautiful.

Alaric spoke for the first time. “It means, Your Majesty… she may be the first of a lost bloodline. Or worse—its only surviving heir.”

The council murmured. A few nearly fainted.

The king turned to me again.

“What do you want, Lady Abby?”

Oh. What a delicious question.

I stepped forward. Power tingling beneath my skin like an itch I was beginning to enjoy.

“I want justice,” I said. “I want protection. I want freedom from my family’s hold. And I want access to the royal archives and maybe training.”

Eyes widened.

“But mostly,” I added, looking directly at Duke Alaric, “I want allies. The right ones.”

The queen’s smile grew. “You may just get them.”

The king nodded. “Your demands will be considered. You are no longer under MacMayer control. You are now under royal protection. Until further notice, your safety—and your power—is our concern.”

Mic. Dropped.

My father? He looked scared.

My boring sisters? They looked bothered…

Me? I was smirking.

I turned to leave, swishing past a stunned court. But not before catching Alaric’s eye again.

He looked at me with that same cold calculation.

But behind it? Just a glint—just a spark—of something else.

Curiosity. Respect. Maybe even… interest.

I tossed my hair.

Because I had just gone from being the family reject…

To the Royal Storm.

*****

After a private conversation with the Queen and the King, and of course, snacks, now I'm going home…

The royal banners were behind me. The court's whispers? Fading. The king and queen’s protection? Secured—for now.

And me? I was inside a royal carriage that smelled like old leather, fresh lavender, and just a hint of “I can’t believe I said all that out loud in front of actual crowned people.”

The wheels turned. The horses clopped. And I was alone. I stared out the window at the snowy hills of the North, gloved hands clasped on my lap like a proper noble lady.

And then—when no one was watching, when the guards were up front and the driver couldn't hear me—

I slumped forward and whisper-screamed into my palms.

“HOOOOLYYYYY—”

A breath. Another breath. Hyperventilation—but make it elegant.

“I. Freaking. Survived.”

My voice was a hushed panic attack wrapped in royal embroidery.

I sat back again, chest heaving like I’d just run a dungeon raid solo. Which, honestly, emotionally? I had.

That whole performance? The sass, the smirk, the courtroom-level confidence?

FAKE. 100% Grade A, anime-protagonist, “fake it till you slay it” performance.

Inside? I was scared. I was still me.

Just Abby.

Just a twenty-year-old, chronically ill, introverted Earth girl with more fictional boyfriends than real-life friends and a brain full of Isekai tropes and magical conspiracy theories.

Back home, my biggest flex was binge-watching 37 episodes of a fantasy romance and crying over a fictional sword duel.

And now?

I was the poster girl for ancient lightning magic awakening after near-death bullying in a magical royal kingdom.

Go figure.

I hugged my knees (as much as you can in a noble gown with 12 layers and boning), and whispered to the velvet carriage cushions:

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

But then— I felt it.

That tiny, buzzing spark inside me. Soft. Gentle. Familiar.

Like a second heartbeat, low and constant in my chest. Lightning. Warm and waiting.

It didn’t mock me. Didn’t pressure me.

It just was. Powerful. Patient. Protective.

And I remembered—

I’m not alone anymore. I have lightning. And not just as a cool party trick. It’s like it knows me. Like it chose me. And deep, deep down… I know something else. Something I hadn’t told the king. Or the council. Or even dear Alaric with the cheekbones that could kill a man.

Because I didn’t just have lightning. I had... something else.

Another power.

It woke with me. Quieter. Colder. Not electricity. Not fire.

Something darker. Older. Like the shadows in a dungeon that whisper back when you speak. Like the wind that bends toward you—not away.

I haven’t used it yet. But it’s there.

Waiting. I'm keeping it a secret.

For now.

For what? I didn’t know. But something tells me—

Lightning wasn’t the only part of me that woke up.

Then…

The carriage slowed.

Up ahead: MacMayer Estate.

My old prison. My old bedroom. My old nothingness. I was just here for some clothes. Maybe books. Maybe some sad little box of forgotten trinkets the old Abby clung to while praying not to be erased.

But I wasn’t that Abby anymore.

No more tea-stained girl who whispered apologies for existing.

Now?I was lightning. I was secrets. And I was coming to take back everything that was mine. Even if it was just a half-burned sketchbook and a broken locket.

An hour later.

I didn’t just walk to the MacMayer estate.

I glided.

Every step down that gravel path was intentional. Elegant. Unbothered.

Because I know how to walk like a real villainess.

Thanks n*****x.

Anyway…

A soft breeze caught my cloak like the wind itself knew it was part of the aesthetic. My heels clicked against polished marble as I reached the grand entrance.

The same door that used to squeak whenever I snuck out to cry under the old sycamore tree now opened with a hush—like it, too, was afraid of what I’d become.

And oh baby, I drank in the moment like fine wine.

Because there they were—the staff.

Maids in neat lines, heads bowed so low I thought one might snap in half.

Guards frozen, pale, standing at attention like they'd just seen a ghost who also happened to know how to commit murder with her bare glowing hands.

Yes.