Shadow Over the Heavenly Throne

Mom… if you're out there, if you can hear me… do you know they sold me?

I don’t know your face. I don’t remember your voice. They told me I was too young to remember you. But is that true? Shouldn’t I feel at least a trace of your presence, like a warmth that never fades?

Father never spoke of you. Even your name sounded like something he wanted to erase. Just like me.

I was always the unwanted one. The one who should never have existed.

But if you were alive… would it have been different?

***

Once, I thought that if I stayed quiet, if I obeyed, if I was good—someone would notice me. Maybe even accept me.

Father never looked at me. I was background noise. A stain on his perfect family portrait. He carried my sister in his arms, combed her hair, called her his treasure. But when I tried to approach him, he turned away.

Once, I brought him a flower. I wanted him to say it was beautiful. That I had chosen well. But he didn’t even glance at me. He walked past me as if I were nothing, then handed the flower to someone who truly mattered, with a smile I had longed for—just once—to see directed at me.

That day, I stopped trying.

Then came other days. Days when I watched my sister receive the finest silk dresses while I was given hand-me-downs from the servants. Days when she was free to play while I was punished for the slightest mistakes. I remember once, when I accidentally knocked over a teacup—it wasn’t even hot, but my stepmother looked at me as if I had committed an unforgivable crime.

“Only filth makes a mess,” she said.

Before I could react, I felt pain—her hand striking my cheek with enough force to make me stumble.

“Don’t you dare cry. Only the weak cry.”

Her voice was cold, filled with contempt.

I said nothing. I knew words wouldn’t change anything. I knew that if I looked into her eyes, I would see only hatred.

But the worst part was that she wasn’t the only one who looked at me that way.

I remember the day my sister shattered an expensive vase in the sitting room. I was a few steps away when the crash echoed through the hall. Before I could say anything, her voice rose in a wail:

“It was her! It was Shion! She pushed me!”

My stepmother entered, and her gaze immediately locked onto me. Her face twisted in anger.

“You again…” she whispered coldly, then strode over and grabbed my arm, her grip like iron.

“That’s not true!” I tried to protest, digging my nails into her hand, but her hold only tightened. “I didn’t do anything!”

“A liar and a thief,” she said, her voice as sharp as ice. “As if bringing disgrace wasn’t enough, now you destroy things worth more than you.”

I turned pleading eyes to my father, who had just entered the room. Maybe, for once, he would defend me. Maybe this time he would look at me differently.

But he didn’t.

With a single wave of his hand, he dismissed me as unworthy of his time.

When my stepmother struck me the first time, I wasn’t even surprised.

When she did it again, I understood that this was how it would always be.

***

The servants whispered that I should be grateful they kept me at all.

I ate scraps from their tables. My clothes were old, worn, often too big or torn. My sister received the finest fabrics, and I… I learned that those without value were invisible.

I thought it would always be this way.

But then… the Ascension Ritual.

Qi pulsed in the air, thick as a storm’s breath. I felt something within me tremble, crack, awaken.

I was nothing. And then suddenly… everyone was looking at me.

Their eyes were wide. Fearful. I could feel my body shaking, something wild and primal burning in my veins. The whispers grew louder, people took a step back.

Father… was looking at me. But it wasn’t pride.

It was disgust.

I had seen other children after their Ascension Rituals, lifted up, celebrated. I had heard stories of those who awakened their power and became their family’s pride. But I… I was an exception. My strength wasn’t a blessing—it was a curse.

Two days later, I was locked in a cage.

***

Slaves in the cell do not cry. They do not scream. It changes nothing. I no longer care.

Yesterday, they made me wash my hair, dress in silk robes. For the first time in my life, someone wanted me to look presentable. Not because I deserved it. Because my body had a price.

“You are to look proper for the buyers,” the guard growls, shoving me forward.

A dark corridor. Flickering lamplight. Hot, heavy air thick with the scent of incense and gold. And then… the bright stage where I stand like an exhibit on display.

Today, I will be sold.

As I walk down the corridor toward the auction hall, I hear the whispers of the guards.

“They say it’s her. The one who awakened the Bloodline Roots.”

“Imagine what she could do if she weren’t in chains.”

I do not turn. I do not ask. None of it matters.

***

The bidding starts at an astronomical price.

All eyes are on me. Narrowed gazes, calculating minds. Whispers. The rustling of silk robes as someone raises a hand.

“Five hundred thousand!” a voice cuts through the air.

“Six hundred!”

“Seven hundred!”

The numbers rise faster than I expected. One hand after another, as if they are caught in a trance. I do not look at them. I do not want to. But I hear their emotions—excitement, greed, desire.

“One million!”

“One and a half million!”

The room hums with tension. The auctioneer struggles to keep up with the rapid bids, while I… I simply stand there. Staring into nothing. Feeling nothing.

“Two million.”

“Two million, one hundred thousand!” A voice slices through the tension, sending ripples through the crowd.

The auctioneer shifts his gaze to the bidder, but before he can confirm the offer, that same cold, unwavering voice speaks again.

“Three million.”

This voice is different. Cold. Steady. Not raised, not angry. Just utterly certain.

Silence. The hall freezes. For a fraction of a second, no one moves.

“Three million, going once…” The auctioneer’s voice wavers slightly.

No one raises a hand.

“Three million, going twice…” The air is thick enough to choke on.

Silence.

“Sold.”

The gavel strikes with a hollow thud, sealing my fate.

And then I see her.

She appears before me as if she had been there all along, only now stepping into focus. I am used to eyes that see me as worthless filth or a monster. But in these eyes… there is something different.

I do not see greed, like the ones who bid on me as if I were a rare prize. I do not see pity, that empty, patronizing kind that drips from those who claim to be merciful. And I do not see that same disgust—the look my father gave me every time he set his eyes on me.

There is something else. Something I cannot name. Something that makes my breath catch in my throat.

I do not know why my chest tightens. I do not know why I cannot look away.

Mom… if you were here, if I could see you now… would you tell me that everything will be okay?