**Chapter 1: The Healer’s Promise**

  Eric Rolland, Prime Minister to the Mooncrest royal household, paced outside the birthing chamber, his boots echoing against the marble floors of the palace’s west wing. At 34, he was known across the kingdom for his sharp mind and unwavering loyalty to the crown—but tonight, his usually composed demeanor had frayed into restless anxiety. Inside that room, his wife, Mary Hamlet, labored to bring their child into the world.

  Mary, at 29, was more than his partner of five years. She was Mooncrest’s most revered healer, a woman whose hands could mend broken bones and purge deadly fevers with a touch of her silvery magic. Her reputation had earned her the title *“Dawn’s Grace”* among the people, though Eric fondly called her *“Starlight”*—a nickname from their courting days, when she’d healed him after a bandit’s blade nearly stole his life.

  “Breathe, my lady,” urged Livia, the midwife, as Mary’s cry of pain seeped under the chamber door.

  Eric froze, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his ceremonial dagger. *Five years of prayers. Five years of heartache.* They’d buried two infants before their third breath—one stillborn, one lost to a fever Mary’s magic couldn’t quell. This time, she’d sworn it would be different. This time, she’d woven protective spells for months, fasting under the full moon and chanting old hymns to the Goddess of Life.

  A sudden, piercing wail shattered the silence.

  Eric’s heart stopped.

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  Then Livia emerged, cradling a squirming bundle wrapped in linen. “A daughter, Lord Rolland. Healthy and whole.”

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  **First Person Perspective:**

  I wake to sound. To *cold*.

  Voices hum above me, distant and muffled, as if I’m submerged in water. My limbs flail instinctively, tiny fists batting air. *Where am I? Who—*

  “Wawawa!”

  The cry bursts from me—sharp, primal, *infantile*. Panic claws at my chest. This isn’t right. My thoughts… they’re too clear, too *adult*, trapped in a body that can’t speak, can’t even focus its eyes.

  *Why do I know words like “infantile”? Why do I feel… old?*

  A warm hand strokes my cheek. “Shhh, little raven. Mama’s here.”

  The woman’s face swims into view—pale gold hair, eyes like storm clouds, a smile that cracks the fog in my mind. *Mary.* Her name surfaces from nowhere, instinctive as breath. She radiates a soothing warmth, her fingertips glowing faintly as they brush my forehead. The cold recedes, replaced by a drowsy contentment.

  *Magic. She’s using magic.*

  “Eric, come meet her,” Mary whispers.

  A man leans over us—tall, broad-shouldered, with auburn hair streaked with silver. His calloused hand engulfs mine, trembling slightly. “Gods, Mary… she’s perfect.”

  “Looks like you,” Mary says, laughter in her voice. “Stubborn brow and all.”

  “Nonsense. She’s got your eyes. See how they gleam? Like moonlight on a blade.”

  I strain to speak, to *ask*, but my tongue lies useless. Fragments of memory taunt me—a life before this? A face I can’t place. But the harder I grasp, the faster they slip away, as if my infant brain can’t hold them.

  *What’s happening to me?*

  Mary nuzzles my forehead. “Welcome to Mooncrest, Raven Elara Rolland.”

  *Raven. My name.*

  Eric’s thumb traces the crescent-moon birthmark on my wrist—a mark every child of Mooncrest’s noble line bears. “She’ll be a force of nature. Just like her mother.”

  “Or her father,” Mary teases. “Prime Ministers *do* tend to upend kingdoms.”

  He kisses her temple. “Healers tend to save them.”

  As they banter, I piece together whispers from the midwives:

  “The Queen herself sent a blessing… rare honor…”

  “Lady Mary’s magic must’ve strengthened the babe…”

  “They say the royal family’s already planning her betrothal—”

  *Betrothal?* I kick indignantly. Mary hushes me, her magic humming a lullaby in my veins.

  “Rest, little one,” she murmurs. “The world will demand much of you. But tonight… tonight, you’re just ours.”

  ---