A Life in Balance
Everdell
Ayira.
"Brrring… brrring…"
My alarm shattered the last fragments of my peaceful sleep, slicing straight through the soft dream I'd been clinging to.
I groaned into my pillow, one arm flinging blindly across the bed until my fingers found my phone. The screen was bright enough to offend my eyes. I squinted, slapped at it twice, and finally managed to silence it.
I rolled over immediately, tugging my blanket higher like it could protect me from reality.
Just five more minutes.
Just…..
Bad idea.
"Ayira!"
My mother's voice cracked through the thin walls like a whip.
"Don't make me enter that room! Wake up. We have deliveries to make!" she shouted.
"You sleep when others are awake, and write when others are sleeping. Get up!"
I heard her footsteps approaching, sharp, determined, the kind that made you understand she wasn't bluffing.
I shot upright instantly, cursing under my breath, my hair sticking up in every direction. My feet slid into my flip-flops, and I rubbed my eyes like I could scrub away the heaviness sitting behind them.
I made it to the door just before she could storm in.
I pulled it open with a guilty smile.
"Good morning, Mom…"
My mother stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips, face set in that expression that meant she'd already spoken to me in her mind three different times before opening her mouth.
"Good morning?" she repeated, unimpressed. "Is it morning or afternoon? You want to greet me 'good morning' when it's almost nine?"
I blinked slowly, my brain still trying to load.
"Uh… it's still morning technically," I offered.
She leaned closer. "Ayira, don't test me."
I lifted my hands like I was surrendering.
"Okay. I'm awake."
"Truly awake?"
"Yes."
She scanned me from my messy hair to my sleepy eyes. "You look like you slept in the middle of a fight."
I wanted to say I did, because my characters had been dragging each other emotionally through ten chapters of chaos last night, but I just smiled innocently.
Let me introduce myself properly before my mother kills me.
My name is Ayira Weslyn. I'm twenty-four years old, and I graduated with a bachelor's degree in Business Administration.
I live in Everdell, a city in Norwind that runs on noise, ambition, and the kind of survival that makes people hard. The kind of place that rarely gives you anything without demanding twice as much in return.
If Norwind were a person, it would be the type that smiles at you while picking your pocket.
And me?
I'm the type that still believes stories can save people.
I have an uncontrollable passion for writing. It isn't a hobby for me, it's the air in my lungs. Writing excites me in a way nothing else does. Even on days I'm exhausted, even when my body begs for sleep, something inside me still wants to open a document and build a world with words.
I can't go a single day without it.
If not for school and my mother's business, I would write all day. I'd wake up, write, eat, write again, fall asleep on my keyboard, and wake up to write more.
But life doesn't care about dreams.
Time rarely favors me, so I write at night, when the world sleeps, when the city finally quiets enough for my thoughts to breathe, and I pay for it every morning.
In groggy eyes. In stiff necks. In a heartbeat that races like I'm late for something even when I'm standing still.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I feel free.
Then morning comes, and reality reminds me that freedom is expensive.
I was born and raised in Everdell, in a modest neighborhood where everyone knows your business before you do. I was raised by one woman, my mother, single-handedly.
I don't know who my father is.
I used to ask.
When I was younger, it was innocent curiosity.
Other kids talked about their fathers, how their dads bought them snacks, how their dads scolded them, how their dads carried them on their shoulders during festivals. I wanted to know what that felt like.
But every time I asked, my mother's face changed.
Her jaw would tighten. Her eyes would harden like someone had hit a wound that never healed. Sometimes she'd walk away without answering. Sometimes she'd snap at me for being "too inquisitive."
And sometimes, if she was especially tired, her silence would stretch so long it made my stomach ache.
Eventually, silence became easier.
And I stopped asking.
My mother's name is Maiven Weslyn, strong, fiercely independent, and stubborn in the way only women who have survived too much can be.
She sacrificed everything to raise me. She saw me through school with her small homemade soap and skincare business, working tirelessly without complaint.
She worked like she was trying to outrun something.
For years, our basic needs were covered. Not luxury, no. But we had food. We had rent. We had peace, at least the kind of peace you can have when you learn to be content with "enough."
Then the economy shifted. Competition increased. People started chasing flashy brands, smooth packaging, pretty adverts. Customers who had stayed loyal began to drift away. Sales dropped drastically, and every day my mother kept trying new formulas, new scents, new marketing ideas, like she could fight the tide with her bare hands.
Now, we were drowning in loans.
Borrowed from loan sharks who never stopped knocking.
They didn't knock politely either. Their visits felt like threats wearing shoes.
Their calls were short and sharp. Their warnings always lingered behind my mother's forced calm like a shadow I couldn't shake. Even if she didn't say it aloud, I knew the stakes.
Every day that passed without profit made me feel guilty, like I was failing her too.
I graduated from Eastbridge University last year, and since then, I've been job hunting. Getting a job in Norwind isn't easy.
You need connections, someone who knows someone.
If not for our growing debts, I wouldn't have bothered.
My dream has always been writing.
But dreams rarely pay bills.
"Are you going to stand there and narrate your life again, or are you going to move?" my mother snapped, yanking me back to the present.
I blinked, realizing I had drifted into my thoughts again.
"Good morning, Mom," I said quickly, switching to my best innocent voice and greeting her properly. "I hope you slept well?"
She glanced at me. "I did. You clearly did too,seeing as it's almost nine."
"My night was great," I said brightly. "I finally finished Unwritten Consequences. I'm so happy."
I hugged her from behind as she walked into the small workspace we used for production. The smell of essential oils and herbs filled the air, comforting and sharp at the same time.
Lavender, lemon zest, something woody that clung to the back of my throat. The workspace was small but familiar: containers lined on shelves, labels stacked on a table, buckets, measuring cups, and my mother's notebook filled with formulas and scribbles.
This room was where she turned stress into soap.
She turned to face me, and her expression softened a little, the way it always did when I mentioned writing. She didn't understand every part of my passion, but she respected it. And that meant something.
"You know I have no problem with your writing," she said. "You've been writing since you were ten. I would never stop you from doing what you love."
Her voice dropped slightly, gentler but heavier.
"But Ayira… the loans keep increasing. We barely make sales anymore, and we still have to eat. Writing won't solve this, at least not yet. It's time you put that certificate to use."
The words didn't hurt because they were harsh.
They hurt because they were true.
I held her hands gently. Her palms were rougher than mine, stained faintly with years of work and chemicals and stress. A woman who had never been allowed to rest.
"I know, Mom," I said softly. "I see everything you do for me. I promise I'll try harder. I'll ask Rayen, apply everywhere, talk to people. I'll get a job. I can write and work at the same time."
She sighed, the kind of sigh that carried an entire life inside it.
"I just don't want them taking this house," she said, voice quieter now. "I don't want us homeless."
My chest tightened.
"That will never happen," I said firmly, like my words could build a wall around us. "I'll get a job before that happens."
She studied my face for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to trust my promise or protect herself from disappointment.
Then she nodded slowly.
"Go freshen up. Eat your breakfast and deliver these orders," she said, pushing two small packages toward me. "Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Cole only."
"I'll be quick," I said, already backing away.
"You know I don't like breakfast," I added automatically, because I always said it, like a reflex.
My mother's eyes narrowed.
"Do you want me to kill you myself?" she yelled.
I laughed, backing away faster. "I love you too, Mom!"
I ran into the bathroom before she could aim a towel at my head.
The shower water was cold at first, then warm, then hot enough to wake the stubbornest sleep from my bones. I washed quickly, scrubbing away the heaviness of the night, the ink-stained dreams still clinging to my thoughts.
When I stepped out, my reflection stared back at me: tired eyes, but alive. Always alive when stories lived inside me.
I dressed in a burgundy sweater, my favorite color, and dark blue jeans. I wore my simple gold necklace and black sneakers.
I tied my hair into a ponytail with a burgundy headband, smoothing down the flyaways as much as I could.
No makeup.
I never liked it. Rayen always said I'd look "more serious" with it, but I liked my face the way it was. I didn't want to paint myself into someone else just to be considered worthy.
I picked up the delivery bag, inhaled, and kissed my mom's forehead.
"I'll stop by Rayen's place after," I said.
"Don't stay out late," she warned, instantly back to that protective tone. "Send my regards to Rayen."
"I will. And please rest," I added.
"I didn't say I was tired," she replied quickly, like admitting tiredness would be admitting weakness.
I laughed softly. "Okay, superwoman."
Behind me, as I opened the door, I heard her shout, "You didn't eat again!"
"I'll eat air on the way!" I shouted back.
She scoffed, but I heard the tiny smile in it.
Outside, the cool Everdell morning washed over me. The streets were already alive with hawkers calling out their prices, the hum of traffic, and the occasional squeal of a child darting past a puddle. A bike zoomed by. Someone argued over change. Someone laughed loudly like they didn't have problems.
I inhaled deeply.
Life was complicated.
But it was ours.
And as I walked, the delivery bag swinging lightly against my leg, I made a quiet promise to myself:
I'll fix this. I'll take care of her. I'll write my dreams into reality… even if I have to bleed for it.
NORWIND
Author's POV
Raven Crest Estate
The mansion stood at the heart of a vast private estate, far removed from the city's noise yet deeply connected to its power. It belonged to one of the wealthiest men in Norwind, and the structure reflected that authority, grand, controlled, and quietly intimidating.
From the outside, Raven Crest didn't scream for attention the way some rich people's homes did. It didn't need to. It sat there like a statement already made, like a name everyone in Norwind knew without having to ask questions.
The perimeter walls were high, finished in smooth stone, crowned with discreet security fixtures that blended into the architecture like they were part of the design, not an addition.
The gates themselves were a work of art,black iron reinforced with steel, heavy enough to remind anyone passing by that this was not a place you entered casually. Even the gatehouse was polished, guarded by men who looked like they didn't blink.
The estate road curved inward, long and private, lined with tall trees spaced neatly like they had been trained.
The path was wide enough for several luxury cars to pass each other without slowing down. Cameras watched from hidden points, and the landscaping was so carefully maintained it looked unreal, like nature had been paid to behave.
Built from pale stone and dark glass, the mansion balanced classical elegance with modern dominance. It spread wide across the land rather than rising upward, grounding itself like an immovable force. Long wings extended outward, connected by glass corridors that caught the sun and reflected the sky, making the building look even larger than it already was.
Manicured lawns rolled out like green carpet, trimmed so evenly you could imagine someone measuring each blade of grass. Sculpted hedges rose in precise patterns, and flowerbeds were arranged in color gradients so smooth it looked like painting, not gardening.
Fountains flowed quietly in different corners of the property, their water catching the light like silver threads. Subtle lighting was placed along walkways and under trees, designed to make the estate glow at night without making it look flashy.
The scent of fresh roses lingered near the main gates, rich, clean, and deliberate. Someone, somewhere, ensured that the estate smelled like luxury. It wasn't accidental. Nothing here was accidental. Even calm was curated.
From above, Raven Crest must have looked like a private kingdom. From the ground, it felt like one.
Inside, the air changed immediately.
Polished marble floors gleamed beneath a massive chandelier, their shine reflecting the lights above like mirrors. Every step would echo, not because the place was empty, but because it was designed to carry presence, to remind you that you were inside a space that demanded respect.
The walls were lined with tasteful art, not loud, not too modern, not too emotional. The kind of art chosen to impress without revealing anything about the person who owned it.
Twin staircases curved upward in perfect symmetry, elegant yet imposing. They met at a landing that opened into the upper halls, leading to corridors wide enough to feel like hotel suites. The banisters were smooth and cool, carved wood polished to a shine, and every corner was clean enough to make even a neat person feel messy.
The furniture downstairs was expensive but minimal,soft leather, sleek tables, carefully selected rugs. Nothing was cluttered. Nothing was left "just because." Every space was deliberate, designed to impress without excess.
There was a quietness here that wasn't peaceful, it was controlled.
Even the staff moved silently, dressed in clean uniforms, speaking softly, never lingering too long in one place. They blended into the background so completely it was like the house swallowed them and released them only when needed.
Somewhere deeper inside the estate were rooms reserved for private meetings. Business spaces disguised as lounges. Dining rooms large enough for power plays. Offices where signatures could decide futures. The kind of house where laughter could sound like a weapon depending on who was laughing.
Raven Crest wasn't just a home.
It was a world.
A world where power lived, where status breathed, where family conflicts could hide behind perfect curtains and polished floors. A world where control was not only practiced, it was worshipped.
And for anyone who entered it without belonging, the message was clear:
You were allowed in.
But you were never equal.
******
Kael Thorne's bedroom was not designed for rest.
It was designed for control.
Situated at the far end of the upper floor, the room was isolated by a private, soundproof corridor.
Access required biometric authorization, fingerprint and retinal scan. Privacy here was not a preference. It was a rule. A boundary. A statement.
The room was expansive but restrained.
Charcoal grey, black, and steel tones dominated the space, giving it the feel of a high-end suite rather than a place someone lived.
There were no personal photos. No sentimental objects. No framed memories smiling from a bedside table.
Nothing that could be used against him.
Sleep was a function, not a luxury.
A king-sized bed sat perfectly made, untouched by softness. The sheets were smooth, tight, like they had been stretched into obedience. A single throw lay folded at the foot, not for comfort, but for symmetry.
The furniture was minimal: a sleek side table, a modern chair that didn't invite relaxation, a wardrobe door that closed silently like a vault.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Norwind's skyline, the city spread out beneath like a living organism. Lights blinked and moved, cars crawled like ants, and from up here the noise of struggle became distant, manageable.
When Kael wanted the world gone, blackout curtains sealed it away completely, plunging the room into a controlled darkness where nothing could reach him.
A sleek desk lined with multiple screens sat against one wall, and it saw more use than the bed itself. There were always files open. Reports. Emails. Contracts. Numbers that dictated real-life outcomes. A digital clock glowed quietly beside a stack of neatly arranged documents.
The faint hum of the air system filled the silence like a metronome.
Kael liked the hum.
It was consistent.
Predictable.
Unlike people.
He checked the time without needing to look at his watch. His body ran on routine. He had trained himself into it over the years, the way soldiers trained muscle memory. The earlier he started his day, the more control he had over it. Control over time meant control over outcomes.
And control was everything.
He rose without hesitation, already dressed, classic black suit, white shirt, silk tie. No wrinkles. No wasted movement. His cufflinks were simple, expensive without needing to prove it. His watch sat firmly on his wrist like a reminder that time belonged to him if he was disciplined enough to claim it.
He collected his phones, two personal, one for work, and slid them into his pocket with the same quiet precision he applied to everything else. He didn't check messages yet. He didn't need the world rushing at him before he was ready. He would enter the day on his own terms.
Kael Thorne thrived on discipline.
Not because he enjoyed it, but because he had learned what happened without it.
Growing up in the Thorne household was like living inside a glass cage, beautiful from the outside, suffocating from within.
The walls were polished and the floors shone, but the air was thick with rivalry, resentment, and unspoken violence.
He was the first son of Roderic Thorne, born to the second wife, Freya, in a family divided by tension that never truly slept. The Thornes didn't fight the way ordinary families fought. Ordinary families shouted, cooled down, and moved on.
The Thornes kept score.
A look could be a declaration. A silence could be punishment. A dinner could become a battlefield without anyone raising a voice.
Kael learned early that emotions were liabilities. That kindness could be interpreted as weakness. That softness attracted predators, even in your own bloodline. He watched adults smile while sharpening knives behind their backs. He watched loyalty bought and sold like property. He watched his father, powerful and untouchable, treat people like pawns in a game only he understood.
And he learned.
He learned how to listen without reacting.
How to speak without revealing.
How to keep his face still even when something inside him burned.
He learned how to control chaos by becoming colder than it.
Every decision he made, every habit he formed, had one objective: control over chaos.
That was why his room looked like it did.
That was why his life ran like a machine.
Because machines didn't break down from feelings.
He left his room, walking down the soundproof corridor with steady steps. The house was already awake. Staff moved quietly.
Somewhere, cutlery clinked faintly. Somewhere, a voice rose just a little too sharply, then lowered again, controlled anger disguised as conversation.