Aysel's knuckles were bone-white as she gripped the rough cloth. She scrubbed the already gleaming marble, the same cursed stone that had long since forgotten her name. Her blurred reflection shimmered back at her in the polished surface—smudged, distorted, as if the floor itself refused to recognize her. Each swirl of the rag became a ritual, part prayer, part defiance. Clean. Stay clean. Let them choke on their own perfection.
"Are you quite finished admiring your reflection in the tiles, Aysel?"
Zeraphine's voice, sharp and cold as a winter wind, cut through the quiet hum of the afternoon. Aysel's shoulders tensed. Her eldest stepsister, a formidable necromancer with hair as dark as midnight and eyes the startling blue of a frozen lake, watched her from across the vast drawing-room. Beside her, Calista, equally dark-haired and blue-eyed, sipped her tea with an air of practiced indifference. Both of them, beautiful in a way that screamed of their mother's lineage, a beauty Aysel could never truly claim.
Just keep scrubbing, Aysel. Don't look up. Don't breathe too loudly.
She dragged the cloth again, fingers cramping, the lemon-slick scent stinging her eyes. Every stroke was another whispered apology to the floor that still refused to reflect her. Aysel, the unwanted inkblot on the family's spotless parchment. Or so Velira, her stepmother, never failed to remind her.
A maid. My mother, a maid.
Aysel's grip tightened. Her mother, whose face she knew only from a faded miniature locked away in her own hidden compartment, a face etched with a quiet dignity, not the fearful, desperate look of someone who would willingly succumb to Lord Corvin Blackthorne. Aysel knew her father, the powerful, respected witch, a man whose ambition was as vast and unforgiving as the northern wastes. No, her mother wouldn't have chosen him. Aysel had seen enough of his casual cruelty, his possessive gaze, to know. She'd wager everything she owned—which was nothing—that her mother had been forced. Raped. A violent acquisition, not a love affair. The thought was a bitter pill, one she swallowed every single day.
Zeraphine sighed dramatically, a sound that grated on Aysel's nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Honestly, Calista, must we endure this tedious display every afternoon? One would think the girl had never seen a clean floor before."
Calista lowered her teacup with an exaggerated sigh. "Perhaps she's just hoping to scrub herself into the marble—then she'd finally be invisible enough to please Mother." Her gaze flickered to Aysel, a brief, predatory glint in its depths. "Though I do wonder if her… enthusiasm might be better suited to polishing her own rather dull prospects."
Aysel bit back a retort. Dull prospects. Her prospects were simple: survive another day. Endure another humiliation. Find a way, any way, to escape this gilded cage.
Zeraphine shifted topics with a feigned softness. "Did you see Prince Raith at the Royal Soirée?"
Calista's eyes lit up. "Midnight hair, eyes like obsidian, and that aura—pure, ancient power. A true match for a Blackthorne."
Aysel focused on a water stain in the marble, pretending not to listen. But she drank in every word. Not for the prince—but for the idea that someone like her might someday be seen, not simply overlooked.
"Indeed," Zeraphine agreed, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Though I confess, I was quite taken with Lord Arion. He has a certain… intensity."
"Lord Arion is a fool," Calista scoffed, a sudden sharpness in her tone. "Remember how he fawned over you, Zeraphine? And then, when I finally permitted him to court me, he couldn't stop staring at…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes narrowing on Aysel.
Aysel felt a shiver run down her spine. She knew. She always knew. Lord Arion, a handsome, if somewhat simpering, nobleman, had indeed sought to woo Calista. But his gaze had lingered—just long enough to be noticed. Not by her. By Calista. A single glance, and suddenly Aysel had stepped into a different kind of danger. The kind that brewed in teacups and spilled in blood.
"He was quite taken with your… unique charm, wasn't he, Aysel?" Calista's voice was laced with venom, sweet and deadly. "Almost as if he mistook a common scrub-girl for a lady of refinement."
Aysel kept her eyes glued to the floor, her ears burning. Just ignore her. It's a trap.
"Perhaps," Zeraphine said, her voice dry, "we should focus on the current task at hand. Aysel, are you quite sure you've scrubbed every last imperfection from that dreadful floor?"
Aysel pressed down harder, her arm aching. "Yes, Zeraphine. It's clean."
"No, it's not!" Zeraphine's voice rose, a sharp command. "Scrub it properly, girl! Do you think I enjoy watching you dawdle?"
Aysel's patience, a thin thread stretched to its breaking point, snapped. "I am cleaning it properly!" she retorted, her voice barely a whisper, yet loud enough to pierce the polite facade of the room.
Aysel felt the surge of magic before she saw it. A cold, invisible force slammed into her. Her head hit the marble floor with a sickening thud, stars exploding behind her eyes. Pain, sharp and immediate, flared through her skull. She gasped, tasting blood.
"Never, ever speak back to my sister, you pathetic worm!" Calista's face, contorted in a mask of rage, hovered above her. Her blue eyes, usually so calculating, blazed with raw fury. "Do you hear me? You are a servant, a bastard, and you will do as you're told. You will obey."
Aysel lay there, dazed, the throbbing in her head echoing the thumping of her heart. She could feel the cool, slick marble against her cheek. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
Calista's voice had turned to frost. "He stared at you." Aysel didn't answer—what could she say? Denial would be a lie.
Then came the silence. A beat too long. A teacup placed down just a shade too carefully.
Suddenly, pain exploded across her scalp. Calista yanked her hair, her breath hot with fury. "Do you think you're clever? That you can steal looks like a thief in the night?"
Aysel whimpered, her scalp screaming in protest. This was it. The whipping. Or worse. Her breath hitched in her throat, a raw knot of fear.
Just then, a light, cheerful voice tinkled through the room, cutting through the tense silence like a fragile bell. "Calista! Zeraphine! There you are!"
Elysara, the youngest Blackthorne sister, skipped into the room, her blonde hair bouncing, her blue eyes wide and seemingly innocent. She was the picture of youthful vivacity, a stark contrast to her older sisters' colder beauty. But Aysel knew better. Elysara's sweetness was a carefully constructed mask, hiding a streak of cruelty as sharp as any of her siblings'.
"Forgive Aysel, won't you, Calista?" Elysara chirped, practically dancing over to them. "I need her for something terribly important!"
Calista's grip on Aysel's hair loosened, though her expression remained thunderous. "And what could be so important that it interrupts a much-needed lesson?"
"Oh, just a little secret, my dear sister," Elysara said with a conspiratorial wink. She tugged at Aysel's arm, practically dragging her away from the glare of Zeraphine and Calista. "Come along, Aysel. Time is of the essence!"
Aysel, still reeling from the blow to her head, stumbled along behind Elysara, grateful for the reprieve, however brief. Elysara led her to a quiet alcove by a stained-glass window, the light filtering through in jewel-toned patterns.
"Look, Aysel!" Elysara whispered, her voice bubbling with an almost childlike glee. She pulled a small, intricately carved wooden charm from the pocket of her gown. It was dark, almost black, with ancient, swirling symbols etched into its surface. A faint, almost imperceptible hum resonated from it, a thrumming that Aysel felt deep in her bones.
The house quieted around them, the only sound the distant ticking of the grandfather clock—each second a nail in whatever coffin Aysel was being dragged toward.
Her eyes widened. "What is that?" she breathed, her voice raspy. "And how… how did you come to possess it?"
Elysara's smile remained, but her blue eyes hardened, losing their innocent sparkle. "I'm in a good mood, Aysel, so I shall forgive your audacity to ask such stupid questions. What it is, is none of your business. As for how I came to possess it, well, a little bird told me where to find it." She tilted her head, her smile widening into something less pleasant. "Now, I need you to hide it for me. Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one will ever find it."
Aysel stared at the charm, then back at Elysara. A little bird. A lie. Elysara was an accomplished spy for their father, a master of deception. She knew better than to believe anything that fell from her lips. And the charm… the power radiating from it was immense, a silent roar against her skin. It felt… forbidden. Dangerous.
"I… I don't know where to hide it," Aysel said, trying to keep her voice even. She refused to take it. She wouldn't be a pawn in Elysara's games, not in this.
Elysara's charming smile vanished, replaced by a sneer that twisted her youthful features into something ugly. Slap! The sound cracked through the alcove like a whip. Her cheek flamed, but she stayed silent. Not because she forgave—but because she was memorizing. Cataloging every hurt. One day, it would all return to them.
"Don't you dare refuse me, Aysel!" Elysara snarled, her fingers digging into Aysel's hair, yanking her head back. "Do you know what I'll do to you if you don't take this? I'll tell Father you stole it. I'll say you're dabbling in dark magic. He'll flay you alive, and then he'll break every bone in your body before tossing you to the familiars!" Her voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. "Now, you will take this. And you will hide it."
She thrust the charm into Aysel's trembling hand. It felt cold at first—then alive, like a second heartbeat that wasn't hers. The moment it touched her skin, it jolted her—electric, ancient, alive. This charm was watching her. Choosing her. Aysel's fingers curled around it, tucking it quickly into the folds of her worn dress, near her heart.
"Back to work, now!" Calista's voice cut through the air, impatient and demanding.
Aysel swallowed hard. Her head throbbed, her cheek stung, and a dangerous, illicit power pulsed against her ribs. She walked back towards the drawing-room, her heart a frantic drum against the forbidden charm hidden beneath her dress.
Zeraphine's blue eyes, sharp and discerning, narrowed on her as she approached. Aysel could feel it—the subtle shift in the air, the way the power of the charm emanated from her, a silent beacon.
"What is that you're holding, Aysel?" Zeraphine's voice dropped an octave. The air shifted—colder, watchful. Shadows along the walls deepened, inching closer like sentries.
Aysel's blood ran cold. "It's… it's nothing, Zeraphine."
Zeraphine rose from her seat, her elegant figure casting a long shadow over Aysel. "Don't you dare lie to me, girl. I can feel the power emanating from you. A raw, untamed magic. And you, Aysel, are nothing but a powerless human. Tell me the truth, or I swear to the Ancestors, I will break your neck where you stand."
Aysel's gaze darted from Zeraphine's stony face to Calista, whose eyes were now fixed on her with a chilling curiosity. Elysara stood behind them, a faint, cruel smile playing on her lips. She was trapped. No escape.
Her trembling hand reached into her dress, pulling out the carved charm—its pulse so strong now, she swore it echoed off the marble. As she raised it, the floor shimmered faintly, her reflection warped and shifting beneath it. Not a servant anymore. Something else. Something dangerous.
The air crackled with unseen energy as Aysel held it aloft, its forbidden power pulsing like a silent scream. Zeraphine recoiled, eyes wide, lips parting in shock. Calista's teacup slipped from her fingers and shattered. Elysara only smiled.