It was the Flaball Day.
Beyond the Duchy’s frost-laced windows, ti had splintered into a hundred frantic rituals. The servants hurried, passing silver trays between halls. Florists hauled flowers to be braided into garlands. Ladders creaked as chandeliers were adjusted. Everything had to be perfect.
At the center of it all, Lady Elyria Montclair stood with a hawk’s calmness. The matron of the Ashenholt Duchy, she could paralyze an entire staff with the arch of one brow. Two stewards flanked her, tight-lipped and alert, clutching their ledgers like shields.
She inspected the details like a general reviewing a battlefield—checking table runners, wall hangings, the position of every flower arrangent. "Who placed hyacinth there?"
A young florist froze, halfway up a ladder. "M-My lady, I.."
"You wished to hang a flower sacred to the dead above the hearth where my son’s honor is to be announced?"
The girl went pale.
"Remove it," Elyria snapped, gaze sliding on. "Burn it if you must."
"Yes, my lady." The florist bowed so deeply she nearly toppled the ladder.
Elyria turned her eyes to the banquet table. "Is that velvet or crushed satin?" she asked, her voice ripped again, enough to draw blood.
A steward glanced up from the long banquet table, already sweating beneath his collar. "Velvet, Your Grace."
Lady Elyria’s eyes narrowed. "Moon-dyed velvet," she corrected, tone glacial. "Not lead-soaked cotton parading as nobility. Do you mistake Flaball for a harvest dance or what?"
The steward stamred. "I-It will... be replaced at once, Your Grace. Forgive ."
The steward’s apology died behind her. Lady Elyria walked away with the sa finality as a judge passing sentence. Forgiveness was not a currency she dealt in.
The hall now moved twice as fast. Servants and decorators flinched as she passed, adjusting ribbon angles and flower arrangents with trembling fingers.
*****
The mirror reflected perfection.
Silver silk. Crimson lining. Steel boning and pearl clasps. It was exactly as Marcella had asked, perhaps even better. She stood before a triple-paneled mirror, while three apprentices worked around her.
The seamstress, Madam Riventin and her apprentices flitted nearby, pinning, smoothing, checking every inch of the gown. One apprentice knelt to adjust the hem, another polished the pearl clasps on her sleeves.
The silver gown hugged her figure exactly as it should. The sleeves were cut to show the curve of her collarbone without baring it fully. The skirt fanned into subtle layers.
Even the corset felt right. Tight enough to shape her waist, but not enough to choke her.
Marcella looked like a princess carved from frost and starlight.
Riventin stepped back, brushing the front of her apron as she studied the work. "No puckering in the seams," she said crisply. "Corset aligned. Stitching intact."
Marcella turned slowly, her gaze tracking the curve of her own reflection. She tilted her head, examining herself from every angle. "Beautifully done."
Marcella rembered this dress from the ball night of her past life. The silver gown that had torn down the spine. This ti, she had made sure.
Riventin dipped into a small bow. "We’re honored, Your Grace."
Marcella offered a smile, the kind ant to say thank you but not too much. There were always ears in the room, even when there weren’t mouths speaking.
The seamstress and her apprentices began gathering their tools and slipped from the chamber. The door clicked shut behind them.
Not soon after they had exited, a knock ca, gentler this ti, followed by a familiar voice. "Going to make wait in the corridor like a stranger, Marcie?"
Marcella’s head snapped toward the door.
Rachel. Her elder sister.
The door opened, and Lady Rachel Valemont stepped inside. She was clad in a deep forest-green cloak, travel-dusted at the hem, her blonde hair pinned in a loose twist with golden clips. Her face was wind-pinked from the road, her blue eyes tired..but alight.
And then she smiled.
Marcella crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her sister, breathing her in like sothing she didn’t know she missed until now. "You’re really here," she whispered, pulling Rachel into a tight embrace.
Rachel hugged her tighter, burying her face into Marcella’s shoulder. "Of course, I am. You think I would miss the ball and my sister playing the Duchess of Ashenholt?"
"You look exhausted," Marcella pulled back, brushing a loose strand from Rachel’s forehead.
Rachel plopped onto the chaise with a dramatic sigh. "I’m half-frozen and entirely carriage-sore."
Marcella poured her a cup of warm apple tea from the waiting tray, steaming gently. She handed it over and sat across from her.
"Mother and Father?" she asked.
Rachel shook her head. "They couldn’t co. The situation in Cardania has grown...tense."
Marcella looked away. She had expected it but hoped anyway. "So only you ca?"
"Anthony and Crown Prince are also here, though," Rachel added. "They arrived with in the morning."
Marcella’s gaze snapped back to her. "I see."
Rachel took a sip of tea.
"Sister... I never got the chance to say it." Marcella set her cup down, eting her gaze. "I’m sorry."
Rachel tilted her head. "For?"
Marcella set her tea aside. "For taking your place." she continued. "It was supposed to be you. The marriage with Berith. It was all arranged for you and then everything changed at the last minute. I stepped in and I never got to look you in the eye and say I was sorry for stealing that future from you."
Marcella felt tears sting the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. She was really sorry for Rachel, for whatever misdeed she did against Rachel in her past life.
Rachel didn’t answer right away. Then she smiled, a little tired, a little sad. "You didn’t steal anything, Marcie."
Marcella looked down. "It still feels like I did."
Rachel set her cup aside and crossed the space between them, gently taking her sister’s hands. "You were the rightful vessel for the pact. Everyone knew it, even . The Fla would’ve burned alive. It had to be you."
"That doesn’t make it easier," Marcella drawled. "The Duke..."
"was never mine," Rachel finished. "He didn’t even look at the way he looked at you."
Marcella only looked at her sister—the girl who had once braided flowers into her hair and stolen pastries from the kitchen.
Rachel squeezed her hands, "I don’t hold a grudge, Marcie. You were our hope. I don’t envy you. I just... wish they had given you more ti to choose."
She squeezed back, her voice soft. "You deserved more too, Rach."
The scent of tea and perfu went sour. The golden morning light from the balcony dimd to sothing grey and strange.
Rachel’s words faded to a whisper. "Marcie?"
Marcella blinked, a tight, unfamiliar pressure blood behind her eyes. Her lungs urged to fight for air that suddenly felt too thick, as if soone had poured smoke into the room and locked the doors.
Sothing inside her chest twisted, coiling like heat rising too fast. She staggered back, one hand flying to her sternum.
"Marcie..what is it?" Rachel stood up, reaching for her.
But her body wasn’t listening. Her knees buckled with her hand clawed at the vanity for balance, fingertips scraping across glass.
And then..
The mirror shattered open.
The warmth of the dressing room was gone. Rachel’s voice was gone. She wasn’t in the chamber anymore.
The air was colder, thicker and choking.
Marcella was lying in the dirt. The ground was damp beneath her cheek, slick with blood and moss and sothing she couldn’t na. Her limbs wouldn’t move. Her right arm was pinned beneath her body at a wrong angle, her ribs throbbing with every shallow breath.
Sothing sharp pressed against her back. Marcella tried to lift her head but her neck scread. The silver gown clung to her, all torn, filthy, soaked at the hem in blood.
Pain lanced down her spine like lightning and yet her body wasn’t what frightened her.
It was the forest.
Black Vale.
Marcella didn’t know how she knew the na. She just did.
The trees towered overhead—twisted, gnarled, dead things that looked like they had grown from corpses instead of soil. Their branches reached down like arms trying to drag her deeper.
The air stead, as if the land itself were trying to exhale sothing rotten.
A hum filled the air. No—not a hum.
A chant.
Marcella wasn’t alone. As the realization sank deep, she forced to open her eyes wide. She tried to speak, tried to scream. Her lips parted..
No sound ca.
Only breath. Only terror.
The chanting grew louder, thick and heavy, full of words she couldn’t understand, but that scraped across her mind.
"You are the vessel.
You are the offering."
Her stomach dropped, bile rising in her throat.
Then sothing unexpected happened:
The Fla erupted from inside her. It didn’t burn her..it burned everything else around her.
A pulse of searing white-hot fire burst from her sternum, blinding and pure. Everything around her scattered into ashes. The forest howled as if in pain. The ground split open.
And the vision..
It shattered.
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