Xiaolan sat on the edge of the bed, her hands still stained with the faint red from Gela's wrist. The sunlight spilled gently into the room, touching everything except the cold body beside her. It felt wrong—how soft and golden the morning was, as if the world hadn't noticed that Gela was gone.
The sisters entered eventually. One screamed. The others rushed in, speaking in hushed, frantic voices. But Xiaolan didn't move. She kept her forehead pressed against Gela's, like she could still hear her whisper:
"We'll go to the sea…"
They tried to pull her away.
She screamed.
They shouted at her.
She clung to Gela's lifeless body with all the strength her small arms could give. It took two of them to drag her away, her sobs ripping through the quiet halls of the orphanage.
She didn't stop crying.
Not when they wrapped Gela in white sheets.
Not when they carried her away like she was just another chore.
Not even when they scrubbed Xiaolan's hands raw, as if the blood could be erased like a bad dream.
That night, she didn't sleep. She just stared at the empty bed beside her, her fingers clutching the last piece of bread Gela had ever given her. Stale. Hard. But she didn't eat it.
She just held it.
Because it still smelled like her.
And because she was afraid—terrified—that if she let go, she'd start to forget.
Lord Frings stood still in the doorway, the scent of stale bread and burned oil hanging in the air. The matron bowed nervously, trying to explain the incident—how the girl named Gela had taken her life.
He barely listened.
His eyes found her instantly.
A fragile child, curled on the floor by the window. Hair black as the night before war,
Her skin held the soft gold hue of Avalorian blood—like faded parchment touched by moonlight. Eyes shaped like falling petals, lips pressed in a line of quiet defiance.
Lord Frings stopped in his tracks.
He had seen nobles force their daughters to learn poise, but this child had it naturally. The grace of Avaloria—an enemy's culture, yet here it sat and pure.
No fidgeting. No tears.
Only silence.
"Avalorian?" he asked again, voice low.
"Yes," the matron replied, "or so we believe. She has the features. The presence."
Presence. That was the right word. Not just beauty, but something deeper—dignity, even here, even now.
Lord Frings crossed the room with deliberate steps, each footfall echoing in the tense silence.
"Can I take her already?" His voice was low but sharp, demanding as if he were ordering a servant.
The sister, standing nearby, stiffened at his approach. "I'm afraid not now, Milord," she replied with a bow, her tone respectful but strained, as if she feared his anger.
Frings raised an eyebrow. "Hmmm? You let one girl die and yet you would not allow me this one? This beauty?" His voice grew darker, tinged with something more dangerous, and his eyes shifted toward Xiaolan again, taking in her young, untouched face.
The sister hesitated, her hands twisting nervously. "But Milord, she hasn't even flowered yet. She is still too young. Don't worry, I'm sure she will bloom soon."
"Fine. But better be she ready in a short time. I'm growing impatient."
The sister bowed deeply. "Yes, Milord."
Frings' gaze lingered on Xiaolan one last time, and for a moment, the silence in the room thickened, filled only by the distant sounds of the crumbling world outside. His voice, when it came, was softer, but the malice still simmered beneath his words. "I shall have her, sister. And she will be perfect. Make sure of that."
With a final glance at the girl, Frings turned and strode out, the door slamming behind him with an ominous finality.
The sister let out a quiet breath she didn't realize she was holding. She turned to look at Xiaolan, who, despite her youth, seemed to hold a glimmer of defiance in her eyes.
'Soon,' the sister thought, her mind racing. 'We must get her ready soon.'
The days and months after Gela's death passed like a blur for Xiaolan.
She stopped talking. Stopped smiling. The once curious, bright-eyed girl who asked about the sea and giggled at bread crumbs now sat motionless, like a doll left behind in a dusty attic.
At meals, she barely touched her food. When the sisters scolded her, she didn't flinch. When they pulled her away from Gela's now-empty bed, she didn't resist. Her eyes stared past everything and everyone, lost in a world only she could see.
In that world, Gela still lived.
She still whispered promises under the moonlight. She still gave her secret pieces of bread. She still laughed when Xiaolan mispronounced big words.
But when night came and Xiaolan reached across the bed to hold her hand—there was nothing.
The dreams started shortly after. In them, Gela stood (on what Xiaolan believe the sea is), waist-deep in silver water, smiling. But her wrists bled red trails into the waves, and no matter how far Xiaolan ran, she couldn't reach her. She always woke up screaming into her pillow.
The sisters called it hysteria. They beat her for it.
Sometimes she'd hear the other girls whisper behind her. "That's the one who slept beside the dead girl." "Maybe she's cursed too."
Xiaolan didn't argue. Maybe she was.
She stopped asking questions. Stopped dreaming of the sea.
But the fire didn't die—just buried.
Every time she passed the window and saw the open field beyond, her fists clenched. Every time she saw the sisters clean the beds with vinegar like nothing happened, her teeth gritted. Every time she saw Lord Frings' black carriage, she remembered Gela's pale body—and her promise.
'One day… I'll run. I'll run so far no one can touch me again. For both of us.'
And so Xiaolan waited.
Quietly.
But not broken.
One day, Xiaolan woke up so early with a strange warmth between her legs. Still groggy, she sat up and looked down—only to see dark red staining the sheets. Her heart pounded. For a moment, she thought she was dying. But then she remembered Gela.
The blood. The whispers.
The word "flowered."
Her hands trembled as she reached beneath the blanket.
The same warmth. The same sign.
Tears welled in her eyes—not from pain, but fear. 'No… not me too… not now.' She curled into herself, clutching the bedsheet. Gela's voice echoed in her mind—
"If we flower, he'll come." Xiaolan began to silently sob.
Xiaolan scrubbed the blood-stained sheet in the water, tears slipping down her cheeks. The cold bit at her hands as she whispered over and over, "Please, please…" Her voice cracked with panic. Her small hands, trembling, brushed at the stain again and again as if she could erase what it meant.
"What are you doing?" a voice came behind her.
She froze.
Her breath caught. Her knees stiffened.
"Look at me," the voice asked again—gentle, but firm.
Xiaolan turned her head slowly.
"Sister Clea…" she whispered, her lips trembling.
The young sister blinked, stunned as she saw what Xiaolan was doing. Blood on the linen. Xiaolan's tear-streaked face. Her small frame shaking in fear.
'She just turned ten…' Clea thought, her heart sinking.
And suddenly—she remembered. Gela. The morning they found her. The bed. The same blood. The same fear.
Clea knelt down, putting her hand on Xiaolan's shoulder.
"Shhhh… go wash up, Xiaolan," she said softly. "I'll take care of this. Don't worry."
Xiaolan nodded slowly, her mouth quivering. "O-Okay…"
As Xiaolan disappeared into the washroom, Clea stood in silence.
She held the stained sheet for a moment—then summoned a small flame in her hand. The fire licked the cloth until it crumbled into ash. She exhaled and walked to the storage room, fetched a clean sheet, and quietly returned to remake the bed.
'It's our duty… I know that,' she thought, tucking in the corners tightly. 'But the look on her face… she's still just a child.'
Sister Clea stood by the tub, arms crossed as Xiaolan scrubbed the bloodstained shirt, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"Stop that," Clea said, voice low and rough. "You'll scrape a hole through it, and your hands too."
Xiaolan sniffled, not stopping.
Clea stepped closer. "You're bleeding. It's your moonblood. Happens to every girl sooner or later. Means your body's ready now—to bleed, to bear, to be taken."
Xiaolan froze.
"You think crying will stop it? That someone'll come and make it all better?" Clea snorted. "No one's coming. Not here."
She reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a folded square of rough cloth.
"This is a mooncloth. Fold it, stuff it down there. When it's soaked, take it out and bring it to me. I'll burn it. You don't wash it, don't hide it. You hear me?"
Xiaolan nodded slowly, hands shaking as she took it.
Clea crouched beside her. "You don't talk about it to the others. Especially not the older sisters. You bring it to me and no one else."
"I… okay," Xiaolan whispered.
Clea gave a short nod. "You bleed, you hand it off. I'll burn every damn one if I have to. You stay small, quiet, and clean. That's how you survive."
She stood and looked down at the girl. "We cover for each other, Xiaolan. Or we're all just meat."
Without waiting for a reply, she took the ruined shirt from the side, lit it with a flick of flame magic, and watched it curl into ash.
Before stepping away, Sister Clea paused. She crouched again, this time slower, and gently took Xiaolan's face into her hands—still damp from tears, eyes swollen and red.
Her voice softened, breaking through the usual hardness.
"Don't lose hope, okay?" she murmured. "Someday… someday the sun will shine upon us."