Morning light slipped through the sheer curtains of Laylee Blake's bedroom, painting soft gold across her walls and catching the sheen of the flame-gilded frames that lined her bookshelves. She was already awake, seated at the edge of her velvet-upholstered bench, long legs crossed, posture poised. Her fingers danced through the clasps of her uniform robes as she buttoned the final layer. Silver flames embroidered into crimson silk shimmered with each breath she took.
Today was no different from any other—at least, it shouldn't have been. She was expected in her mother's study by the hour's second bell. There were tax scrolls to verify, transport permits to issue, and the updated patrol routes to examine from the northern farmlands. The Blake Barony ran like a clockwork engine, and she was the key that kept the cogs in motion. Her mother depended on her, and Laylee never failed expectations.
And yet, this morning… she paused.
Her hand lingered above her palm, fingers spread. She took a breath, focused her will, and summoned flame.
The spark bloomed instantly. A small fire licked upward from her palm—vivid orange, warm, obedient.
She waited.
For the migraine. The pressure behind her eyes. The shallow breath. The trembling in her fingers. The clammy sweat that always dampened her palms when she pushed her control even slightly.
Nothing.
Her eyes widened.
She dispersed the flame and tried again. Once more, it formed, steady and complete. No backlash. No instability. No screaming pulse behind her skull.
She tried a third time, this time invoking a small directional wisp, letting the flame swirl in a tight corkscrew pattern before compressing it into a sphere the size of a peach.
Still nothing.
The pain was gone.
The symptoms—gone.
She let the flame fade and slowly clenched her hand into a fist. Her breath trembled—not from strain, but from exhilaration.
It worked.
After all this time… it actually worked.
She closed her eyes, exhaling deeply as months—no, years—of internal frustration began to peel away like old skin. She had suffered quietly through this for so long, buried beneath the weight of expectations, scouring tomes from the Magic Tower, consulting half a dozen instructors, combing her family's library and even questioning her sister—nothing had helped. The instability remained no matter what method she used. She had even begun to wonder if her talent had already plateaued. If she had reached the limits of her potential without ever realizing it.
But then he had spoken.
"You're premature in your applications."
Those ridiculous words, thrown from the mouth of a disgrace, had wormed their way into her mind. And now—she clenched her fist tighter—now she owed him.
She looked toward the mirror.
An eighteen-year-old woman stared back at her—tall, athletic, with eyes sharp like cut emerald, and long silver hair cascading over her shoulder in a braid that shimmered in the morning sun. She was the firstborn daughter of House Blake. The heir.
And yet… she wasn't alone in that reflection.
It's been eight years… she thought, since I first met that boy.
She remembered him. A chubby little thing with hands always sticky from sweets, cheeks permanently red, eyes too large for his face, always peeking out from behind the hem of her dress or tugging at Crystal's sleeves. Back then, they had been close. She, Crystal, and the newly adopted younger brother—brought in after her mother remarried a lesser noble who had been widowed in the war.
Adam Blake.
He used to smile easily.
When had that stopped?
She couldn't say. Somewhere between the tantrums, the gluttony, the bruised servants, and the whispered reports of his misconduct. Somewhere along the way, the boy she once protected had become the pig she ignored.
So why now? Why the sudden change?
She turned from the mirror and strode to her door.
"Maerlin," she said, voice composed but firm.
The door opened instantly. A male servant—barely sixteen, dressed in the fitted black robes of the household staff—bowed at once. His eyes never rose higher than her feet.
"Yes, esteemed heir?"
"I will be late for the morning session with mother. Tell her I've something to attend to first. I'll arrive before third bell."
The boy bowed again. "At once, my lady."
She didn't wait for his footsteps to fade before she was already on the move.
Her heels echoed through the stone corridor as she made her way to the western wing. Past the greenhouse atrium. Past the old painting of the First Matriarch. Past the double-doors carved with wolf insignias, now slightly faded with time. She stopped in front of a much less ornate door—paint chipped at the edges, handle slightly loose, one of the lower hinges a little rusted from years of humidity.
Adam's door.
She stood there for a moment, arms crossed.
No matter their age, no matter their relationship, it was improper for a grown woman to barge into a man's personal quarters—especially if that man was young and unmarried. Even if he was her brother.
She raised her hand and knocked twice.
Silence.
Then came the familiar, muffled voice—groggy, definitely surprised.
"Who is it?"
"Laylee," she answered simply.
There was a pause, followed by a loud thump, then another. Shuffling. Probably him tripping over something while scrambling to change. A strange sound—a drawer closing? A basin of water sloshing?
After a moment, the door creaked open.
Adam stood there, slightly hunched in the doorway, wearing a cleaned tunic and pants that fit him just a little better than they did yesterday. His skin looked… clearer. Healthier. Gone were the red boils, the yellow undertone of unhealthy indulgence. Even his bloated cheeks seemed to have receded somewhat, revealing hints of cheekbone and jawline. His posture was still awkward, but not pathetic. He smelled faintly of something herbal—soap?
And his room, from what little she could see past his shoulder, was tidy.
Her eyes narrowed.
"…Did you lose weight?"
He blinked at her, eyes wide like a deer caught in torchlight.
"Uh… maybe?"
She stepped closer, peering past him. Gone was the pile of snack wrappers, the used clothes on the floor, the old parchment strewn around. The bed was made. His desk had been wiped clean. The air no longer stank of sweat and fermented sugar.
She looked back at him.
He looked back at her.
What the hell happened to you?
She didn't say it aloud. But her thoughts burned with the weight of it.
How could someone change this much… in just one day?