Elle sat by the window of her study, quill in hand, parchment blank. Snow fell outside, soft and silent, blanketing the world in white. It was peaceful — deceptively so. The same stillness that had surrounded her before her world had collapsed.
She had once watched snow like this and thought it beautiful. Now it reminded her of silence. Of poison. Of dying slowly in a bed no one visited.
The quill in her hand trembled slightly. She placed it down. Her eyes remained on the snow.
White and quiet — just like the life she once lived.
But this time, she would not sit still and fade.
I won't be powerless again.
The past few days had passed like a dream. A second chance wrapped in warmth. The sound of her brothers laughing. Her mother calling her name down the corridor. Her father's presence at the breakfast table, calm and steady.
It felt unreal. Fragile. Like one breath could shatter it.
And so, Elle hadn't wasted it.
While the warmth of reunion lingered, she quietly observed. Every small detail she had once ignored — her family's moods, their routines, the staff's behavior, the conversations they didn't think she heard — all of it was quietly collected. She took mental notes on who moved through the estate with too many secrets, who bowed too low, who lingered near her father's study after dusk.
Every moment mattered.
But now, she could no longer linger in silence. The warmth was not enough.
It was time to begin.
And the first step was finding someone.
She stood from her chair, straightened her gown, and left the study. Her slippers made no sound on the polished floor as she walked down the familiar halls — halls that, not long ago, had felt like a prison.
She headed for her father's private office.
---
The scent of parchment and ink filled the air as she entered. The large windows were half-frosted, and the fireplace burned low in the hearth, casting golden shadows across the bookshelves.
Duke Nigel Cecilia glanced up from a stack of ledgers, surprised. "Elodie?"
His voice was warm but curious. "You rarely come here."
She nodded, stepping forward with purpose. "There's someone I want you to hire. A tutor. Her name is Faye. She's a half-fairy scholar who specializes in history and ancient lore. You mentioned once that you considered her for the boys' education."
Nigel set his pen down. "I do remember her. She was highly recommended. But I hadn't planned to call her until winter. Why the sudden interest?"
Elle hesitated for only a breath. Then, steadily: "She once lectured about spirit contracts. I didn't understand her words then, but… I want to learn more. I want to study that path."
Her father's brows furrowed. "Elle… spirit contracts haven't been confirmed in generations. They're little more than myth now. Dangerous, if they ever were real."
"I know," she said, stepping closer. "But unlike summoning or taming, a spirit contract doesn't require a magic affinity."
Her voice lowered. "It requires will."
A long pause.
Her father studied her — the weight of his gaze heavy with concern, but beneath it, curiosity.
"You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?" he asked finally.
Elle smiled faintly. "Longer than you know."
Another pause. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair, tapping the desk with his fingers in thought.
At last, he reached for parchment. "Very well. I'll send for her."
Elle's chest rose in quiet relief. "Thank you, Father."
---
Two days later, Faye arrived.
She was as graceful as Elle remembered — tall, elegant, with silver-blue hair woven in a braid down her back. Her faintly luminous skin shimmered where the sunlight touched her, and her pointed ears were tucked behind a sheer veil.
She carried herself like someone untouched by time, like snow falling through centuries.
Upon meeting Elle privately, she raised a brow. "I've been summoned earlier than expected. And specifically requested by the young lady herself. What a curious honor."
Elle gave a polite bow. "It's because I have a question only you can answer."
Faye tilted her head, intrigued. "Do tell."
"What does it take to form a real spirit contract?"
For a moment, the air in the room changed.
Faye's smile faded into something quieter. Sharper.
"Ah," she said. "So that's what this is about."
---
Over tea and stacks of old scrolls, they began.
Faye was not a gentle tutor. Her words cut through myths like blades, stripping away fairytales and fables. She spoke of ancient contracts carved in fire, of blood-bound oaths, of spirits who demanded more than obedience — they demanded conviction.
"The spirits," she explained, "exist in a world parallel to ours. They are not made of flesh. They do not think as we do. They are essence — fire, wind, ice, shadow, time. They live by instinct and pride."
"And they hate mortals?" Elle asked.
"Not hate. They simply do not understand us. Our boundaries. Our hearts."
"Then how did people in the past contract them?"
"Through will," Faye said. "Not magic. Not noble birth. Not offerings of gold or jewels. Spirits answer only to those who dare to stand before them without fear."
"And if the person falters?"
"They devour you."
Elle's breath caught.
Faye sipped her tea, watching her closely. "They test. They deceive. They lure. Some grant power only to break their hosts. Others bond for life, becoming part of your soul. But only if you prove yourself worthy."
"No one has done it in centuries," Elle murmured.
"No one has survived it in centuries," Faye corrected.
Silence stretched between them.
Then Elle looked up. "That's why I have to walk it."
Faye leaned back in her chair, studying her. "You're serious."
"I don't have magic. Not like the others. But this… this is something I can reach. If I'm strong enough."
Faye tapped her nail against the rim of her cup. "Do you know what they demand?"
Elle nodded. "Everything."
The fairy tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly — not in judgment, but in assessment.
"Then let's begin."
---
The days that followed were grueling in their quiet way. There was no spellcasting. No dramatic rituals. Only study. Meditation. Will-sharpening exercises that forced Elle to examine every corner of herself — her fears, her guilt, her anger.
Faye had her memorize every known spirit name, every binding rite etched into forgotten stone. She was made to stand blindfolded in the snow at dawn, unmoving. She was made to listen — truly listen — to the sound of wind, of shifting frost, of magic that had no shape.
"Spirits don't listen to words," Faye said one day. "They listen to intent. To the shape of your soul when it is bare."
And Elle — bare, stripped of illusion — found something inside herself.
Something jagged. Something alive.
The storm was still there.
She carried the memory of her family's ruin in her marrow. The weight of her brothers' unburied bones. The echo of her mother's sobs behind closed doors. Her father's hollowed eyes behind prison bars. Her own still body, helpless as life drained away.
It was pain.
But also fuel.
---
One night, long after the estate had gone to sleep, Elle stood barefoot in the frost-covered courtyard. She wore only a cloak and her nightdress, breath visible in the moonlight.
She stretched out her hand to the sky.
"I don't have magic," she whispered. "But I have this."
Her voice didn't shake.
"Come to me. Test me. Try to break me. I won't kneel. I won't beg."
The wind rustled.
Something stirred.
Not power — not yet.
But the air grew sharper. As though something ancient had turned its gaze toward her.
She stood there until her fingers numbed, until her legs trembled.
But she didn't leave.
She wouldn't run. Not this time.
---
The next day, Faye handed her a scroll — old, frayed at the edges.
"Then it's time you learn the first rite," she said.
Elle opened the scroll with careful hands.
It was written in a language she did not yet know. But she would learn. She would master it.
Because this was only the beginning.
And Elle Cecilia was not here to survive.
She was here to reclaim.
To rewrite everything.
And this time, the ending would be hers.