Silence did not fall immediately.
It crept in.
Slowly.
Like mist reclaiming a battlefield.
The smoke from the failed fireworks still drifted across the garden, thin and grey against the night sky. The scent of rain lingered — though there was no rain anymore. The frost had melted. The grass no longer shimmered with ice. The moon hung at its proper height, innocent and distant.
As though it had not burned brighter than the sun moments ago.
Aurèlle lay unmoving on the damp earth.
Every muscle trembled.
Not from cold.
From absence.
The power that had filled her seconds before — roaring, vast, endless — was gone. Drained from her veins so completely she felt hollowed out.
Around her, the court stood in stunned stillness.
No one rushed forward.
No one spoke.
They were afraid to move.
Dahlia was the first to break the silence.
She dropped to her knees beside her sister, hands hovering before finally touching her face, her shoulders, as if confirming she was real.
"Aurèlle," she whispered. "Look at me."
Aurèlle blinked.
The glow was gone.
Her eyes were green again.
Just green.
Confused.
Human.
"I didn't…" Her voice cracked. "I didn't mean to."
"I know," Dahlia said quickly, though her voice shook.
Across the ruined lawn, vines lay scattered and lifeless now, already sinking back into the soil as if ashamed of what they had done.
The guests began to murmur.
Low.
Uneasy.
"Did you see the sky—"
"The sun was there—"
"That was not blooming—"
"It was her mother's power—"
"No," someone countered, hushed but firm. "Stronger."
And then—
The sound of deliberate footsteps.
Measured.
Controlled.
The stepmother emerged from the drifting smoke, gown torn at the hem but posture restored. Her hair had been smoothed back. Her expression had been rebuilt.
She looked immaculate.
Except for her eyes.
They were sharper now.
Calculating.
She did not look at the destruction.
She did not look at the sky.
She looked only at Aurèlle.
For a long moment, the two of them held each other's gaze.
Aurèlle tried to sit up.
The world tilted.
Dahlia steadied her.
"My dear guests," the stepmother's voice rang out suddenly — bright, composed, unwavering.
The murmurs died instantly.
"What an evening this has been."
The words were chosen carefully.
Neutral.
Not accusation.
Not acknowledgment.
"A rare atmospheric disturbance," she continued smoothly. "Unexpected. Dramatic. But nothing more."
A few guests exchanged glances.
Nothing more?
Lightning without clouds.
Sun and moon sharing the sky.
Vines lifting nobles into the air.
But no one challenged her.
Power did not only come in storms.
It came in control.
"Unfortunately," she went on, her tone dipping just enough to suggest disappointment rather than alarm, "the weather has made it impossible to continue safely."
Her gaze flickered briefly to the cracked fountain. The scorched grass. The snapped lanterns.
"With regret, I must conclude the celebration here."
A collective inhale.
Dismissed.
Just like that.
Servants moved immediately, trained to obey tone more than circumstance. Musicians packed away instruments. Footmen guided stunned guests toward the palace gates.
No one protested.
No one lingered.
They bowed — some stiffly, some cautiously — and began to leave.
But they looked back.
All of them.
At Aurèlle.
Whispers followed them down the path.
Not mocking.
Not anymore.
Something else.
Something like awe.
Something like fear.
When the last carriage rolled beyond the gates, the gardens fell into true quiet.
Only family remained.
And the aftermath.
The stepmother approached slowly.
Dahlia rose instinctively, positioning herself slightly in front of Aurèlle — not defiant, but protective.
It did not go unnoticed.
"How touching," the stepmother said softly.
Her voice was no longer for an audience.
It was precise.
Controlled steel.
"Aurèlle."
Hearing her name like that — stripped of warmth — made something twist in Aurèlle's chest.
"I did not mean—" she began again.
"No," the stepmother interrupted smoothly. "You did not mean to."
A pause.
"And yet you did."
The words landed gently.
Heavily.
Aurèlle swallowed.
"I don't understand what happened."
The stepmother studied her face.
Searching.
Measuring.
Looking for intent.
For awareness.
For knowledge.
She found none.
Only exhaustion.
Only confusion.
Only a girl who had just torn the sky open and did not know how.
Interesting.
"Power," the stepmother said quietly, almost thoughtfully, "is not something that arrives without reason."
Dahlia frowned. "She didn't call it."
"No," the stepmother agreed. "It called her."
Silence stretched between them.
The night felt fragile now. Like glass that might shatter again at the wrong word.
Aurèlle pushed herself upright fully this time, though her limbs felt heavy.
"Am I…" She hesitated. "Am I dangerous?"
It was not accusation.
It was fear.
The stepmother's gaze sharpened.
"Yes," she said.
Dahlia inhaled sharply.
"But not in the way you think."
She turned slightly, surveying the garden.
"The court will talk," she continued. "By morning, every noble household will have heard a different version of what happened tonight."
A beat.
"Some will say you inherited your mother's gift."
Another beat.
"Some will say you surpassed it."
Aurèlle's stomach dropped.
Surpassed.
Her mother had been revered. Feared. Respected.
And restrained.
The stepmother's eyes flicked back to her.
"You have embarrassed this household."
There it was.
Not concern.
Not relief.
Image.
Reputation.
Control.
"I'm sorry," Aurèlle whispered.
And she meant it.
The stepmother studied her for a long moment more.
Then, unexpectedly—
She smiled.
It did not reach her eyes.
"The storm has passed," she said calmly. "Let us ensure it does not return."
There was something in the way she said it.
Not reassurance.
A promise.
Servants began clearing debris quietly around them.
The world was pretending again.
The stepmother extended her hand toward Aurèlle — not to help her up.
But as instruction.
"Inside," she said.
Aurèlle rose slowly on her own.
The palace doors loomed ahead, warm light spilling from within. The same doors she had walked through hours earlier as a girl afraid of being judged for not blooming.
She did not fear mockery now.
She feared herself.
As they stepped back inside, the night air stilled completely.
Too completely.
No wind.
No tremor.
No answer from the earth.
But deep in her chest, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the fear —
Something remained awake.
Quiet.
Waiting.
And as the mansion doors shut behind them, sealing away the ruined garden and the witnesses to her power —
Aurèlle understood one thing with absolute certainty:
The storm had not ended.
It had only introduced itself.