Four days had passed since the sky broke open.
Four days since rain and snow had fallen together. Since vines had lifted nobles from the ground. Since the sun and moon had shared the same horizon.
And in those four days, the world had grown very quiet.
Too quiet.
The palace gates remained open each morning, polished and waiting.
No carriages arrived.
No visiting dignitaries.
No congratulatory bouquets for Dahlia's blooming.
No letters sealed in gold wax.
The house that had once been alive with callers now sat in careful isolation.
Whether it was fear or caution, no one could say.
But the court was avoiding them.
Avoiding the house.
Avoiding her.
From her window, Aurèlle Liora Valencrest watched the empty road that curved toward the estate. She could not remember a time when it had looked so deserted.
The day that had been meant to secure Dahlia Rose Valencrest's future had become something else entirely.
Her failure.
Her spectacle.
Her storm.
Behind her, the echo of stone against stone rang faintly through the halls.
Repairs.
The stepmother had wasted no time.
Cracked marble had been replaced. The shattered fountain rebuilt. Burn marks scrubbed from the garden walls. Fresh soil turned where vines had erupted violently from the earth.
By the second morning, the palace grounds looked pristine.
Untouched.
As though nature itself had obeyed an order to forget.
But Aurèlle was not allowed to forget.
"Again."
The stepmother's voice cut cleanly across the study.
Aurèlle knelt beside a stack of ledgers at her stepmother's desk, copying inventory records by hand. It was meticulous work. Mind-numbing. Endless.
She had been assigned tasks since dawn.
Clearing debris.
Reorganizing storage rooms.
Reviewing household accounts under supervision.
"Your distraction is evident," her stepmother said coolly. "You will rewrite that page."
Aurèlle lowered her eyes.
"Yes, Mother."
The word still felt formal in her mouth.
Across the room, sunlight poured through tall windows onto polished floors — floors that had once trembled beneath her feet.
She had apologized a hundred times.
To the servants who had been frightened.
To the guests who would no longer visit.
To her stepmother, who had simply nodded with controlled displeasure.
But most of all —
To Dahlia.
"I ruined everything," she had whispered the first night, sitting on the edge of her sister's bed.
Dahlia had shaken her head fiercely.
"You didn't ruin it," she insisted. "It was still beautiful."
"It was supposed to be about you."
Dahlia had taken her hands gently.
"It still was."
But Aurèlle had seen the empty driveway the next morning.
Seen the absence of flowers.
Seen the way servants avoided her gaze.
She had not just ruined a celebration.
She had altered perception.
And that was harder to mend than stone.
"Stand," her stepmother instructed now.
Aurèlle rose immediately.
"You will assist in the west wing this afternoon. The windows must be polished. All of them."
There were thirty-two windows in the west wing.
"Yes, Mother."
Her stepmother's gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary.
Measuring.
Watching.
As if waiting for something else to flare.
It had not.
Since that night, Aurèlle had felt nothing.
No hum beneath her skin.
No flicker in her veins.
Her eyes had remained stubbornly green.
Almost disappointingly ordinary.
She had begun to wonder if the storm had been some singular, catastrophic accident.
If it would never return.
Perhaps that was for the best.
As Aurèlle turned to leave the study, something stirred in the air.
Not wind.
Not movement.
Something precise.
A faint shimmer appeared above the stepmother's desk.
Aurèlle paused.
"Did you—" she began.
"Continue," her stepmother snapped without looking up.
Aurèlle hesitated, then stepped into the corridor.
The door shut behind her.
Inside the study, the shimmer intensified.
The air split with a sound like silk tearing.
The air folded inward with a soft, deliberate tear — and two envelopes appeared.
Not one.
Two.
They hovered side by side, identical in ivory parchment edged in gold, sealed with midnight wax.
Twin stars stamped in silver.
They hovered briefly — as though ensuring they had arrived at the correct destination —
Then landed neatly in the centre of the desk.
The stepmother went still.
Slowly, she looked down.
Her expression did not change.
But something cold flickered behind her eyes.
Two names written in elegant script.
Lady Dahlia Rose Valencrest.
Lady Aurèlle Liora Valencrest.
Her fingers hovered for several long seconds before she picked up Dahlia's.
The wax cracked cleanly.
She unfolded the letter.
The phenomena observed four evenings prior confirm the awakening of elemental aptitude within this household.
Her expression softened — faintly.
Lady Dahlia Rose Valencrest has demonstrated stable and promising magical alignment. With formal instruction, her abilities are projected to flourish within distinguished range.
Distinguished.
A small, satisfied breath left her.
Lady Dahlia Rose Valencrest is hereby invited to attend the Academy for Gifted Youths at the commencement of the winter term.
She folded it carefully.
Neatly.
That one she set aside.
Then she turned to the second envelope.
Aurèlle's.
For the first time, her fingers hesitated.
The wax did not crack cleanly — it resisted, as though reluctant.
She unfolded the letter.
Her eyes scanned the page once —
Then again.
Her jaw tightened.
The manifestation attributed to Lady Aurèlle Liora Valencrest exceeds preliminary classification thresholds.
Her grip stiffened.
The convergence of atmospheric, terrestrial, and celestial forces suggests an exceptionally rare magnitude of power.
The study felt suddenly too still.
Power of this scale must not remain untrained.
Her gaze darkened.
Lady Aurèlle Liora Valencrest is formally invited to attend the Academy for Gifted Youths under immediate observation and advanced placement review.
Advanced placement.
Recognition.
Not potential.
Certainty.
They had not simply noticed Aurèlle.
They had measured her.
And found her extraordinary.
The letter trembled once in her hand before she stilled it.
"No," she said quietly.
Not fear.
Not concern.
Refusal.
She rose and moved to the fireplace.
The flames burned low — polite, controlled, predictable.
Unlike storms.
She held Aurèlle's letter above the fire.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the edges began to darken.
The ink shimmered faintly gold as if resisting.
Her eyes hardened.
"You will not outshine what I have built," she murmured.
The parchment caught.
This time it did not burn cleanly.
The script flared brighter before collapsing into blackened curl.
The silver star seal melted unevenly before turning to ash.
She watched until every word was gone.
Only then did she return to her desk.
Dahlia's letter remained where she had placed it.
Unharmed.
Approved.
She smoothed it once with careful fingers.
This one would be delivered.
This one would be celebrated.
As for the other—
It had never existed.
A knock sounded at the study door.
Dahlia.
"Mother?"
"Enter."
Dahlia stepped inside, hesitant.
"I was looking for Aurèlle."
"She is occupied."
Dahlia's gaze drifted briefly to the fireplace.
Ash still floated faintly in the air.
"Was there a letter?" she asked.
"No."
The answer was immediate.
Dahlia frowned slightly but did not press further.
Outside the study, in the corridor, Aurèlle paused mid-step.
A sudden warmth brushed against her chest.
Recognition.
As though something had reached for her —
And been severed.
She pressed her palm lightly over her heart.
The feeling faded.
Confusion lingered.
In the study, the last fragment of parchment collapsed into ember.
Tomorrow, the house would have news.
But it would not be Aurèlle's.
For her, the road would remain empty.
And whatever institutions believed they could claim her—
Some storms were not theirs to command.
But far beyond the estate walls, beyond the silent road and the careful repairs—
Something had noticed the interruption.
And it would not mistake ash for surrender.