Years passed like whispers in the wind.
Far from the grand halls of Aerindale's palace, nestled on the edge of a sleepy village surrounded by woods and wildflowers, a small house stood alone. Its wooden shutters creaked in the breeze, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney. Inside, the air smelled of firewood, boiled roots, and dust.
This was the home of Aria, the girl once born to wear a crown—now buried beneath soot, chores, and forgotten dreams.
She moved like a shadow between rooms, broom in one hand, basket in the other. Her apron was stained with ash and her fingertips red from scrubbing. Yet her spirit, somehow, remained unbroken.
Aria had grown into a quiet beauty—soft, silver-blue eyes like the river that once carried her, and hair the color of chestnut leaves in autumn. There was a grace in her movements, an elegance she never learned, only inherited.
But no one noticed.
Certainly not her so-called "sister," Mira, who lounged by the fireplace, fanning herself and groaning with dramatic flair.
"Did you burn the bread again, Aria?" Mira snapped, not even glancing up. "Honestly, I don't know why Mother keeps you."
Aria bit her tongue. She was used to it—the insults, the cold stares, the way Mira's words always landed like tiny needles.
"Sorry," Aria said quietly, setting the bread on the table. "I'll make more."
Mira rolled her eyes. "You'll try to. Like always."
From the corner of the room, Lysa, the woman who had rescued Aria from the river long ago, looked on. Her eyes, once kind, had grown distant over the years. Maybe it was fear. Maybe jealousy. Or maybe guilt.
She never called Aria her daughter. Only "the girl."
"You'll clean the stables after," Lysa muttered. "And make sure the firewood is stacked before sunset. The royal messengers passed through today. There's going to be a celebration in the capital."
"A celebration?" Aria's voice perked up despite herself.
Mira leapt to her feet. "The celebration, you mean. The princess is being crowned—and there's to be a royal ball!"
At that, Lysa and Mira both lit up with excitement. Aria, meanwhile, felt her heart shrink.
A royal ball.
A part of her had always been drawn to the palace—its distant towers visible from the hilltop on clear days. She'd often dreamt of wandering its marbled halls, dancing beneath chandeliers, hearing music played by golden flutes.
Now, those dreams felt cruel.
"She's to marry Prince Damon," Mira gushed, spinning in place. "Can you imagine? A real princess! A real prince!"
Aria said nothing. She just smiled faintly and kept her eyes on the bread.
"You're not going, obviously," Mira sneered. "The ball is for ladies, not dirty little maids."
Aria turned away, hiding the ache in her chest. She was used to being invisible. Used to watching life from the sidelines.
But that night, as she sat by the window, gazing at the stars, something stirred in her heart—a flicker, like the first breath of spring after a long, cruel winter.
She didn't know it yet, but the stars were already moving. Destiny was waking.
And so was the magic.