The kitchen was warm and golden in the evening light, the scent of herbs and roasted vegetables filling the small space like a gentle hug. Plates clinked, chairs scraped, and Thalassa's voice bubbled over everything, as bright as her pink curls.
"Her name is Bellathorne! Bellathorne the third!" she declared, waving a tiny potted plant with pale green leaves and a single soft pink bloom. It looked delicate, like it might crumble under a strong breeze. But when Thalassa grinned at it, the petals seemed to brighten, leaning toward her as if in adoration.
"Third?" Vair grinned, a crooked, teasing smile. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. "What happened to the first two? Let me guess—tragic accidents involving too much watering and not enough sense?"
Thalassa puffed up, cheeks turning pink to match her hair. "No! They just... they weren't the right Bellathorne, okay?"
Their father chuckled, a low, rumbling sound from his place at the head of the table. His rough hands, stained with soot and grease from the workshop, reached for the breadbasket. "Be kind, Vair. Not all of us can command metal and wind like it's second nature. And besides," he said, winking at Thalassa, "I think Bellathorne the third is very lucky to have such a devoted caretaker."
Vair snorted but let the matter drop, biting into a slice of bread with a grin still tugging at his lips.
Zorya sat quietly, swirling her spoon through her soup, the sounds of the room muffled beneath the weight in her chest. The laughter, the warmth, the easy way they spoke of powers and gifts as if they were just another part of life, like hair color or height.
She forced a smile when Thalassa turned to her, eyes shining.
"Zorya, do you think Bellathorne likes this pot? I painted it blue because it's a happy color, and the flowers are pink, so I think they match—"
Her sister's words blurred into the background as Zorya's thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Five months. Just five months until she was to attend the Academy—Caelora Academy, the most prestigious in the kingdom.
Vair was already a second-year there, a star among stars. The boy who had two powers when most barely mastered one: metal that bent like thread in his hands, wind that carried his steps with unnatural grace. He was a legend already, the kind of student whispered about in awe in the halls.
And then there was her. Zorya Cinderfall. Fifteen years old, and nothing. Not a flicker of magic. Not a single sign.
Her gaze drifted to Vair, watching as the firelight caught the angles of his face. His scarlet eyes glinted with easy confidence as he teased their father about the Academy's latest competitions.
The words swirled around her like the scent of bread and the laughter of family, but she sat apart from it all.
A thought crept in, quiet and cold:
What if I never awaken? What if I never belong?
Outside the window, the petals of Mirathiel drifted down in the night breeze, glowing faintly under the moonlight.
And somewhere deep inside, Zorya felt the ache of a story still unwritten, waiting to be found.
Thalassa's chatter filled the air like soft birdsong, her little hands petting the leaves of Bellathorne the Third. Her cheeks were bright, her smile wide and easy.
"I think Ma would've liked Bellathorne," she said suddenly, the words tumbling out between spoonfuls of stew.
The table stilled. The clink of cutlery paused, and for a heartbeat, the air seemed to hold its breath.
Thalassa blinked, realizing too late what she'd said. Her pink curls bounced as she ducked her head, voice dropping to a whisper. "Oh. I didn't mean…"
Their father let out a low, quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his weathered face. His eyes—once bright, now dulled by long years in the forge—softened when they turned to Zorya.
"You know," he said, voice a little rough but warm as hearthfire, "Zorya's been more like your Ma than you even know, Thalassa. She's been looking after you both, cooking your meals, mending your clothes, tending the house. She's held this family together."
Vair glanced at Zorya then, his teasing grin dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. He nodded, a rare flicker of respect glinting in his scarlet eyes. "He's right, you know. You're the glue that keeps us from falling apart."
Zorya sat still, her spoon idle in her hand.
The weight of their words settled heavy and strange on her shoulders, like a borrowed coat she wasn't sure how to wear.
She didn't feel like Ma. She didn't feel like the glue holding them together.
She felt… small. Unseen. A girl with no power, no gift, no glow of magic to light her path forward.
But she was beautiful, though she rarely thought of it.
The light from the hearth caught the dark waves of her hair, so deep a blue it seemed to hold the night sky itself, and it spilled down her back like a river, pooling behind her, brushing the floor like a midnight veil. Her scarlet eyes, bright as the last rays of the sun slipping behind the horizon, held a quiet fire even in her silence.
Her face, delicate yet strong, carried the grace of the dawn: soft cheekbones kissed with warmth, a small nose, lips like the petals of Mirathiel—the mysterious tree she loved.
But she never thought of herself as beautiful.
Not when she felt so empty.
Not when she sat at a table full of laughter and love, but felt like a shadow slipping through the edges.
She stirred her soup absently, watching the petals of Bellathorne dance in the soft glow of the lamps, a small smile tugging at Thalassa's lips as she leaned over her plant.
Their father's voice broke through the quiet.
"Come now, let's not dwell on the past. Tomorrow's another day, eh?"
He clapped his hands together, forcing a spark of cheer into the room. "Zorya, you'll be off to the Academy soon enough. I'll wager you'll surprise us all yet."
Zorya managed a faint smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Outside, the petals of Mirathiel swayed gently in the night breeze, casting long shadows across the cobblestones.
The world felt so big, so full of stories waiting to be told.
And yet, she sat in the middle of it, small and still, waiting for her own story to begin.
After dinner, the evening settled into its usual rhythm.
Their father, with his sleeves rolled up, disappeared into the workshop—the soft clinking of metal tools echoing from the open door.
Vair, ever the restless one, went back to the roof to finish patching the shingles that had blown off in last night's storm. His humming drifted down through the open window, light and carefree, as if he wanted the wind to toss him around.
And little Thalassa…
She was sprawled in the living room, the floor an explosion of green vines and riotous petals—a jungle, she called it. Her small hands reached out to the blooms that seemed to grow just by her touch. Roses tangled with wild peonies, sunflowers stretching toward the ceiling.
Thalassa, the early bloomer.
Most people awakened at fifteen. It was the rule. The law of the world, the pattern written into the bones of the earth. But once in a while, there were exceptions—rare, glittering anomalies like Thalassa, who had turned their small, cozy home into a blooming greenhouse the moment she touched a seed at ten years old.
Zorya's lips curled into a soft, bittersweet smile as she watched her sister twirl, her laughter ringing bright and free like wind chimes in the spring.
And then, without quite meaning to, Zorya drifted to her mother's room.
The door creaked open under her fingertips, the air inside still carrying the faintest hint of lavender and old, pressed flowers. The scent of someone long gone, a memory woven into the fabric of the room.
Her feet sank into the soft rug as she stepped inside, the golden light of evening spilling across the bed, the dresser, the dust-speckled mirror.
Her fingers brushed over the jewelry box on the vanity—the delicate silver clasp worn smooth by years of use. She opened it, the lid creaking, and saw the simple trinkets inside: a string of pearls, a faded ribbon, a cracked hairpin.
Zorya's gaze lifted to the mirror.
There she was, reflected back—dark blue hair cascading down in a silken waterfall beyond her knees, a night sky woven into each strand. Her scarlet eyes, deep as the dying sun, glowed softly in the golden light.
Her skin, pale as dawn, seemed to shimmer, the gentle curves of her face holding the grace of something not quite mortal, not quite bound to the earth.
She was… beautiful. People told her so, sometimes in whispers, sometimes in passing remarks—beautiful like the rarest flower.
But it didn't feel like beauty when she looked at herself.
It felt like emptiness. Like she was waiting for something that never came.
No power. No magic. No gift.
Just a girl trapped in the shell of a story, waiting for her own chapter to begin.
Her fingers curled around the cracked hairpin in the jewelry box, the metal cool against her skin.
Outside, the wind stirred, rustling the petals of the Mirathiel tree beyond the window, its branches heavy with those strange blue and purple blossoms.
They glowed faintly in the dusk, like whispers from another world.
And Zorya sat in the stillness, her thoughts drifting like smoke, the weight of all she was not pressing down on her ribs.