Morning in Caerith Palace was never gentle.It arrived in sheets of icy wind from the western hills, in bells that rang too loud and voices that whispered too much. For the daughters of the royal house, it began in silks and scrutiny.
Elira stood before her wardrobe, fingers brushing over dresses she once adored. Sky-blue chiffon. Ivory lace. Petals and ribbons.
None of them suited her anymore.
Pretty things for the quiet girl no one noticed.
She chose a deep charcoal grey. Simple, sharp-cut. High-collared. No embroidery.
Mira blinked. "Not the lilac one, Princess?"
"No."
Mira hesitated only briefly before helping her dress. Her hands were warm. Elira found that strange. After death, she'd imagined all things would be cold.
The royal breakfast was held in the Camellia Hall—a gilded room named for the countless white camellias blooming from wall frescoes and crystal vases. The family gathered here each week under the watchful gaze of portraits and politics.
Elira had dreaded this hall as a child. Now, she walked in without a tremor.
Seated already were her siblings: Prince Merek with his ever-oiled hair and permanent sneer; Princess Ilyra humming as she fed a tamed hawk perched on her shoulder; and at the far end, Princess Seraphine—third in line to the throne and beloved by courtiers.
Seraphine noticed Elira first.
She lowered her teacup, smile slow and blade-thin.
"Sister Elira. What a surprise. You're not coughing today?"
Laughter, soft but poisonous, floated down the table. Merek snorted. Ilyra smirked.
Elira met Seraphine's gaze calmly. "It's been a miraculous recovery."
"How fortunate," Seraphine said, voice like honey glazing a knife. "Though I do wonder… shouldn't you ease back into court life? Such fragile health. Such delicate nerves."
Elira cut into her bread slowly. "You're right, Sister. But don't worry. I'll catch up soon enough."
She looked up, eyes cool.
"You may even find yourself falling behind."
The smile on Seraphine's face didn't falter—but her eyes narrowed, just enough for Elira to mark it.
First thorn.
After breakfast, Elira excused herself before the King arrived. She remembered well how he'd speak to her—if at all—only to assign her duties no one else wanted.
Instead, she made her way to the palace library.
It hadn't changed.
Shelves of leather-bound tomes. Dust motes dancing in beams of morning light. The smell of history written by victors. And there—behind the second pillar to the right—the hidden records of the Aetherhold Academy.
She crouched.
Pulled open the drawer.
The parchment inside was blank.
Of course it was.
Applicants weren't allowed to write their own names. That was the rule.
But Elira had learned, painfully, that rules were only suggestions for those with no power.
She dipped a quill into ink, her fingers steady, and wrote:Elira Vellaria Caelis.
The librarian—a bent old woman named Isolde—noticed.
She hobbled over, peered down at the name, then squinted at Elira.
"You've never applied before."
"No," Elira replied, straightening. "But this year feels different."
"The test is brutal."
"So is life."
The old woman gave a soft, wheezing laugh. "You're not as pale as they said."
"Rumors are lazy."
Back in her chamber, Elira stared at the calendar.
There were exactly twenty-seven days until the entrance exam for Aetherhold Academy.In her past life, the exam had happened—without her knowledge. Her name had been quietly omitted from the list. Mira had cried when she found out. Elira, at the time, had simply accepted it.
Not this time.
This time, she would walk through the academy gates herself.
That night, as she lay in bed, she opened her journal. The same one she had hidden in the hollow behind the bedframe—safe, secret.
She wrote:
"Day 2. Seraphine still smiles like a queen.Merek is careless. Ilyra is watching everything.I wrote my name on the parchment. They will try to erase it.Let them. I'll carve it into the walls if I must."
"Mira is humming. The same lullaby she did when I was twelve.She doesn't know that I've seen her die."
"I still see him. Caelum.His eyes in the mirror. That voice.""Is it memory? Or magic?"
She paused.
Then wrote one more line.
"If Caelum remembers too… what role will he play in this game?"
The next morning, Elira descended toward the East Gardens—the only place within the palace where silence could be trusted. There, among the frost-covered camellias, she practiced alone.
Magic, in its early stages, was more sensation than spell.Feel the heat of your blood.The breath of your mind.The whisper of your name inside the ether.
Her hands trembled. But she called the flame.
Just a flicker.
Enough to light the edge of a dry leaf.
Better than last time. At this age, I couldn't even make sparks.
She pressed her palm against the tree bark.
The frost receded.
"Good," a voice said behind her.
She spun.
But no one was there.
Only wind. And camellias.
And something—something glinting on the branch above.
A silver pendant. Tied with black string. With a seal shaped like a thorned crown.
Elira reached up slowly, hand hovering.
She knew that seal.
In her past life, she'd seen it once—on the day of the rebellion. Burned into the wax of a forbidden letter found on Caelum's desk.
He's already moving.
She pocketed the pendant.
Let the others sleep. I'm already awake.
That night, in the royal dining hall, the King made a surprise appearance. His voice boomed. His cape trailed behind like a banner of conquest.
"The court requests candidates for the Aetherhold entrance delegation," he said."Our House must be represented by those with talent. Ambition. Magic."
His eyes did not fall on Elira.
They never did.
But Elira stood.
The room hushed.
"I volunteer."
The King blinked, almost amused.
"You?"
"Yes, Father."
Merek snorted. Seraphine looked openly skeptical. Even the guards shifted.
The King leaned forward.
"Can you even cast?"
Elira lifted her palm.
A small, precise flame curled between her fingers.
Not wild. Not showy.
Just controlled.
"I can."
The King didn't smile.
But he nodded.
"Very well. Prove it in the trial."
Back in her chambers, Elira lit a new candle. Its flame danced quietly, like it knew.
She opened her journal.
"They didn't expect me to speak.""They will not expect what comes next.""Caelum is watching. Perhaps guiding.Or warning."
"This time, I won't walk into the fire blind."
She paused.
Wrote one last line.
"I will become fire."
Outside her window, the camellias were blooming too early.
And in the cracked mirror, behind her reflection—a shadow moved.