It had been a day since the incident in the kitchen. The sound of shattering china no longer rang in the halls, yet it lingered in Aurélle's mind, impossible to forget. The manor itself had returned to its careful quiet.
Selene had ensured Aurélle felt every consequence.
There had been no dark room this time — a mercy Aurélle did not dare question — but instead hours of relentless labour. Every sheet in the manor had been stripped from its bed. Every curtain torn from its rod. They lay in sodden heaps beside the stone washbasin in the back garden, where Aurélle had been ordered to scrub them clean by hand.
No enchantments.
Just soap, water, and aching arms.
Her fingers were raw now, the skin pale and wrinkled from lye and cold water. Her shoulders burned each time she lifted another dripping sheet to hang along the line. And yet, beneath the exhaustion, there was relief.
The dark room had not claimed her.
She feared that suffocating chamber more than any physical punishment. Its memory pressed at the edges of her thoughts — pitch-black silence, air too thick to draw, the terrible sense of being swallowed whole. Out here, at least, there was sunlight. Wind. The faint sweetness of lavender drifting from the garden beds.
Pain was easier than darkness.
Dahlia joined her once lessons were done, slipping outside as quietly as she could. She did not offer to help — she knew better. If Selene saw her assisting, Aurélle's punishment would double and she would receive her own light punishment.
So Dahlia perched along the low stone wall bordering the flower beds, hands folded neatly in her lap, bright eyes following Aurélle with soft, helpless concern.
"Elle," Dahlia said gently, tilting her head. "Take a break. The rest can wait."
Aurélle wrung out another curtain, water streaming down her arms.
"No," she murmured. "I have to finish."
Her voice wavered despite her effort to steady it.
High above them, framed in the tall arched window of the study, Selene's silhouette remained faintly visible. Watching. She did not need to step into the garden to exert control; her presence lay across the lawn like a shadow.
Dahlia fell quiet.
When the final sheet was finally hung, Aurélle straightened slowly, pressing her palm to the small of her back. The breeze caught the linen, sending it billowing like pale sails against the sky. For a moment, she simply breathed.
Then, almost without thinking, she stepped toward the flower beds.
The earth cooled her bare feet. Grounded her.
Her fingers drifted over roses and marigolds, lilacs and trailing ivy — brushing petals as though reacquainting herself with old friends.
This was where she felt most herself.
Most Sylvarian.
Most hopeful.
Most children of the Sylvaran realm Bloomed by fifteen. It was as natural as breathing. When it happened, the earth answered — vines bending, flowers turning, roots stirring in quiet recognition.
Aurélle was seventeen.
And nothing had happened.
She had told herself it was simply late. That she was merely… slower. But with each passing season, doubt tightened like a vine around her ribs.
Was she defective?
Dahlia slid from the wall and crouched near a patch of wilted violets at the edge of the path. Their petals had browned at the tips, drooping lifelessly.
"Elle," Dahlia whispered. "Look."
Aurélle stepped closer.
Dahlia hesitated, then lifted her hands over the dying blooms. Aurélle opened her mouth to caution her — not from doubt, but from fear. Hope was a dangerous thing in this house.
Dahlia exhaled.
It was not quite a word. Not quite a song.
More instinct than sound.
The air shifted.
Aurélle felt it — subtle but undeniable. A hum beneath her skin. The soil trembled faintly. And slowly, impossibly, the violets stirred.
Brown faded to lavender.
Petals lifted.
Stems straightened as though waking from sleep.
Aurélle forgot how to breathe.
"Dahlia…" she whispered.
Dahlia stared at her own hands, wonder flooding her expression. Then she looked up, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.
"I think I've Bloomed," she breathed.
The word settled between them.
Bloomed.
Something hollow opened inside Aurélle's chest. Not jealousy — never that — but something quieter. Sharper.
"Fifteen," Dahlia added softly. "That's when it happens."
"Yes," Aurélle said.
The word barely carried.
She forced a smile. "I knew you would."
And she meant it.
Dahlia had always been bright. Gentle. So alive.
Aurélle crouched beside another violet further down the bed. Its petals were shrivelled, nearly grey. She brushed it lightly with her fingertips.
Nothing.
No hum.
No tremor.
No answering warmth.
The flower remained limp.
Am I broken?
"Elle?" Dahlia's voice was careful now. "Yours will come too. Maybe it's just… different."
Different.
Aurélle nodded, though she did not trust her voice.
She did not know — could not know — that something else stirred beneath her skin. Something not rooted in soil.
She believed herself fully Sylvanian. Meant to Bloom like the rest. Her father had once said they would speak of certain things when she was older.
Older, apparently, had not yet arrived.
"Watch," Dahlia said suddenly, excitement rising again.
She moved to the marigolds. This time, her hands were steadier. When she reached for them, the response was immediate. Stronger.
The marigolds lifted toward her.
The wind circled warmly, almost approving.
Aurélle felt it again — that faint, fleeting tingle in her fingertips. Not earth.
Something lighter.
Distant.
Like starlight slipping through leaves.
When she tried to grasp it, it vanished.
Dahlia laughed — soft and breathless — and the sound pierced Aurélle more deeply than any cruelty could have.
In that moment, she made a decision.
Even if she never Bloomed, she would protect this.
Protect Dahlia's joy.
The afternoon stretched golden. They lingered among the flowers while Dahlia tested her gift in careful increments. Aurélle offered guidance where she could, masking the quiet ache within her chest.
By the time the neighbouring children were called home for supper, Dahlia was glowing with restrained excitement.
"I have to show Mother," she said suddenly.
Aurélle stiffened.
"She's in her study," she replied.
"I know."
There was no stopping her.
Dahlia hurried inside. Aurélle followed more slowly, wiping soil from her hands onto her skirt.
The manor felt cooler within. Quieter.
From the corridor, Dahlia's eager voice carried.
"Mother! Please — watch!"
A pause.
Selene's measured tone: "What is it now?"
Aurélle remained just beyond the doorway.
Dahlia stood beside a potted fern in the study. She lifted her hands.
The fern responded instantly.
Leaves unfurled. Green deepened. The plant seemed to straighten, as though answering a silent command.
Silence followed.
Then — something Aurélle had not heard in years.
Joy.
Selene crossed the room swiftly and knelt before Dahlia, cupping her face in both hands.
"You've Bloomed," she breathed.
Pride radiated from her — fierce, unguarded.
She pulled Dahlia into her arms.
"My brilliant girl."
Aurélle stood unseen in the doorway.
The warmth in Selene's voice felt foreign. No sharpness. No calculation. Only triumph.
Selene did not glance toward her.
Not once.
And Aurélle understood.
This was what it meant to belong.
To be worthy.
Dahlia beamed as Selene pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"We begin proper training immediately," Selene said. "Such potential must not be wasted."
Aurélle lowered her gaze.
Training.
Potential.
Words never meant for her.
She slipped away unnoticed.
Back into the garden.
The wind stirred the now-dry sheets, pale against the darkening sky. Aurélle stood among them, feeling small. Unmoored.
"I'm supposed to Bloom," she whispered.
The garden did not answer