The kitchen smelled of roasting vegetables, simmering sauces, and rich, fragrant bread. Aurèlle Liora Ashbourne had been at it since morning, preparing the feast her stepmother, Selene Hawthorne, demanded for the evening's celebration of her sister's Bloom. Every dish was complicated, layered with flavors that required meticulous attention.
Aurèlle stirred and tasted, adjusting where necessary, her hands blackened from soot, her apron streaked with ash and flour. Yet beneath the careful focus of her work burned a different fire entirely—anger, frustration, and a deep, quiet ache of injustice.
As she chopped vegetables, her mind drifted, and memories surfaced unbidden.
She remembered when Selene had first arrived in her life after her mother's death. At first, the older woman had seemed polite, measured, almost gentle in her attentions whenever her father was present. Her smile had been fleeting, her touch careful, her words precise. Aurèlle had felt relief in the rare moments of kindness, but even then, the calm had always been fragile.
Whenever her father left for envoy trips or matters of state, Selene's mask would slip. Her voice would sharpen, her orders become harsh, and her corrections cutting. Aurèlle remembered trembling under her scrutiny, remembering how quickly a simple misstep—a forgotten ingredient, a poorly tied ribbon—would bring a scolding, a sharp word, or a cold glare. She had been careful to stay quiet.
Even as a small child, she had learned to hide her anger and frustration. Selene's threats were subtle yet powerful: a careless word and her mother's keepsakes—treasured items from a woman Aurèlle barely remembered—would be destroyed. Aurèlle had believed these threats were absolute, had swallowed her fear and her hurt in silence, never daring to tell her father. She did not yet know he would have protected those memories, and the fear had kept her obedient.
Now, standing in the kitchen, Aurèlle's anger stirred again. She was genuinely happy for Dahlia—her little sister's Bloom was a rare, miraculous event—but it was hard to feel pure joy when Selene's presence overshadowed every moment. The older woman's favoritism had always been clear. Aurèlle's own efforts, her careful, tireless work, were barely acknowledged, while Dahlia's successes were celebrated openly. Aurèlle's hands were covered in soot and flour, her arms streaked with ash, yet her simmering resentment made the air around her feel heavier than the kitchen heat.
She stirred the stew one last time, tasting for balance, as her mind drifted. Every year, every season, Selene's duplicity had remained constant: careful to keep the sharp edges hidden when her father was present. But the moment he left, the mask slipped—words became cold, gestures clipped, and every misstep drew criticism. Aurèlle had learned quickly to move cautiously, to anticipate Selene's moods, and to hide both anger and fear behind quiet obedience.
Finally, she set down the ladle. The dishes that needed to continue cooking to stay warm for the evening remained on the stove, gently simmering and filling the room with comforting aromas. The kitchen itself was spotless—counters polished, floors swept, every utensil in its place. She had left nothing for Selene to complain about, and for a fleeting moment, Aurèlle allowed herself a small, private sense of accomplishment.
Aurèlle paused, her fingers brushing the edge of a marble counter, watching the steam rise from the pots. Her chest tightened with conflicting emotions: pride in her work, frustration at Selene, quiet happiness for Dahlia. Even as her stepmother's shadow loomed over her thoughts, she reminded herself of one truth—she would endure. She would survive. She would not give Selene the satisfaction of breaking her spirit.
She stretched her stiff arms and aching back. The celebration would begin soon, and she needed to prepare. The evening's attire lay ready in her room, carefully pressed and folded, awaiting her. Aurèlle ran her hands over her apron one last time, dusting off flour and ash, and headed for the door, leaving the warmth and smells of the kitchen behind.
As she walked through the quiet hallways, the memories of Selene's early days lingered. Aurèlle's gaze flicked toward the dining hall, imagining the table set for the evening, gleaming with polished silver and crystal, flowers arranged with exacting precision.
She could already picture her stepmother's satisfaction, the way she would hover near Dahlia, praising her with words Aurèlle herself had never received. And yet, beneath the anger, there was a quiet, simmering determination. She would not allow herself to vanish into resentment. She would remain present, resilient, and patient, as she always had.
As Aurèlle stepped out of the kitchen, the comforting aroma of simmering sauces and roasting vegetables clung faintly to her dress, the warmth of the hearth lingering in her bones and mingling with the ache in her chest—the same quiet fire she had carried all morning.
Her steps echoed softly through the polished hallways as she made her way to her room in the servant's quarters, leaving behind the lingering heat and bustling scents.
By the time she reached her small, orderly space, Aurèlle was ready to shift her focus from anger to composure. She would dress carefully, braid her hair, and present herself with the elegance Selene expected—the evening would be a test of patience, of control, of quiet rebellion hidden beneath a polite smile.
Pausing at the doorway, the smells of the kitchen lingering on her clothes, a faint reminder of her labor and her diligence. She drew a deep breath, pushed the door closed behind her, and prepared to step fully into the role the house demanded of her.