The music resumed.
But it did not recover.
It moved carefully now — as though the musicians feared striking the wrong note might disturb something unseen. The melody drifted through the hall with polite obedience, no longer triumphant, no longer bold.
Laughter followed — but in fragments. Too bright. Too sharp. Conversations rose in quick bursts and fell again just as quickly, as if everyone were collectively pretending nothing had happened while straining to sense whether it might happen again.
No one mentioned the chandeliers.
No one mentioned the cold.
No one mentioned the way the air had seemed to tighten.
But the silence around it was louder than any accusation.
Aurèlle remained still long after the last crystal tremor faded.
Her pulse had not.
It beat hard and uneven against her ribs, as though trying to knock its way out.
Dahlia squeezed her hand. "You're trembling."
"I'm not."
She was.
Not visibly — not enough for the court to whisper — but inside, something thrummed restlessly, vibrating beneath her skin like wind caught in a hollow chamber.
"You should sit," Dahlia urged gently, concern softening her glowing features.
"I need air."
The words left her before she fully decided to speak them.
This time she did not wait for reassurance or permission.
She slipped from the hall, skirts brushing marble, the heavy doors closing behind her with a muted, final thud. The noise of celebration dulled instantly, swallowed by stone corridors and distance.
The quiet rang.
The corridor was dimmer, lit by evenly spaced torches whose flames burned steady and gold. Moonlight spilled through tall arched windows, silvering the floor in long rectangular pools. The palace felt older here. Thicker. More aware.
Aurèlle inhaled deeply.
The air felt normal.
Still.
Unaffected.
She pressed her palm against her sternum as if she could calm whatever had begun pulsing there.
It was only nerves.
Humiliation.
Being overlooked.
Emotion does strange things to the body.
That was all.
A faint sound echoed behind her — too soft to identify.
She turned sharply.
No one.
The torches burned without flicker.
The corridor was empty.
And yet —
A draft brushed through her hair.
It was gentle, almost affectionate.
Her reflection in the nearest window caught her attention.
Moonlight traced the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat. She looked pale — not fragile, but altered somehow.
For a split second —
Her eyes did not look like her own.
They seemed lighter.
Brighter.
A shimmer of gold threaded through the green.
She froze.
Her heart stumbled.
She blinked.
They were green again.
Only green.
Her father's eyes.
Steady. Familiar.
She stepped closer to the glass.
"I'm imagining things," she whispered.
Her breath fogged the window.
The fog did not fade.
It thickened.
Instead of dissolving, it spread — branching outward from her breath in delicate crystalline veins. Frost-like patterns bloomed across the glass, intricate and sharp.
Aurèlle stared.
The corridor was not cold.
Her breath came shallow now.
The frost crept farther, tracing slow spirals.
She lifted her hand instinctively.
The frost followed the movement.
Not precisely — but in response. Curling toward her fingers like something reaching back.
Her stomach dropped.
The frost vanished instantly.
The glass returned to ordinary moonlit clarity.
Behind her, a voice spoke.
"You should not wander alone tonight."
Aurèlle turned sharply.
The stepmother stood at the far end of the corridor.
She had shed her public warmth entirely. Her expression was composed — but sharpened, like a blade wrapped in silk.
"I needed air," Aurèlle said.
"So I gathered."
Her gaze flicked once to the window.
Assessing.
"You caused quite a stir."
"I didn't do anything."
The denial felt thin even to her own ears.
The stepmother's heels echoed deliberately as she approached.
"No?" she asked quietly.
"The chandeliers moved. The air shifted. Lanterns extinguished."
"That happens in old halls."
"Not like that."
The air between them felt denser now.
Watching.
"You are emotional," the stepmother continued smoothly. "It was your sister's night. That can be difficult."
"I'm not jealous."
"I didn't say you were."
The words landed like carefully placed stones.
A torch along the wall flickered — briefly, but noticeably.
The stepmother's eyes sharpened.
"You must be very careful," she said softly.
"With what?"
"With letting feelings… spill."
Aurèlle's pulse thundered.
"I don't know what you're implying."
The stepmother studied her for a long, deliberate moment.
And then —
Unexpectedly —
She smiled.
Slow. Knowing.
"That," she said, "is precisely what concerns me."
She turned gracefully and began walking back toward the hall.
After several steps, she paused.
"Some things," she added without looking back, "are best left dormant."
Then she disappeared beyond the doors.
Dormant.
The word echoed in Aurèlle's mind.
Dormant meant sleeping.
Dormant meant alive.
Her breathing grew shallow.
Behind her, something cracked.
She spun around.
A thin fracture now ran through the marble beneath the window — delicate but unmistakable.
It had not been there before.
She stared.
"I didn't touch it."
The crack extended.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
But steadily — branching outward like lightning trapped beneath stone.
Her breath caught.
"Stop," she whispered.
The fracture halted immediately.
Silence swallowed the corridor.
Aurèlle stared at the floor.
Her mind raced through explanations — structural settling, temperature shift, old foundation strain.
Coincidence.
Coincidence.
Coincidence.
Footsteps approached quickly.
She looked up.
Isidale rounded the corner, her dark hair catching faint torchlight.
She slowed when she saw Aurèlle.
"You left abruptly," Isidale said gently.
"I needed air."
Isidale's gaze drifted downward.
To the crack.
Her expression did not change.
But her eyes sharpened slightly.
"That wasn't there earlier," she observed.
Aurèlle forced a shrug. "Old stone."
Isidale looked at her instead of the floor.
"You feel different tonight," she said quietly.
"I'm tired."
"That isn't what I meant."
Silence passed between them — not uncomfortable, but charged.
"When Dahlia bloomed," Isidale continued carefully, "something shifted."
Aurèlle swallowed.
"For her."
"Yes," Isidale agreed.
"But also… here."
She gestured gently toward Aurèlle's chest.
Aurèlle instinctively stepped back.
The torches flared slightly.
Isidale noticed.
Aurèlle saw her notice.
Concern flickered in Isidale's eyes — not fear.
Recognition.
"I think you should rest," Isidale said softly.
Before Aurèlle could respond, the hall doors opened behind them.
Light and music spilled outward again.
Dahlia appeared, relief flooding her features.
"There you are! Everyone is asking for you — they say it's odd that you vanished."
Odd.
Aurèlle almost laughed.
Dahlia stepped forward and took her hand.
The moment their skin touched —
A pulse of warmth surged outward.
The torches along the corridor flared simultaneously, flames stretching tall and bright.
Dahlia gasped and withdrew instinctively.
The flames settled.
All three girls stared at one another.
No one spoke.
Because this time —
There was no mistaking it.
Aurèlle had felt it.
Not emotion.
Not nerves.
Something deeper.
Something answering.
Her reflection in the window caught her eye again.
Her irises shimmered faintly.
Green —
Threaded unmistakably with gold.
Just for a second.
Then gone.
Dahlia held her arm carefully now, as though unsure whether she might spark again.
"We should go back inside," she whispered.
Aurèlle nodded.
But as they walked toward the doors, the hum beneath her skin remained.
Quiet.
Patient.
Dormant.
But no longer asleep.