Her room was small but orderly, the neatness reflecting the careful discipline she had cultivated in her life. There, laid out upon the bed, was the gown she would wear for the evening's celebration—a lilac dress once belonging to her mother.
Aurèlle touched the delicate fabric reverently, tracing the embroidery with her fingers. Though it was old and well-worn, it shimmered in the afternoon light, and wearing it felt like carrying a fragment of her mother into the present, a small warmth in a house often cold and unwelcoming..
Selene would never have purchased anything new for her; Aurèlle had learned to make do, to find small victories even in the shadows of her stepmother's control.
She changed quickly and efficiently, the dress fitting her frame perfectly, the delicate fabric brushing her skin with a soft, familiar touch. She smoothed the folds, tugged at the sleeves, and adjusted the neckline, careful to preserve the elegance of the gown, ensuring every fold of the gown fell perfectly.
She then brushed out her hair, braiding it with careful precision.
She ran her fingers over the fabric, tracing the subtle embroidery along the hem, remembering the gentle hands of her mother when she had once worn it. The dress shimmered softly, catching the light and reflecting her memories of another time, when life had felt lighter, gentler. Aurèlle let her gaze linger on the mirror, noting the reflection of herself: composed, polished, but with a tension beneath the surface that only she could feel. Her hair was braided and pinned neatly, a mirror of the careful precision she had cultivated in her life—polished and composed, yet underneath simmered a quiet ache. She had yet to Bloom, while her little sister's magic had awakened, leaving Aurèlle with a mixture of pride and longing, joy and bitterness.
Her thoughts drifted to her father. My little seedling, he had called her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his laughter warm and easy. Those memories were a tether to a time when love had been tangible, even if fleeting, in the Ashbourne house. She pressed her lips together, aware of the bittersweet mixture of pride for her station, quiet resentment for Selene's favoritism, and genuine joy for her sister. Despite everything, she had learned to carry all her emotions carefully, storing them like precious treasures—or dangerous embers—within herself.
Aurèlle took a deep breath and left her room, moving silently through the quiet hallways. The soft swish of her gown against the polished stone floors was the only sound, a gentle reminder of her presence in a house that often seemed intent on erasing it. Her destination was her sister's room—the space that had once been hers when her father was still alive. The door loomed ahead, framed in polished wood, and she rapped lightly, mindful of both politeness and her own lingering anxiety.
"Dahlia?" she called softly. "Do you need help getting ready?"
The door opened, and her sister appeared, radiant and smiling, her eyes bright with excitement. "Yes!" Dahlia replied. "I was just about to come find you to help me braid my hair. I'm glad you came first."
Aurèlle stepped inside, guiding Dahlia to the small stool before the mirror. She began working through the silky strands of her sister's hair, braiding with the ease and care only she could manage. Dahlia's reflection in the mirror was radiant—excited, happy, and completely unburdened by the weight of the world outside their room. Aurèlle let herself smile faintly, the warmth of affection threading through her chest despite the ache of envy that lingered in the corners of her mind.
As she worked, memories of Dahlia's arrival surfaced. When Aurèlle was 7, her father had returned from an envoy to the Celestial Realm with news of a tragedy: the young daughter of a noble family had perished during their travels. Her parents had died under perilous circumstances, leaving her orphaned in a world as dangerous. Recognizing the child's vulnerability, Aurèlle's father had brought her home to be raised as his own daughter.
Dahlia had arrived at the manor with wide, uncertain eyes, carrying nothing but a small satchel and a quiet curiosity about this new life. She did not remember the faces of her real parents clearly—the memories of them were blurred, like sketches in fog—but over time, she had come to merge those memories with the warmth of Aurèlle's father and stepmother. To her, they were her parents, the only family she had ever truly known. Aurèlle had accepted her without hesitation; blood mattered little when the girl was all the warmth and comfort in a household often dominated by cruelty and tension.
Aurèlle paused, adjusting a loose strand of hair along Dahlia's temple. She studied her sister's reflection in the mirror—the radiant smile, the glimmering eyes, the uncontainable excitement at her Bloom. Despite everything, she felt a swell of pride and affection. Dahlia's joy was a victory in itself, a light piercing through the shadowed corridors of the Ashbourne manor. Aurèlle would guard it fiercely, even when Selene's presence threatened to dim it.
"You're ready," she murmured softly, brushing Dahlia's hair behind her shoulders. "You'll shine tonight."
Dahlia turned to her, eyes gleaming with trust. "You always know just how to do it," she said. "No one else can braid my hair like you."
Aurèlle smiled quietly, a gentle warmth threading through her chest. She was happy for her sister, thrilled that the evening would celebrate Dahlia's Bloom, even as the ache of her own unbloomed magic lingered beneath her composed exterior. She tucked it away carefully, folding the feeling neatly behind her smile, focusing instead on the love that had always bound them.
Aurèlle smoothed her mother's lilac gown one last time, the fabric a subtle anchor to her past, while Dahlia twirled lightly, radiant in the soft glow of the afternoon light. For a fleeting moment, they stood side by side, reflections of shared history, resilience, and the quiet triumph of bond over bloodline. Aurèlle traced a finger along the embroidery, feeling the story of her mother's care stitched into every thread. This gown, these moments, were proof of what had been and what still could endure.
Aurèlle brushed her hands along her sister's shoulders one last time. "Come on," she said gently. "The evening awaits. Let's make it beautiful."
Hand in hand, the sisters stepped toward the door, hearts intertwined with shared memories and silent promises. The warmth of their bond shielded them from the weight of the household beyond. Aurèlle's heart carried memories, longing, and unspoken truths—but here, in this moment, they were sisters first, and nothing else mattered.
The hallway outside stretched in quiet grandeur, the polished floors reflecting their movements, the faint scent of lilacs drifting from the garden below. Aurèlle held herself tall, poised, yet a part of her remained restless, simmering with anticipation, pride, and that lingering, unbloomed magic she could not yet claim. Tonight would be a celebration of her sister, and while she might remain in the shadows, she would do so with care, love, and vigilance.
As they reached the corridor leading to the grand hall, Aurèlle glanced once more at Dahlia's excited smile, committing it to memory. No matter the trials, the cruelty that had come before, or the favoritism that shadowed their lives, this—this joy, this bond—was unshakable. And Aurèlle knew, deep in her heart, that no matter what lay ahead, she would protect it fiercely, as fiercely as she had protected the fragile pieces of her mother's memory all these years.