The count's son arrived with the morning sun, his entourage filling House Blackwood's courtyard with a display of wealth and power that made the crystal spires shimmer with reflected glory. From her window, Celestia watched as Rosalind, dressed in her finest silk gown that caught light like captured dawn, stood with their parents to greet the visitors. Theodore's absence spoke volumes, his protest marked by the subtle dimming of nearby crystal lamps.
"Young miss," Clara's voice was tight with concern, her water magic creating protective currents in the air. "Perhaps you should—"
"Hide?" Celestia smiled slightly, watching how the morning light caught her silver-blonde hair—that telling Blackwood trait that would soon mark her as both prize and prisoner. "A bit late for that, isn't it?"
The summons came as expected. Celestia made her way to the main hall, where Marcus Eastmark, the count's son, stood examining portraits of past Blackwood dukes. At sixteen, he carried himself with the arrogance of privilege, his power signature radiating disdain even before he turned.
Those eyes, cold as winter frost, widened briefly in surprise, then narrowed with disgust as they took in her appearance.
"This is the bride?" His voice carried deliberately through the hall, making the crystal chandeliers tremble. "The cursed one who stole her brother's power? I was promised Lady Rosalind!"
"My lord," the duchess began smoothly, though her power rippled with barely contained tension. "The emperor himself—"
"I don't care about imperial commands!" Marcus spat, his anger making nearby crystal lamps flare erratically. "Look at her! Probably practices dark magic in that wing you keep her locked in. Everyone knows she's brought nothing but misfortune to this house."
Celestia stood silent, Elizabeth Crawford's lessons about handling hostile negotiations running through her mind. But something else caught her attention—movement at the top of the grand staircase, where marble steps swept down in an elegant curve that suddenly seemed ominous.
Rosalind stood there, watching the scene with an expression caught between guilt and relief. Her usual golden aura flickered uncertainly as she took a step forward, her elaborate dress—chosen to impress the very man now rejecting her sister—catching on an ornamental piece of the banister.
Time seemed to slow, crystal light fragmenting into individual beams that caught every detail of the unfolding moment. Celestia saw it happening: the fabric pulling, Rosalind's balance shifting, the steep marble stairs below promising nothing but pain.
Without thinking, she moved. Holy power surged through her legs as she crossed the space in an instant, making the crystal lamps blaze with sudden brilliance. Her arms caught Rosalind just as the younger girl began to fall, spinning them both away from the stairs' edge.
"Careful," Celestia murmured, steadying her sister. For a moment, their eyes met, and something like recognition passed between them—a glimpse of what their relationship might have been in a kinder world.
Then hands seized Celestia's shoulders with bruising force.
"Get away from her!" The duchess's voice cracked with hysteria, her power flaring wild and uncontrolled.
Celestia felt the push before she could react. One moment she was standing, her sister's warmth still in her arms, the next she was falling. The crystal lights above seemed to stretch into long streams of brightness as she tumbled backward.
Marble steps rushed up to meet her with cruel precision. Pain exploded through her body in waves, each impact drawing a new symphony of agony. She heard gasps, a scream—perhaps Rosalind's—and then a silence that seemed to swallow even the crystal lamps' steady hum.
Blood trickled warm down her face as she lay at the bottom of the stairs, its copper taste sharp on her tongue. Through blurring vision, she saw the duchess hurrying Rosalind away, her younger sister's golden aura now stained with horror. Marcus Eastmark stood staring, his face pale beneath its aristocratic hauteur. Servants hovered uncertainly at the edges of her vision, their forms blending with the shadows cast by now-dimmed crystal lights.
No priest was called. No healer summoned. The cursed child's fate concerned no one.
Time passed—minutes or hours, she couldn't tell. The marble felt cold against her cheek, its pristine surface now marked with her blood. The crystal lamps above pulsed weakly, as if trying to reach her with their light.
Then familiar hands were carefully lifting her, their touch gentle against her battered form.
"Young miss!" Clara's voice broke with emotion, her water magic instinctively trying to soothe the worst of the pain. "James, quickly!"
"The temple," Celestia managed to whisper through lips that tasted of copper and fate. "Take me... to the temple."
She felt herself being carried through servant passages, heard James giving quiet orders that carried the same protective authority his sister's water magic projected. The golden thread connecting her to Theodore pulled taut with his distant panic—he would have felt her fall, would know something had gone terribly wrong.
"Hold on," Clara pleaded as they rushed through darkening streets, her water magic creating a gentle cushion around Celestia's broken form. "Please, young miss."
Pain made focusing difficult, but Celestia forced herself to think. Elizabeth Crawford had survived one death. Celestia Blackwood would survive this fall. The evening air felt thick with power—both her own, leaking from injuries she couldn't contain, and the temple's distant holy energy calling to her like a beacon.
The temple gates loomed ahead, their crystal spires blazing against the dusk. Ancient power hummed in the very stones, responding to her presence even in her weakened state. As they carried her inside, her carefully maintained control finally slipped.
Golden light bloomed around her, pure and powerful, making the temple's crystal formations sing with resonance. Clara and James brought her to a private chamber where the high priest alone received emergency cases. As the elderly man approached, Celestia's power responded unconsciously to his presence, holy light shimmering beneath her skin.
The high priest froze, his eyes widening as he truly saw her for the first time. Quickly, he ushered Clara and James out, sealing the chamber with a privacy barrier that shimmered with ancient magic.
"Child," he whispered, kneeling beside her. The crystal lamps in the chamber brightened in response to their combined holy power. "All these years... you've hidden such power."
Celestia felt consciousness slipping away, but managed to grasp his hand. Blood still trickled down her face, but now it seemed to glow with inner light. "Please," she whispered, her voice carrying echoes of both lives' determination. "Don't tell anyone."
Understanding filled his aged eyes as the chamber's crystal lights cast gentle shadows across his features. "The prophecy spoke of wisdom as well as power. Rest now, child. Your secret is safe with me."
As darkness took her, Celestia's last thought was of Elizabeth Crawford's final lesson: sometimes you have to fall before you can truly rise.
In the temple's sacred garden, a single flower bloomed out of season—noticed only by the high priest, who smiled knowingly at this small sign of what was to come.
Change had come to House Blackwood, just not in the way anyone had expected.