Elira expected silence the next morning.
Instead, she found a box.
Neatly wrapped. Matte black paper. Silver wax seal.
Her name etched in delicate cursive on a card: Elira Veremelle.
She didn't touch it.
Not immediately.
But the box sat on her desk like a weight. Unmoving. Unignorable. A presence.
Eventually, curiosity—or perhaps resignation—won.
She broke the seal.
Inside, nestled in fine velvet, was a brooch.
Or rather, a crest.
A platinum rose encircled by twin serpents, their eyes inlaid with tiny sapphire chips.
It wasn't a mere accessory.
It was a mark.
A public one.
Only highborn heirs from the Nine Great Houses could wear such sigils.
This one was unmistakable.
The House Raventelle crest.
And she had never asked for it.
Elira's stomach turned cold.
What... exactly was this supposed to mean?
That afternoon, she skipped lunch and headed to the garden courtyard. It was quieter there—less eyes, less breath on her neck.
Or so she thought.
"Leaving before dessert? That's not like you."
The voice floated like mist—cool, smooth, unhurried.
Elira didn't turn.
"I wasn't hungry."
"Hm." The sound of heels on stone echoed lightly behind her. "You should take better care of yourself. We only get one body."
"I didn't ask for advice."
"Good," Celestienne murmured. "Because that was a warning."
Elira turned now.
Celestienne stood beneath the shadow of a marble archway, a parasol resting delicately on her shoulder despite the overcast sky. Her uniform was pristine, not a hair out of place. The picture of composed cruelty.
"You sent the crest," Elira said.
"I did."
"Why?"
Celestienne took a few steps forward. Her heels clicked once, twice, and then stopped just out of reach.
"To claim what's mine."
"I'm not yours."
A pause.
Then, the faintest smile—like ice cracking.
"Of course not," Celestienne said softly. "You haven't bled for me yet."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Not loud.
But dense.
Like the pressure of the ocean above a sinking ship.
Elira tried to steady her breath.
"What do you want from me?"
Celestienne tilted her head. Her parasol turned slightly, casting a crescent shadow over her face.
"You."
Elira's pulse stumbled.
"I don't—"
"Not your words. Not your service." Her voice was low, measured. "Your attention. Your breath. Your heartbeat. I want to know what wakes you up at night. What makes you want to disappear."
Elira took a step back.
"You're insane."
"And yet…" Celestienne took a matching step forward. "You haven't thrown away the crest."
"That's not—"
She stopped herself.
Because the brooch was still in her pocket.
Heavy.
Warm.
Watching.
That night, Elira sat alone in her room.
Two gifts.
Two women.
Two traps.
She placed the brooch on the table.
Then stared at it for a long time.
Why me?
She wasn't beautiful like them. Or powerful. Or even useful.
She was just… someone who didn't belong.
And maybe that was exactly what drew them.
Something to ruin.
Or something to keep.
But the fact is that Elira is very beautiful without her realizing it.
Across the dormitory wing, Celestienne stood at her window, watching the lights in Elira's room flicker and dim.
"She didn't reject it," said a voice behind her.
Her maid. Silent as a shadow.
"No," Celestienne murmured. "She didn't."
"Should we move forward?"
"Not yet."
A pause.
"She's fragile," Celestienne whispered. "Like a moth that hasn't chosen which flame to burn in."
She turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
"But she will."