Chapter 1: The Shame of House Sterling (1)
The stone was always coldest in the hour before dawn, when even the servants were still asleep and Seraphina scrubbed the courtyard alone. Her knees had long since stopped bruising—now they simply bled, then scarred, then bled again.
The Sterling estate's courtyard stretched fifty paces across, each flagstone requiring individual attention with a brush and bucket. Seraphina's hands moved mechanically through the familiar routine, red and cracked from the lye soap. Around her, the grand manor house rose three stories high, its windows dark except for her father's study where lamplight flickered behind expensive curtains.
He was awake. He was always awake when she worked.
He just never looked down.
Footsteps echoed across the courtyard—the click of expensive shoes against stone. Seraphina didn't look up. Servants learned quickly that acknowledging their betters without permission earned punishment.
"Pathetic."
Lady Marguerite Sterling's voice cut through the pre-dawn silence like a blade. Seraphina's stepmother descended the manor steps with practiced grace, her burgundy dress pristine despite the early hour. Her awakened mana shimmered around her in waves of heat, making the air ripple.
"You missed a spot." Marguerite gestured to a section Seraphina had finished an hour ago.
"My lady, I—"
The bucket of dirty water hit Seraphina's head before she could finish. Cold, filthy liquid cascaded down her face and soaked through her threadbare dress. Soap burned her eyes.
"Don't speak unless spoken to." Marguerite's tone was bored, as if correcting a dog. "You are the shame of this house. The least you can do is clean it properly."
Through burning eyes, Seraphina watched her stepmother's retreating back. In the study window above, Count Sterling's silhouette shifted—then turned away, returning to his ledgers.
"Miss Seraphina?"
A young servant girl hovered near the kitchen entrance, wringing her hands. She was new, barely fourteen, and hadn't yet learned that acknowledging Seraphina could earn her dismissal.
"The Young Master Cedric has arrived," the girl whispered. "He's asking for you in the parlor."
Seraphina's heart stuttered. Cedric hadn't visited in three months—not since their engagement was announced and the whispers started. The Thorne heir marrying the Sterling failure. What a waste.
"Tell him I'll be there shortly."
The girl fled. Seraphina stood slowly, her knees screaming in protest. She wrung filthy water from her hair and tried not to hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope led to disappointment, and she'd learned that lesson thoroughly over twenty years of having none of the mana that defined worth in the Empire of Celestia.
The dress was five years old, faded blue silk that had belonged to Lillian before her younger half-sister awakened as a water mage and upgraded her wardrobe. It hung loose on Seraphina's frame—the kitchen served her smaller portions than they served the hunting dogs.
In the cracked mirror of her attic bedroom, Seraphina barely recognized herself. Silver hair limp and colorless. Violet eyes hollow, ringed with shadows. Skin pale as paper, stretched over bones that showed too clearly.
Twenty years old, she thought. And this is all I have to show for it.
She descended the servants' stairs—Lady Marguerite had forbidden her from using the main staircase—and approached the parlor with her heart beating too fast. Through the partially open door, she heard voices.
"...a mercy that you're willing to continue the engagement." Count Sterling's voice, flat and businesslike. "Given the circumstances."
"Father speaks too highly of my patience." That was Lillian, sixteen and beautiful and everything Seraphina wasn't. Water mana danced at her fingertips, crystallizing the moisture in the air into decorative ice flowers. "If I were Cedric, I would have fled the moment I learned she was mana-less."