Gloria crept up the dungeon stairs, her patched dress catching on the rough stone as the sapphire pressed against her wrist, tucked in her sleeve. The tunnels below still hummed in her mind—Nubs, Scratch, Laura, and Victor fed and settled, their warmth a shield against the castle's cold. She'd lingered too long, lost in the dark she'd claimed since six, and now the wind carried her father's voice from above, a drunken roar slicing through the courtyard. "Where's the girl? Fetch her, Helga!" Count Edgar Eldeholt was in the great hall, no doubt, his Fire and Poison loose with wine, the Filmore envoy at his side. She froze mid-step, the stair's shadow pooling around her boots, when a sharper sound cut in—Helga's boots, crisp against the stone.
Her mother stood at the stair's top, a silhouette in blue, her pale eyes glinting like frost in the torchlight. "Out of the dungeons again," Helga said, her voice smooth and biting, Water and Air weaving a calm that stung more than it soothed. Gloria's throat tightened, but she climbed the last steps, brushing past into the courtyard's chill. Helga didn't move, just watched, her gaze raking over the dirt-streaked dress, the tangled hair. "Inside," she ordered, turning toward the hall. "The trader's here—House Filmore. You'll not shame us like that."
Gloria trailed her, boots scuffing, the sapphire a cold weight against her skin. Edgar's laughter boomed from the great hall—sloppy, loud, entertaining the envoy with tales of Julius's flight or his own bloated pride. The Filmores—blue and purple, serpent on a boat—bartered fish from their river city, charging stocking fees, port fees, their hands in every crate and coin that passed their docks. This envoy was here for more than trade, though—Tristan Filmore, the boy she'd never met, her fate in their whispers. Five villages and one city, sealed with her hand.
Helga led her past the hall, down a corridor to the bath chamber, a cavern carved into the castle's bones. A stone tub loomed in the center, wide and deep, its edges charred from centuries of fire—Eldeholt's Fire heirs kept the pit beneath ablaze, and Edgar's magic fed it when he wasn't drowning in ale. Two maids—Lina, pinched and silent, and Mara, gray and brisk—waited by the door, sponges and soap in hand. Helga stopped at the threshold, arms crossed, her voice rising over the fire's crackle. "Clean her. She's a disgrace as is."
Gloria stiffened as the maids moved in, Lina tugging at her dress, Mara peeling it off with a cluck of disgust. The gray wool fell away, dirt crumbling from the hem, and she stood bare, shivering in the firelight, grime streaking her arms from the tunnels. She'd never worn the gowns Helga left—silks and velvets rotting in her chamber, too fine for her hands. Helga didn't lift a finger, just watched, her lips curling. "Look at you," she said, her tone a blade. "Filthy, always. No noble house would take you like this—no magic, no worth. A disgrace. It's a miracle the Filmores will stomach you, and even then, only for our name."
Lina pushed her toward the tub, and Gloria climbed in, the stone rough under her palms. Helga raised a hand, her Water magic stirring—moisture gathered from the air, the walls, the servants' breath, swirling into a stream above the tub. It poured down, steaming as it hit the fire-warmed basin, and her Air nudged the heat higher, mist curling up. "Sit," Helga snapped, stepping back as the maids took over. Gloria sank into the water, its scalding bite softening to a warmth she hated—it wasn't hers, not like the tunnels.
Helga paced the room's edge, her voice relentless. "Stay away from the dungeons," she said, sharp and sudden. Gloria's head jerked up, water dripping from her lashes. "Why?" she asked, the word slipping free. Helga's eyes narrowed, but she gave no answer—just stared, cold and impenetrable, a wall built years ago.
"You'll marry soon," she went on, brushing off the question. "Tristan Filmore—Fire and Water, strong blood. You've never met him, and you don't need to. He'll take you, and you'll be a wife—a maid, really." Her gaze swept Gloria, up and down, a sneer twisting her lips. "Shouldn't be hard. You're built for it—dirty, never in the gowns I've wasted on you. No magic's ever come, and it won't hiding away. A noble with no spark—it's never happened, not in Cadia. You're nothing without us forcing you somewhere."
Gloria's hands clenched under the water, nails digging into her skin. "I don't want him," she said, her voice low, shaking. "I don't know him—how can I marry a stranger?" It was small, a flicker of defiance, but it burned in her chest.
Helga's laugh was short, icy. "Want?" she spat, stepping closer, the steam parting around her. "You think I wanted Edgar? This rotting pile? Choices are for those with power, girl—you've none. No magic, no value—just a name we prop up. The Filmores take you because we make them, not because you're worth it." Her eyes bored into Gloria, stripping her bare. "You're less than a maid without us—worthless."
The water rippled, and a whisper brushed Gloria's ear—soft, cold, not the fire's hiss or the maids' scrubbing. "You're enough," it said, curling from the shadows at the tub's edge. She froze, her breath catching as Lina sponged her back, oblivious. The shadows thickened, pooling under the water's surface, unseen by Helga's sharp gaze. "Rise," they murmured, a chill threading through the warmth. Gloria's heart thudded—miners' tales of ghosts flashed in her mind, but this was closer, alive. She gripped the tub's rim, the stone grounding her as Helga's voice droned on.
"You need to find who you are," Helga said, her tone cutting through the whisper. "Hiding won't bring your magic—it's facing the world that does it. Julius had his at three, soaring and burning. You? Nothing. Worthless." She turned to the maids, her Water magic swirling more droplets to rinse Gloria's hair. "Finish her. The trader's waiting—Edgar's making a fool of us already."
Lina scrubbed her scalp, soap stinging her eyes, while Mara sponged her arms, their hands rough and quick. Helga stepped back, arms crossed, the steam framing her like a specter. Gloria stared at the water, the shadows coiling beneath, their whisper fading but lingering in her bones. Worthless, Helga said—but the dark disagreed. She'd go back tonight, she vowed—Victor and the others waited, and the dungeons held more than Helga's secrets. The bath couldn't wash that away.
Helga's skirts swished as she left, her voice trailing. "Be ready." Gloria sank deeper, the water lapping her chin, the shadows' echo louder than her mother's scorn.