Thirteen
It was already noon, and Lita had been training hard all morning, completely unaware of what day it was. Her birthday had slipped her mind entirely — it often did when she was absorbed in her work. Meanwhile, the Valliere mansion had quietly been preparing for her.
Her mother had arranged something. A gift — not the kind bought carelessly at the last moment, but one selected with the particular intentionality she brought to everything. Something fitting for the chapter Lita was about to enter.
At the same time, on the other side of the city, a carriage was already making its way toward the mansion. Sylana sat inside it with a wrapped gift in her lap and that wide, unceasing smile on her face — the one that never quite shifted, no matter what was happening behind it. She had not been invited. She was coming anyway.
Flare was near the entrance when Sylana stepped through the door. Their eyes met. Neither spoke. The air between them contracted in a way that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with years of accumulated dislike neither of them had any interest in hiding. Sylana brushed past her without a word and moved deeper into the house.
Lita's mother called out for her daughter from her room. Lita stopped training, puzzled, and made her way upstairs.
The gift was sitting on a small table — an ornate box, simple and elegant. Her mother stood beside it, watching her with that carefully contained expression.
"Open it, Lita."
Lita crossed the room and lifted the lid. Inside was a hilt. Plain. Almost austere. She turned it over in her hands, puzzled by its simplicity.
"Mother... what is it?"
"Happy birthday, Lita. You're thirteen today."
Lita blinked. She'd genuinely forgotten. Her mother continued before she could find words.
"This isn't an ordinary weapon. It was forged to adapt to its wielder — it can become anything. Sword, shield, magical conduit. Whatever the moment demands." Her tone was level, but there was something beneath it. "Only those with real potential can control it. It will grow with you, as your strength grows."
Lita picked it up carefully. She felt it immediately — a subtle hum beneath the surface, like a pulse, like something waiting. It was light in her hands but felt dense with possibility. She gripped it tighter without meaning to.
"You'll need it at Ardent Peak," her mother said. "Wield it wisely."
"Thank you, Mother," Lita said quietly.
Then a knock, and the door swung open.
Sylana entered with her usual theatrical flair — all wide smiles and exaggerated warmth, as though arriving uninvited to someone's birthday was simply the natural thing to do. She placed her own gift on the table with a flourish, her eyes bright and performatively delighted.
"I couldn't miss your birthday, dear niece. Why don't you open it?"
Lita hesitated — she could feel the tension thicken the moment Sylana stepped into the room — but she reached for the gift. Inside was a dark outfit, sleek and well-made, the fabric lightweight but clearly built to last. It shimmered faintly under the light, as if something had been woven into it beyond thread. It looked like something her mother might wear — precise and purposeful.
Lita's eyes lit up. Whatever her reservations about her aunt, the gift itself was genuinely impressive. "I love it," she said, and meant it.
Sylana's smile widened and she stepped forward to embrace her. Lita accepted it stiffly. The woman's arms were cool — uncomfortably so — and the contact lasted just long enough to feel deliberate. Nearby, Flare muttered something under her breath. Sylana's sharp ears caught it. The briefest flicker crossed her face — irritation, quickly smoothed over — and then the smile was back, as wide and fixed as ever.
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly enough on the surface. Lita moved between her two gifts with genuine pleasure, unaware of — or perhaps simply choosing not to examine — the undercurrent that ran through every exchange between the adults around her.
Eventually, Sylana and Lita's mother withdrew into a private room together, the door closing firmly behind them. What happened in that room was not observed. But the atmosphere it left in the hallway was felt by everyone who passed near it — a particular cold that had nothing to do with the season.
When Sylana finally emerged, she moved through the mansion at an unhurried pace, the kind of pace that belonged to someone who was satisfied with how a conversation had gone. She passed Flare near the exit. And then, instead of leaving, she stopped.
"Hate me much?" The words came low, close behind her — Flare hadn't heard her turn around.
She pressed a letter into Flare's hands before she could react, that same unreadable smile in place. "Give this to my dear sister. I can't give it to her in person."
Then she was gone, stepping out into the night as easily as she'd arrived, leaving behind a silence that sat badly in the chest.
Flare stood with the letter for a long moment. She knew anything from Sylana had the potential to unravel something. But her job was not to decide — it was to deliver. That evening, she brought it to her lady without comment.
Lita's mother took the letter. Read it. And the room changed.
There was no outburst — there never was. But a cold fury settled over her that was somehow worse than any raised voice could have been. She held the paper tightly, her jaw set, something complicated moving through her eyes. When she finally spoke, it was barely above a murmur.
"This reasoning..."
The words trailed away. What remained was heavier than anything she might have finished the sentence with. She crumpled the letter in her fist and stared past Flare at nothing in particular, her voice dropping to something that felt more like a warning to herself than a statement to the room.
"This will not end well."
Flare said nothing. She stood quietly and watched, and wondered — not for the first time — exactly how much of what was coming Sylana had already set in motion.