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Chapter 4

When Emberlyth decided to haul half the pantry back with her, she never expected anyone to be waiting at her door. Even when the estate hosted guests, her room usually remained a sanctuary, undisturbed. Yet now, despite the evening’s silence, a figure stood by her door, lantern light casting long, flickering shadows across the hall.

“Did they send you to keep an eye on me?” Ember asked, stopping a few steps short. The tray of pilfered goods remained cradled in her arm, as brazen as a war banner. There was no point in hiding it. Not today.

Maybe, if things had gone differently this morning—if she hadn’t been humiliated by her younger cousin, if she still had a shred of dignity to cling to—Emberlyth might have cared about appearances. She might’ve blushed, stammered some excuse about being peckish, tried to salvage what little remained of her poise.

But why bother? Dignity felt as distant as the horizon now, unreachable no matter how far she stretched. She had played every part from dutiful lady to tempestuous lunatic, and none of it had moved the needle. They still ignored her, dismissed her, kept her at arm’s length.

So tonight, she would be herself—whatever that meant. And her truest self, at this moment, intended to eat her feelings in peace.

“What’s the matter?” she continued, her voice light but sharp-edged. “Cat got your tongue?”

The figure shifted slightly, stepping out of the lantern’s shadow. Ember recognized the pale, unreadable face of Izbeth, her latest in a line of handmaids. A quiet woman, always hovering just out of reach, with eyes that seemed to catalog Ember’s every flaw.

Moments like these made Ember miss the old staff. They had been gruff but kind in their own way. They’d taught her games when the nights stretched long, shared whispered stories by the hearth, and teased her for sneaking sweets but never tattled. They’d felt like people. Izbeth? She was silent as stone, always hovering, always watching. If Ember had ever doubted her family’s interest in her, Izbeth’s presence was a cold reassurance that they did care—just not in any way that mattered.

“If you’re here to report back on my scandalous midnight feasting habits,” Emberlyth said, tilting her chin defiantly, “don’t bother. Tell whoever sent you that I’m eating this entire ham out of spite.”

Izbeth’s lips twitched—was that almost a smile?—but she didn’t speak. She only stepped aside, a silent sentinel, and gestured toward the door.

Ember huffed. “Thought so.”

“It is Drownings Day, miss,” Izbeth finally spoke as she brushed past, her voice little more than a breath, like the wind whispering through cracks in an old wall. Ember had to strain to catch the words, foot still hooked around a door she’d intended to kick shut. “I have come to check on your marks.”

“I see…” Emberlyth’s voice trailed off as she thumbed the edge of the tray. Another night, she might have welcomed this. Another night, she might have felt the familiar stir of hope, a spark of anticipation at the possibility of change.

Aethermarks were supposed to grow, to shift. They were meant to intertwine with the soul of the bearer, becoming something wholly unique. A reflection of power. A source of strength. That was the promise written in every tome, spoken in every lesson. Yet Emberlyth’s marks remained stubbornly unchanged. Years had passed since she first etched them into her own flesh, yet they remained as static and lifeless as ink on a page.

To think Ember was once the one who had asked for this? How she had begged Sarah and Mariah too keep vigil in case they suddenly changed while she was asleep. How hopeful she had been. How ambitious. What had once been an eager ritual had long since dwindled into routine. Now, even long after her original maids had left, every month like clockwork, she would be reminded of how little she had progressed.

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And yet, to dismiss Izbeth outright seemed... wrong. The woman had waited for her, likely for hours, standing like a statue in the dim light. Ember didn’t hate her. Izbeth was just difficult to be around. She wasn’t cruel or unkind, just a relief whenever she left.

Still, despite every reason to send her away, Ember sighed and relented. She needed something to go right tonight. Anything. Even the smallest victory would do.

“Very well,” she said, her voice soft but resigned. “Let’s get this over with.”

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Her room was everything Emberlyth hated about the Draekart estate. It was a space that spoke in whispers, suffocating ones—old and worn out. The bed, though grand in its carvings and heavy posts, had long since grown too small for her. And yet, it held her fast, the weight of tradition pinning her down. The drapes were no better. They changed with the seasons, yes, but only in the way a funeral shroud might shift from white to black. Now, they hung in a dull reddish-gray, the color of old blood and forgotten sunsets. A reminder that the season of silence had begun anew.

The windows, large and ornate, only deepened her frustration. They promised a glimpse of the world beyond, but that promise was a cruel one. The unchanging view ended at the treetops, where the horizon blurred and the rest of the world fell away, leaving her locked within these walls. Always within these walls.

Emberlyth set the tray down on the small table by the hearth, its uneven legs wobbling slightly under the weight. Another murmured “Surge” escaped her lips, soft as a breath. Nothing. Her marks remained inert, unyielding as always. With a sigh, she trudged toward the fireplace, shoulders heavy with a weariness she could no longer blame on the day alone.

The firewood had been laid out earlier, neat and expectant. It was that time of year again, when the nights stretched longer and the air bit sharper. Ember rarely noticed the cold herself—not until the snow piled high on the roofs and the wind howled like a thing in pain. But Izbeth, with her narrow frame and pale, papery skin, would surely feel the chill. Vaelen had, on the rare occasions she remained during winter.

Ember knelt by the hearth, striking a spark with practiced efficiency. The fire leapt to life, and the room began to warm. She didn’t need the heat, not yet. But she liked the flames. Their crackling would fill the silence, the dancing light pushing back the shadows that crowded her mind. Hours could slip away as she stared into them, imagining strength where there was none, a future where the embers might one day blaze.

That was why she’d once loved her marks. She’d believed in them, in the power they held. Now, she could only hope. Hope that they might still change, still grow into something worthy.

With the room bathed in the flickering glow of firelight, the rain drumming a soft, steady rhythm against the windows, Ember crossed to the far corner. There, a full-body mirror stood its eternal guard, its frame tarnished but proud. She hung her magi-struct lantern on the hook above it, letting its light join the fire’s. The more light, the better. No details could be missed.

She pulled the singular chair closer to the mirror, its legs scraping softly against the wooden floor.

She could see Izbeth’s reflection where she stood, half a ghost, barely a shadow lingering in the doorway. It was a relief, Ember supposed. Ghosts—real ones—wouldn’t show themselves in mirrors. At least, that’s what the books said. And though she didn’t trust much these days, she still clung to the small truths of ink and paper.

Neither of them spoke during all of it, and Ember had long stopped expecting otherwise. The silence between them wasn’t heavy, merely hollow—a quiet harmony that matched the emptiness of the estate itself. They were echoes in a vast, vacant hall, neither quite breaking nor filling the quiet.

Words would just have been wasted. Emberlyth didn’t need them as she began unbuttoning her shirt.

There was no ceremony in the act, no hesitation. The fabric slipped from her shoulders as she straddled the chair, baring her back to the room. Only then did Izbeth move, gliding closer with the eerie grace of a weightless thing.

A single sweep of her gaze, left to right. Then, the verdict: “Nothing new, miss. Good night.”

The words struck like a stone skipping across water—light, brief, and sinking quickly into silence. Ember’s mouth opened, the beginnings of a protest rising unbidden. You didn’t even look. What about the fact I can now call my marks five times, not four? What about—

But the words turned to ash in her throat. There was no point. She nodded instead, a quiet surrender. “Good night, Izbeth,” she murmured as the door groaned shut behind the maid.

And just like that, the last flicker of hope guttered out.