Dawn seeped through the tower window, a sickly glow on the wreckage of Gloria's room. Acid had eaten the blanket to threads, blistered the bedframe, pockmarked the stone floor. Mirror shards glittered like cruel eyes, the chair lay in splinters, curtains hung in rags, the chest bore claw-like scars, her Shadow's fury etched deep. At fourteen, Gloria stood hollow, Helga's word, nothing, a stone in her chest, heavier than the gash crusted on her scalp. The sapphire rested in her sleeve, dull, its crystal void silent, but the lady's lessons, Viper Flow, So-La-Ko chants, memory weaving, flickered, faint anchors against the venom inside. Tristan's sailor eyes, Julius's prodigy smirk, Rebecca's cutting sneer, Helga's frost, they churned in her, a storm she couldn't quiet.
The door groaned, and Helga entered, her blue dress pristine, pale hair pinned tight, eyes cold as winter stone. Lina followed, the pinched maid, with two others, their faces blank, baskets in hand. Helga's gaze swept the ruin, acid burns, Shadow's chaos, her lips a thin line, but she spoke no word, her silence sharper than any blade. She pointed, and the maids moved, swift and silent. Lina scooped the blanket's blackened remains, her hands shaking, eyes fixed on the floor. The others dragged the bedframe, wood creaking, splinters catching on stone, and swept the shards, glass clinking like broken bells. They pried up pockmarked stones, replacing them with smooth slabs, the scrape of iron tools a harsh pulse. Gloria watched, her torn dress catching her knees, her ruin erased under Helga's cold command, the maids' haste a mirror to her own shame.
Helga turned, her voice low, clipped. "Follow me." She led through the castle's corridors, walls slick with damp, torchlight casting jagged shadows, the air thick with rot and ash. Gloria trailed, boots scuffing, the sapphire's weight a knot in her sleeve. Her thoughts twisted, Helga's dismissal, nothing, Julius poised to claim it all, villages, stones, if she failed to bear an heir. The bathing room opened, a cavern of crumbling stone, steam rising from a copper tub, its water catching the skylight's gray gleam. Rusted braziers hissed, coals glowing, the air heavy with damp and bitter soap. Helga gestured to the tub, her eyes unyielding. "In."
Gloria shed her rags, the dress pooling like shed skin, and sank into the water, heat stinging her raw skin, the gash biting back. Helga stood, arms folded, her shadow sharp on the stone. "You're going to the Sisters of the Elements," she said, her voice cold, slicing the steam. "Nuns who master their craft, Poison among them. You'll show them that, your acid, your venom, and nothing else. That darkness in you, that taint, you'll bury it, control it, or it'll destroy you." Her words were steel, each one a chain.
Gloria's breath caught, water lapping her chest, her mind reeling. Nuns of Poison, women who knew the acid in her tears, the venom in her heart, a craft she barely grasped. But her Shadow, the writhing mass that tore her room, the lady's warning, ravenous, was forbidden, a secret Helga loathed. Was this her mother's shield, keeping Edgar's fists, his brutal training, at bay? Fear, Helga's ice masking dread of her daughter's hidden power? Or guilt, a crack in her scorn, a mother's buried regret for naming her nothing? Her heart stirred, a bitter pulse for Helga's control, a sharp sting for Tristan's freedom, so unlike her cage. Fear coiled, the Sisters a looming unknown, despair for a future carved without her will, anger at the chains tightening. The water burned, her hands trembling, but she held still, Helga's gaze a weight she couldn't shake.
Helga leaned closer, her voice softer, colder. "You'll see no one, not that Filmore boy, until you're seventeen, when you marry. You'll stay with the Sisters until then, learning your place, your power. When you return, I'll shape you into a Countess, fit for this name." She straightened, her eyes narrowing. "Fail, and your brother takes everything, every scrap of this land. You'll be less than your rats." The words echoed her warning, Julius poised to inherit, Gloria's worth tied to an heir, a noose from their dungeon talk.
Gloria's throat tightened, the tub's heat choking, her thoughts a tangle. Helga's plan, exile to nuns, a ban on Tristan, a future she didn't choose, felt like a tomb, not salvation. The Sisters would see her acid, her venom, but never her Shadow, the mass that answered her screams. Could she hide it, keep the lady's lessons secret, So-La-Ko, Coil, Strike, Shed, her only shield? The water rippled, her reflection a fractured girl, lost in steam. Helga turned, her skirts whispering, and left, the door's thud swallowed by the braziers' hiss, steam curling like ghosts.
Lina returned with another maid, towels in hand, their eyes downcast. They dried Gloria, cloth rough on her stinging skin, and dressed her in gray wool, tunic, trousers, boots, simple, built for travel, no trace of Eldeholt's silk. The sapphire stayed in her rags, tucked away, a secret she'd guard. They led her to the courtyard, dawn's chill biting, a black carriage waiting, horses snorting, their breath clouding. A woman stood by it, cloaked in green, her face gaunt, eyes sharp with a sour glint, her presence heavy, a bitterness honed to calm. "Gloria Eldeholt," she said, her voice low, like acid kissing stone. "I am Sister Edith. Come."
Gloria hesitated, her heart pounding, the lady's lessons a faint pulse, Viper Flow, memory weaving, her only hold against the storm. Edith's gaze cut through her, steady, not cruel, but probing, as if tasting her venom, seeking her secrets. A faint acidic scent clung to the nun, her cloak's hem stained faintly, like spilled wine. Was this Helga's mercy, a chance to master her power, or a banishment to bury her darkness? The carriage door opened, Edith's hand beckoning, and Gloria stepped forward, gravel crunching under her boots, the castle's towers looming, their stone a fading weight. She climbed in, the door slamming, the horses lurching, the carriage rattling onto a forest road, trees clawing the sky, their branches gnarled, like fingers of decay.
Inside, the carriage was cramped, leather seats worn, the air thick with dust and that bitter scent, Edith's presence a quiet force. She sat opposite, her green cloak folded, hands clasped, her gaunt face calm, eyes steady, no trace of the spite Gloria knew in herself. The wheels creaked, the forest a blur of gray and green, and Edith spoke, her voice soft, deliberate. "Tell me, Gloria, what is your life in that castle?" Her gaze held no warmth, but no anger, a master's control, her question a probe into Gloria's raw heart.
Gloria stiffened, her hands gripping her knees, distrust curling in her chest. The lady's warning, consume you, echoed, her Shadow a secret she couldn't spill. Edith's calm unnerved her, too unlike Helga's frost, Edgar's rage. She swallowed, her voice low, curt. "It's cold. Hard." The words were true, but bare, guarding the pain, the fists, the scorn. Her thoughts stirred, a bitter pulse for Helga's nothing, a sharp sting for Tristan's sea, fear of this nun seeing too much, despair for the years ahead.
Edith tilted her head, her eyes narrowing, not unkind but unyielding. "Your father, what is he to you?" The question cut, precise, her voice steady, the acidic scent sharper, as if her power listened.
Gloria's throat tightened, Edgar's wine-soaked laugh flashing, his hand raised, the bruise on her arm. She didn't trust this woman, this nun, but lies felt heavier than truth. "He's cruel," she said, her voice flat, short, the words scraping her tongue. Her heart raced, fear of Edith's judgment, anger at her own weakness, but she held her gaze, refusing to break.
Edith nodded, slow, her fingers tracing her cloak's edge, no flicker of spite, only calm. "And your mother, how does she shape you?" Her tone was even, but the question dug, seeking the cracks in Gloria's world.
Gloria's breath hitched, Helga's nothing ringing, her ice, her plan to exile her. The tub's heat lingered in her memory, Helga's chains tightening. "She doesn't," Gloria said, her voice sharper, truth cutting through. "She wants me gone." The words slipped, raw, and she clamped her mouth shut, her hands trembling, a bitter pulse for Helga's control, despair for her own place.
Edith leaned back, her gaze steady, a faint smile, not warm but knowing, like she tasted Gloria's venom and found it familiar. "When did your power wake?" she asked, her voice softer, the acidic scent fading, her control a wall Gloria couldn't breach.
Gloria hesitated, the room's wreckage flashing, acid tears eating blankets, Shadow hurling glass. She couldn't speak of the darkness, the lady's lessons, her only shield. "Not long ago," she said, curt, true, her voice low. "It burns." Her cheeks stung, the memory of acid raw, envy for Tristan's ease, fear of Edith seeing deeper.
Edith's eyes held hers, probing, but she didn't press, her calm a contrast to Gloria's churn. "You'll learn to hold it," she said, her voice firm, not a promise but a fact. "Or it will break you." The words echoed the lady's warning, ravenous, and Gloria's heart pounded, her Shadow a whisper, quiet but alive. The carriage rattled, the forest darkening, the road stretching to the Sisters' hall. Edith fell silent, her gaze drifting to the window, her control a lesson Gloria didn't trust, didn't understand.
Gloria sank into the seat, her thoughts a storm, distrust heavy, the sapphire's weight a secret in her sleeve. Edith knew her pain, her venom, but not her darkness, the Shadow she hid. Was this nun her guide, or another chain, like Helga's plan, Tristan's absence, Julius's shadow? The forest closed in, trees like sentinels, and Gloria clutched her knees, Viper Flow's rhythm, So-La-Ko, a faint pulse. The carriage rolled on, the Sisters' hall looming, a future she'd face, venom and darkness entwined, her truth guarded, her heart unready.