Callista's POV
They called her flawless. Callista Vellius, daughter of a High Lord, the jewel of the Midnight Court.
And yet, Lucien never looked at her like he looked at her.
Seraphina.
That pathetic, confused, half-blooded stray.
Callista's hands curled around the stem of her wine glass as she sat by the frost-glazed window, watching the snowfall with eyes that burned hotter than dragonfire. The glass cracked slightly in her grip, but she didn't notice.
She remembered the first time Lucien turned away from her touch.
"I'm not yours, Callista," he had said, eyes like winter storms, sharp and merciless.
But she had been raised to believe otherwise.
They'd danced together at court since they were children. Their names were often spoken together by the nobles—Lucien and Callista. A power match. A future empire.
She had trained for him. Bled for him. Stolen magic for him. And he had rejected her for what? A girl with trembling hands and untrained light behind her eyes?
She stood abruptly, the glass shattering at her feet. A maid flinched from across the room but knew better than to speak.
Callista strode to the mirror, glaring at her reflection.
She was perfect. Golden hair coiled in braids of power. Skin kissed by moonlight. Magic laced into every strand of her aura. But perfection meant nothing to Lucien.
Not since Seraphina arrived.
That girl with her soft voice and hidden power—was getting too close.
And now, he had marked her.
The mark. The one that should've been Callista's.
Hatred curled under her skin like a viper. She could feel her power twisting with it. That soft little angel might not even know what she's become yet. But Callista knew.
And she would destroy her before Lucien gave her a crown.
Let Seraphina bloom.
She'd rip her petals off, one by one.
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