In our world, power isn't spoken. It's worn—wrapped around the ankle in a single strand of beads.
The sky over St. Moritz was the color of a sealed vault. Our jet cut through it like a blade, and the mountains didn't flinch. The convoy rolled through the gates of Lonsdaleite Estate, nestled in the snow-draped hills of Switzerland. The estate shimmered like a fortress of black diamond obsidian, mirrored towers, and heated stone paths that sliced through the frost-like veins.
We had just returned from our summer holiday in Capri. Salt still clung to our skin. Secrets still clung to our hearts.
We stepped off the jet in unison, three sisters, three shadows, three legacies.
Valentina Marino, with dark red hair braided like fire down to her ankles. Her gaze was sharp, calculating always two steps ahead.
Isabella Marino with light blue hair twisted into a sleek coil. She moved like ice: quiet, precise, untouchable.
Sofia Marino, with golden-brown waves loose and wild. She smiled like she knew something no one else did.
We stepped onto the tarmac, the snow hushing our names. Three shadows in winter light: dark red, light blue, golden brown. Our hair fell to our ankles by design, a dynasty's answer to the question of how long a woman could carry history and still move forward. Red lips, hourglass silhouettes, beauty not curated to please, but to be undeniable.
Bronze for the forgotten: humility, servitude, bloodlines best left buried.
Silver for the ambitious: skill, control, quiet ascent.
Gold for the sanctioned: wealth, fame, and authorized power.
And Obsidian for those who rewrite the rules. The bead has no registry records. No court admits. No gate refuses.
We wore it openly. We wore Obsidian. Not because we earned it. Because our father and the ancestors before him bent the world to make it ours. The beads glinted against our ankles, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. They weren't symbols. They were warnings.
Our four older brothers, Luca, Matteo, Enzo, and Dario, stood waiting on the steps. Sculpted from legacy. Silent. Forgettable. We didn't greet them. We ran past them. Past Thorne, the butler (a former assassin turned loyal servant), past the marble fountain shaped like a serpent devouring its tail. We ran to her.
Our mother, Seraphina Marino, sat beneath the cherry blossom tree in the garden, slicing blood oranges and figs into a crystal bowl. Her silver hair was braided with bronze threads, a quiet rebellion. Her eyes held storms. She had once worn Bronze. She had once been nothing. Until Don Alessandro Marino saw her in a market square and declared war on tradition. He married her. He gave her Obsidian, and the world never forgave him. She built her empire, made her name known, and only then did they accept her.
We collapsed into her arms, laughing, breathless, clinging to her like we were still children.
"My girls," she whispered. "You're home."
Cassian stood on the terrace, watching us with joy in his eyes. His Obsidian bead gleamed like a crown. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His empire spoke for him. We ignored him. And our brothers. We sat in the garden, eating fruit with our mother as the snow melted around us. The blood oranges stained our fingers. The cherry blossoms fell like confetti.
Tomorrow, we will walk into Institut Le Rosey, the most elite school in the world, where bead status determines everything. Tomorrow, we will test the system. But today, we were daughters, and Obsidian didn't need permission to rest.