In our world, power isn't spoken. It's worn wrapped around the ankle in a single strand of beads.
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 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.
Arrival: The sky over St. Moritz was the color of a sealed vault. Heavy, still, like a secret waiting to be unlocked. Our jet cut through it like a blade, unbothered by clouds, unshaken by storms. The Alps stood beneath us, silent, ancient witnesses to yet another empire arriving in their shadow.
The moment the wheels touched the private runway, silence shifted into movement. The convoy of black vehicles, Rolls-Royces, armored sedans, and motorcycles with tinted visors pulled forward as though choreographed. Our family name was the choreography. Marino did not arrive. Marino descended. The air outside was sharp with winter, yet warmed faintly by the heated stones lining the private runway. St. Moritz snow glittered like ground diamonds, but we were not dazzled. We had been raised around stones rarer than ice.
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, like a chessboard queen who already knows the endgame.
Isabella Marino, our second self her light blue hair twisted into a sleek coil. She moved like ice: quiet, precise, untouchable. Words were unnecessary for her; a look could kill, and often did.
And Sofia Marino, our wild flame, with golden-brown waves loose and untamed. She smiled like she knew something no one else did, like secrets were jewels only she could afford to wear.
We stepped onto the tarmac, the snow hushing our names. 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. We were the triplets of the Marino dynasty. And the world would bow, or it would burn. The Convoy rolled through the gates of the Lonsdaleite Estate, nestled in the snow-draped hills of Switzerland. The estate shimmered like something carved out of black diamond obsidian towers and mirrored glass walls, heated stone paths slicing through frost-like veins.
It was not a home. It was a fortress dressed as art. The gates closed behind us with a hiss, like the estate itself was swallowing us whole. Our four older brothers, Luca, Matteo, Enzo, and Dario, stood waiting on the marble steps. Sculpted from legacy. Muscles built for intimidation. Jawlines sharpened by power. Their presence was designed to unsettle, to declare: this is the muscle of Marino blood. But they were not the heart.
We didn't greet them. We didn't even slow down. We swept past them in unison, boots crunching lightly against the snow, our eyes fixed beyond their broad shoulders. Past Thorne, the butler, a former assassin turned loyal servant, his silver hair tied neatly at his nape. His eyes followed us, sharp as ever, his posture promising death to anyone who dared come too close. Past the marble fountain shaped like a serpent devouring its tail, water running crimson in the winter light as though it bled eternally. We ran, we ran to her.
Our mother, Seraphina Marino, sat beneath the cherry blossom tree in the inner garden. Blossoms fell around her in a shower of pale pink snow, scattering across the black silk of her dress. She sat with the ease of a queen whose throne was wherever she chose to rest. A crystal bowl of figs, pomegranates, and blood oranges rested beside her, the fruits sliced open like offerings. Her hair was silver, braided with bronze threads, a quiet rebellion. Her eyes, storm-gray, had weathered the judgment of a world that had once called her nothing. She had once worn Bronze. She had once been disposable.
Until Don Alessandro Marino saw her in a market square, a Bronze girl with fire in her stare, and declared war on tradition. He married her. He gave her Obsidian. The world never forgave him. But Seraphina did not need forgiveness. She built her empire, carved her name into history, and only then did they accept her.
We collapsed into her arms, laughing, breathless, clinging to her like children. "My girls," she whispered, pressing her lips to our hair. "You're home." The snow seemed to pause for her voice.
On the terrace stood Cassian Alessandro Marino. Don of the Marino mafia. The architect of empires, the breaker of dynasties. His Obsidian bead gleamed like a crown, as though even darkness bent to his will. He watched us with quiet joy in his eyes. He did not move. He did not speak. He didn't need to. His empire spoke for him. We ignored him. We ignored 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.
Obsidian didn't need permission to rest.
Night draped itself over St. Moritz like velvet. The estate glowed under crystal chandeliers, each light flickering like captured stars. Dinner was a long marble table where silence ate with us more faithfully than family.
Luca spoke first, his tone low, smooth, but edged with pride. "Institut Le Rosey will never be the same after you arrive." Everyone already knows. The heirs will want you. The royals will need you. The silvers will worship you. The bronzes will tremble."
Valentina tilted her head, sharp expression. "And what if we don't want them?"
Enzo smirked, wine swirling in his glass. "You don't have to want them." They'll come anyway. Obsidian doesn't ask permission."
Our father watched quietly, his gaze lingering on us like a sculptor examining his finest creation. He had built us as much as he had raised us. To him, our beauty was strategy, our futures were currency, and our beads were weapons.
But Seraphina cut through the silence. "They are not beads. They are my daughters." Her storm-gray eyes flicked at her husband. "And they will decide their own worth."
The air thickened. For a moment, even Don Alessandro didn't respond. But then his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Of course, my love."
Later that night, in the east wing of the estate, the three of us gathered in the triplets' suite. A room carved for shadows and whispers, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the frozen lake.
Valentina leaned against the glass, eyes scanning the darkness. "Le Rosey will test us tomorrow. They'll watch every step we take. They'll measure us, weigh us, and try to decide what we're worth."
Isabella, hair uncoiled from its perfection, sat cross-legged on the bed, scribbling notes into her leather journal. "Let them watch. Obsidian doesn't bend to gold."
Sofia sprawled across the velvet couch, golden-brown hair like wildfire against the cushions. "They'll gossip." They'll whisper. They'll stare. And then they'll beg. I think I'll enjoy watching them squirm."
Valentina's crimson gaze cut to her sister, half amusement, half warning. "You always enjoy the chaos."
Sofia's smile was wicked. "Because chaos reveals the truth. And I want to know which of them are strong enough to face us… and which will break."
The night held our voices like secrets. Tomorrow, we will step into the most elite school in the world. Tomorrow, we will remind them that beads may measure status. But Obsidian rewrote the rules.