Ash woke to the sound of rain whispering against the roof beams. The attic ceiling sagged low above her, its wooden planks groaning with the weight of years and storms. Water gathered in the corners where the slate tiles had slipped, dripping into bowls she'd set out days ago. The air smelled of damp wool and candle smoke, heavy enough to cling to her skin.
She shifted on the narrow bed, the thin mattress pressing against the slats beneath. Shelves crammed with cast-off clothes, broken tools, and yellowed ledgers crowded the walls around her. Servants had slept in this room for generations, though most never lasted long. She had. Somehow.
From below drifted the muffled clatter of morning: pots in the kitchen, boots scuffing over the stone floors, doors slamming against the drizzle outside. Ash rubbed her eyes and sat up, her hand brushing the small mirror nailed crookedly beside her bed. In its warped glass, her face looked pale and sharper than she remembered, shadows clinging to her cheekbones. A strand of dark hair fell across her forehead, damp with the attic's chill. She didn't linger on the reflection. She never did.
Her body was strong from work — scrubbing floors, hauling water, mending sheets until her hands stung raw — but her spirit ached for something more. Nights, she dreamed of firelit halls and carved towers, of voices chanting her name. She always woke before the ending, alone in the dark, heart hammering.
The attic kept secrets. She had hidden letters up here, scraps of parchment scavenged from the trash, scrawled with practice signatures: Ashleigh Eleanora. The name looked strange in her own hand, as though it belonged to someone else. Someone important.
The trapdoor creaked open and a familiar voice hissed up the ladder.
"Ash! Are you deaf? Lord Veynar wants the courtyard swept before he leaves. And mind you wear the apron this time."
"Yes, Marn," Ash muttered, her voice flat. She tugged on her patched boots, grabbed the frayed apron from a nail, and headed down into the manor.
Darethmoor Manor loomed in the mist, its windows staring like dark eyes. Gargoyles clung to the gutters, moss crawling over the stone. Ash crossed the corridor with her broom in hand, her steps echoing against the marble. The family portraits glared down at her, oil paint cracked and glistening in the lantern light. She lowered her gaze, though her chest burned with the urge to stare back.
Outside, the courtyard stretched wide, its fountain cracked and dry. The rain pooled on the flagstones, silvering the moss. She swept while the household bustled past her: merchants with scrolls, servants scurrying with baskets, armored men at the gate. No one looked twice at her. No one ever did.
But something was different that morning.
At the edge of the square, a carriage rolled to a stop. Black lacquer, iron fittings, the crest of Virelai Academy etched in silver on its doors. The driver's cloak gleamed wet in the rain as he swung down, his boots splashing mud. From within, a hand extended, holding a sealed envelope.
"For the girl," the driver said. His eyes, pale and strange, found Ash through the crowd. He didn't ask her name. He didn't need to.
Ash froze, broom trembling in her grip.
The parchment was heavy, the seal pressed deep with a sigil she didn't recognize. She broke it open with numb fingers. Ink bled across the page in precise strokes:
Ashleigh Eleanora Virelli,
You are hereby summoned to Virelai Academy on the eve of your fifteenth year, to stand in the Sanctum Rite and take your place among the Houses.
Her throat closed. The words blurred as if the rain itself had seeped into the ink. Virelli. The name she'd scrawled in secret, the one she barely dared to whisper aloud, was written here as though it had always belonged to her.
Around her, the world moved on: wheels creaking, servants shouting, rain falling. But Ash felt the ground tilt, the attic of her life splitting open like a shell too small to hold her.
She folded the letter, tucked it close to her chest, and for the first time in years, she allowed herself to look up — really look — at the towers of Darethmoor against the storm.
Something in her had always known this day would come.