Before dawn broke, Sephyra was already awake.
The stone floor bit through her thin gown, pressing into her bruised knees. She did not shift her weight. She simply scrubbed. Every rhythmic pass of the brush was a calculation. A clean floor meant a quiet morning—one more day as a registered member of the Dorne household.
Only one thing mattered now: a verified residence. Without it, the Dominion scouts would pass her over as a nameless vagrant. She had endured seventeen years in this house; she would not lose her chance of being selected into THE DOMINION over a speck of dust.
Her fingers stung. The skin around her knuckles had split days ago, dried out by lye and the biting morning cold. Pain was a distraction. She could not afford it.
"What's this mess?" A cold voice cut through the room.
Mariselle stood in the doorway, her silk gown shimmering even in the dim light. She walked forward and kicked the bucket.
Grey, soapy water surged over the tiles Sephyra had just finished. It soaked into Sephyra's hem, the cold spreading through her skin. Sephyra's grip tightened on the brush until her stiff fingers arched. She imagined swinging the brush against Mariselle's shins.
She forced the thought down. Not yet.
"I didn't even step foot in here," Mariselle said, her lips curling into a smirk. "And somehow you still manage to mess up everything."
Sephyra kept her head lowered. This was what Mariselle lived for—humiliation, disruption, control.
"I will fix it."
"Oh, I know you will. This is what you were made for, after all."
Sephyra swallowed the heat rising in her throat. Submission was a mask she had learned to wear well. If she looked up, Mariselle would see the hunger in her eyes, and that would cost her everything.
"You worthless wretch, look at me when I talk to you."
Sephyra lifted her gaze slowly. She kept her expression flat, her heartbeat steady.
Mariselle crouched down until their faces were inches apart. "I still don't understand why mother keeps a cursed thing like you alive."
This was what they called her—cursed. It began the very day they found her next to the dead, bloodied bodies of her parents.
She watched Mariselle's pupils. Not the words. The reaction. That was always more useful.
Mariselle reached out, grabbing a fistful of Sephyra's hair. She yanked her head back sharply. Pain shot across Sephyra's scalp, blurring her vision for a heartbeat.
"Is that anger I see?" Mariselle hissed. "You dare get angry, you ungrateful witch!"
"No," Sephyra said. Her voice was quiet, level. "I am not angry."
Mariselle's smile turned cruel. She shoved Sephyra's chest, hard enough to knock her off balance. Sephyra's back collided with the edge of the wooden table. A small ceramic bowl wobbled, tipped, and shattered across the floor.
"Look at that. You broke Mother's plate again."
"I didn't—"
"What? Did you just break my plate?" Lucinda stormed into the room. She didn't wait for an explanation. Her hand swung in a blurred arc, slamming across Sephyra's cheek.
The force sent Sephyra to the ground. Her head spun, the copper taste of blood filling her mouth.
"You keep destroying things in my house," Lucinda thundered, her fingers clenching at her sides. "You offer nothing. You are useless. I wish you had died alongside your—"
"Mother, please," Sephyra cut in, her voice tightening. "It was a mistake."
A second strike followed, harder than the first. It whipped Sephyra's head to the side.
"I have warned you," Lucinda whispered, her voice trembling with rage. "Never address me as 'mother'."
Mariselle stepped up beside her. "Don't mind her, Mom. She keeps forgetting that her good-for-nothing mother is rotting seven feet below."
Sephyra's jaw clenched so tight it ached. Her nails dug into her palms, threatening to break the skin. She counted her breaths. One. Two. Three. She was a shadow. She was a servant. She was a ghost.
Lucinda's eyes narrowed as she noticed Sephyra's dress. She reached down, hauling Sephyra up by the collar of the faded white gown. "What is this? Did you wear your mother's wedding rag to infuriate me?"
"Oh, I knew it," Mariselle interjected. "Mother, she is planning to take part in the Selection. That is why she's wearing that dress."
Lucinda's face contorted. "Is that true? You think an idiot like you would even be considered?"
"No," Sephyra lied, her voice low. "I only wore it because my other dress is torn."
"You could have mended it!" Mariselle snapped.
"I didn't have a needle—"
Lucinda shoved her backward. Sephyra slipped on the wet tiles, her hands shooting out to catch the corner of the stone fireplace. Pain flared in her palms where old burns had barely scarred over.
"She's lying, Mother," Mariselle scoffed. "She wants to get into the Academy. Imagine a filthy human like her inside those walls. They'd toss her out in a heartbeat."
"Or kill her on sight," Lucinda added.
Sephyra kept her eyes on the floor. Her chest was tight, but her mind was clear. Let them believe she was afraid. Let them believe she was delusional. Every insult they hurled was a debt she was recording.
"Stop wasting time on this trash, Mariselle," Lucinda said, turning away. "Get ready. You must look perfect before the Dominion scouts arrive."
"I'm ready, Mom. I just need to finish my face," Mariselle said, her voice turning high and excited. "Do you think the heirs will notice me?"
"Of course they will. You are the Dorne heiress. You are everything they seek." Lucinda cast one last look of disgust at Sephyra. "Unlike this one, who isn't even fit to be called human."
A distant, low horn blast cut through the morning air.
The sound vibrated in Sephyra's chest. It wasn't dread that made her heart race; it was the sudden, cold realization that the waiting was over.
Mariselle squealed. "They're here! Mother, they're here!"
Lucinda spun toward Sephyra. "Stay hidden until the scouts are gone"
The low blast of a horn vibrated through the floorboards. "If you show your face, I will ensure you never speak again."
"And you, my daughter—tear the upper part of your dress. Show more cleavage. They love women that can entice them with just looks!"
Mariselle obeyed immediately, then they hurried toward the entryway, their excitement a frantic, ugly thing.
Sephyra stood in the shadows of the hallway. Her jaw ached. Her palms were stained with soot and grey water. A thin line of blood traced her lower lip, drying in the cold draft.
She listened to the clank of armor. The measured, heavy footsteps of the Dominion soldiers approached.
"My daughter is here," Lucinda announced, her voice dripping with artificial warmth.
Then, the cold, melodic tone of a witch rang out. "Is there another girl in this home?"
"The other girl is a mere servant," Lucinda replied quickly. "Useless. A ward of charity. She is not—"
Sephyra moved.
She didn't creep. She didn't hesitate. She stepped out of the shadows and into the center of the room before she could be summoned.
The movement was so deliberate, so sudden, that Lucinda choked on her words. Mariselle's eyes went wide, her mouth hanging open in a silent O.
Sephyra didn't look at them. She didn't look at the soldiers. She fixed her gaze on the tall woman draped in midnight robes, whose eyes glowed with an eerie, pale blue light.
"I am Sephyra," her voice was certain and intense.
"Get back to the kitchen!" Lucinda lunged for her, her fingers clawing at Sephyra's arm.
Sephyra didn't recoil. She didn't even turn her head. She stayed locked onto the witch's gaze, her spine as rigid as the soldiers' spears.
"I am of age," Sephyra continued, her voice cutting through Lucinda's frantic commands. "I am a registered resident of this household. I am unbound by law or contract."
She took a step forward, forcing Lucinda to either let go or be dragged with her.
"I am eligible," Sephyra stated. "You will test me."
The room fell silent. A soldier shifted his weight, his armor clanking. Even the witch stilled, her pale eyes scanning the girl with the blood-streaked lip and the soap-stained hands.
"She is a maniac!" Mariselle shrieked, her face flushing a deep, ugly red. "She's a cursed, filthy human! Look at her—she's covered in grime!"
The witch stepped closer. The air around her smelled of ozone and ancient dust. She lifted Sephyra's chin with a gloved hand. Sephyra didn't blink. The "mouse" was gone. In its place was something raw and dangerously focused.
"Both of them," the witch said.
"What?" Lucinda's voice cracked.
"Both girls have been chosen," the witch repeated. She turned her back, her robes swirling like a dark cloud. "Get them."
The soldiers moved instantly. One seized Mariselle, who began to wail in genuine terror. Another reached for Sephyra.
Sephyra didn't wait for him to pull. She stepped toward the door on her own, her head held high.
As she passed Lucinda, the older woman grabbed her shoulder, her nails digging into the bruised skin. "The tests will devour you," Lucinda hissed, her face a mask of pure venom. "And when you fail—when they toss your broken body back to my doorstep—I will make you pray for the death your mother found."
Sephyra looked at her. For the first time in seventeen years, she didn't lower her gaze. A small, cold smile touched her bloodied lips.
"I won't be coming back."