Chapter 10: Sparks and Surprises

Celia's day began, as it often did, with a dramatic sigh.

She stared at the ceiling from the safety of her bed, blanket pulled up to her chin like armor.

"Okay. Today's the day. I face my greatest nemesis... magic training."

She flopped onto her side.

"I'm not ready."

A knock came at the door. Not a stern knock. A polite, maid-knock.

"Lady Celia," came Mariette's voice through the wood. "It's time to get up."

"I'm already awake," Celia called back, muffled by her pillow. "Just spiritually not present."

"Your new training robe is ready. Also, I've brought toast. The crispy kind you like."

That got her attention.

Celia sat up like a zombie returning to life. "...Is there jam?"

A pause. "Three kinds."

"Mariette, I take back every insult I muttered while collapsing during cardio."

---

Steam curled lazily around the marble walls of the bathroom, and Celia sank deeper into the tub with a satisfied sigh.

"For once," she muttered, eyes half-lidded, "peace…"

She stretched out, letting the warm water soothe her sore limbs from a week of sword training that could only be described as cruel and unusual. The grand bathtub, practically a small swimming pool nestled into the mansion's bathing chambers, glistened under the morning light. Somewhere in the distance, birds chirped. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains.

Then—creeeak.

The door opened.

Celia jumped with a splash. "MARIE—!"

Too late.

Mariette strode in with all the serenity of someone who had done this dozens of times. She held a towel, a brush, and Celia's new training robe folded neatly over one arm.

"You really have to stop doing that," Celia muttered, covering herself with a nearby towel as her face turned crimson.

"I knocked," Mariette said simply, setting the items down. "And you never complained the last twenty times."

"That's because I was too stunned to process betrayal."

Mariette dipped a sponge into the warm water and began scrubbing Celia's back with practiced ease.

"You missed a spot yesterday," she added.

Celia groaned. "This is not how noble ladies are supposed to be treated."

"No," Mariette agreed. "This is how pampered ones are."

Celia grumbled, but didn't stop her. The familiarity between them was undeniable.

"You'll want to finish up quickly," Mariette said. "Lady Averna is already waiting outside."

---

Moments later, Celia was at her vanity, chewing toast with tired dignity while Mariette brushed the knots out of her hair.

"You know," Celia said between bites, "I read somewhere that children shouldn't be subjected to this kind of stress before noon."

"You also said that about physical training, etiquette lessons, and embroidery," Mariette replied calmly, tying Celia's hair with a violet ribbon.

Celia narrowed her eyes in the mirror. "One day, I'll be strong enough to rebel."

"Mm. Please give me a week's notice. I'd like to prepare snacks."

---

Throwing off her covers dramatically, she rushed to get dressed while grumbling about parental betrayal and muscle soreness. As she tied her boots, her thoughts spiraled into panic.

"I'm going to combust. Internally. Externally. Spiritually."

She bolted down the hallway, slippers half on, just in time to see her father standing beside a tall, stern woman clad in black and violet robes. Her presence was sharp, her posture perfect, and her eyes filled with silent judgment.

Valeria Duskvale.

The infamous Blade of the Eclipse.

Celia froze mid-step, a piece of toast still clenched between her teeth. She slowly looked up at the sky, as if hoping divine intervention would strike lightning upon her and spare her from whatever this was.

Then she began to whistle.

Classic "I have no idea what I'm doing" energy.

And then she choked on the toast.

Valeria arched a single brow. "She's late."

"Technically, she's on her own schedule," Hadrian offered.

"She's chewing."

"She's attempting to." Mariette coughed politely from the shadows.

"Late is late," Valeria said flatly. "A hundred laps around the training ground. Now."

Celia sputtered. "Wait—what?!"

Hadrian, ever calm, stepped in with a smile.

"Well, they do say suffering builds stamina."

Celia turned to him, betrayed. "Not you too!"

"I believe in your resilience," he replied, completely unfazed. "Besides, I told you—she doesn't tolerate tardiness. Or crumbs."

Celia glanced at the half-eaten toast still clutched in her hand. "This is discrimination against breakfast."

Valeria was already walking toward the training field. "Ninety-nine laps to go."

---

Celia trudged around the training field, hair sticking to her forehead, arms flailing slightly with each step like a baby duck in distress.

"Seventy-one… seventy-two… This has to be illegal…"

Mariette watched from the shade of a nearby tree, sipping tea with the serene expression of someone who had long since accepted chaos as a lifestyle. Then, without a word, she reached behind her and unfurled a small flag that read:

"You Can Do It, Lady Celia!"

—in sparkly lettering.

She waved it once—calmly. Elegantly. As if she were encouraging a flower to bloom, not a child to suffer.

Celia, mid-lap and wheezing like an asthmatic squirrel, nearly tripped over her own feet.

"MARIE, THIS IS NOT HELPING."

"I believe in you," Mariette called back, raising her teacup in salute.

"I believe I'm going to die," Celia wheezed.

"I have enough breath to write a will," Celia wheezed.

---

And that was when the sound of carriage wheels crunched across the gravel.

Everyone turned.

A sleek, black carriage emblazoned with a silver rose pulled up to the edge of the estate courtyard. The horses were perfectly groomed. The driver wore dark gloves. Even the dust seemed to part reverently around the wheels.

The door opened.

Out stepped a girl with long, curling raven hair, polished boots, and an expression that could silence a room.

Celia, mid-lap and mid-wheeze, skidded to a halt.

Their eyes met across the field—Celia in sweat-stained training robes, panting like a dog left in the sun, and Seraphina looking like she had just stepped out of an academy portrait frame.

Celia immediately tripped over her own foot.

She hit the grass with a muffled "oomph," and toast crumbs puffed out of her pocket like confetti.

Valeria didn't blink. "Do not stop the laps."

"Wh—But—but she's—!"

"Eight more. For the dramatics."

Celia whimpered into the grass. "This is bullying."

Seraphina Noir had arrived.