Chapter 12: I Should’ve Stayed in the Dirt

Celia Averna – Age 10 – Spiritually deceased

Dirt was honest. Dirt didn't judge you. Dirt didn't have cheekbones that could cut glass or posture so perfect it made you question your entire spinal alignment.

But nooo. I had to stand up. I had to speak. I had to survive a conversation with Seraphina Noir like some kind of functioning noble lady.

And now?

Now she was living here.

Seraphina. Noir. In my house.

I clutched the towel to my face like it could somehow smother both my shame and my life.

"She's staying," I muttered for the third time. Maybe the universe would revoke it on a technicality.

"She is," Mariette said, far too peacefully for someone watching my entire social standing spontaneously combust. "Shall I prepare your coffin or a congratulatory snack?"

"Can I have both?"

Then—just when I thought it couldn't get worse—doom struck. A thunderclap cracked through the morning air.

"Celia Averna."

My entire spine straightened on instinct. I didn't just hear my name—I felt it. Like I'd been summoned to divine judgment by an angel with abs.

Valeria Duskvale's voice boomed across the field, sharp as a sword unsheathed mid-execution.

"Eighty-seven laps completed. You owe me thirteen more."

I let out a strangled noise that was somewhere between a squeak, a sob, and a goose being stepped on.

"Noooo," I wailed, turning to Mariette with the despair of a Shakespearean ghost. "Why does she know the exact number? Does she have a psychic sweat tracker?!"

Mariette, ever loyal, handed me another towel without breaking her calm.

"This is abuse," I muttered, dragging my legs like I was reenacting the final scene of a war movie. "This is aristocratic cardio-based torture. I'm going to die. My spirit's going to leave my body and file a formal complaint."

Valeria, still somehow hearing everything from across the estate, raised a single eyebrow.

"If you have the breath to complain," she called, "you have the breath to run."

I screamed.

Internally. Then externally.

"THAT'S NOT HOW PHYSICS WORK, YOU BEAUTIFUL MONSTER!"

And as I staggered toward death—or lap eighty-eight, same thing—I clutched my towel like a surrender flag and muttered:

"Tell my father I want my gravestone to say: 'Here lies Celia Averna. Born noble, died sweaty. She ran 87 laps too many.'"

---

Mariette – Age 10 – Very amused, deeply resigned

It was almost impressive, how dramatic Celia could be while actively sweating.

She dragged her feet like she was reenacting a battlefield tragedy. She clutched her towel like it was the only thing anchoring her to this mortal plane. And when she flopped onto the grass, it was with the commitment of someone auditioning to be buried alive.

Honestly? If she had half as much stamina as she did flair for suffering, she'd be lapping Dame Valeria by now.

"No storm clouds. You'll live," I said, inspecting her for signs of spontaneous combustion.

"Boo," Celia croaked from the dirt.

I blinked. "Is that an insult, a sound effect, or your last breath?"

"Yes," she replied flatly, still face-down.

I deadpanned. "Noted."

She rolled over with all the grace of a collapsing bookshelf and glared up at me, cheeks red and limbs sprawled like she'd just been personally wronged by the sun.

"You think this is funny?"

Yes. "No."

She gasped, hand over chest like a betrayed duchess in a stage play. "Et tu, Mariette?"

I offered her a towel. She accepted it like I was granting her a final mercy before public execution.

"You're stronger than you think," I said, adjusting my gloves.

"And Dame Valeria is stricter than gravity!" she whined. "She's going to live rent-free in my brain forever. Anytime I sit down, I'll hear 'Eighty-seven laps, Averna' like a cursed bedtime story!"

"She's helping you grow."

"She's helping me expire!" Celia declared, flopping backward with a groan.

A breeze rustled the grass. I checked her for signs of actual distress. Nope. Just peak Celia.

"You're not dying."

"I'm wilting."

I reached into my bag. "I brought juice."

Celia bolted upright so fast her hair almost slapped me in the face. "You what?!"

I held up the bottle. She looked at it like I'd produced a miracle.

"You've been holding out on me?" she accused.

"I was waiting for the right moment."

"And that wasn't ten laps ago when I was begging the sky for mercy?!"

"You seemed committed to the drama."

She squinted at me. "You're evil."

I offered her the juice. "You say that, but you're still reaching for it."

Celia took it with the reverence of a knight receiving a holy relic.

"I take back most of the mean things I said about you in my head."

"How generous."

She sipped, sighed, and leaned back on her elbows. "Remind me again why I agreed to train like this?"

"Because you're ten, impulsive, and have unresolved trauma."

"Fair." She pointed her straw at me. "If I collapse later, you're legally responsible."

"I'll drag you by the ankles to the infirmary."

Celia gave a weak thumbs up. "Bestie behavior."

…I didn't correct her. She was tired enough without another emotional blow.

---

Seraphina Noir – Age 10 – Observer of Chaos, Reluctant Participant

Seraphina watched them from the shade of an old willow tree.

The Averna estate was not what she expected. It had the usual things, of course—polished stone courtyards, marble columns, enough silk to mummify a horse. But what surprised her most wasn't the architecture.

It was the noise.

Or rather… Celia Averna.

At this moment, the noble daughter of House Averna was rolling across the training field like she was attempting to merge with the earth. Her limbs flailed. Her voice cracked. Her complaints could be heard three estates over.

Seraphina sipped from her water flask in silence.

"I'm wilting," Celia groaned dramatically, face-down on the grass.

Mariette, beside her, did not so much as blink. "No. You're sweating."

"You don't know my struggle…"

Seraphina tilted her head slightly. It wasn't mockery in her eyes—just quiet observation. Calculation. A faint curiosity, the kind that flickered in the space between caution and interest.

Celia Averna was… strange.

She wasn't graceful, or stoic, or properly reserved like a noble girl ought to be. She complained too much. Tripped too often. Flung herself at conversations like she had a sword in one hand and stage fright in the other.

But she didn't quit.

And that, Seraphina thought, was interesting.

From across the field, Dame Valeria barked something about "discipline" and "form" and "how is your breathing worse than your posture."

Celia responded by dramatically throwing herself into the grass again like she'd been shot.

Seraphina blinked.

The corner of her mouth twitched.

…Just once.

She looked away quickly, but the expression lingered—a phantom smile that didn't quite leave.

She hadn't come here to make friends.

She hadn't expected to be amused.

And yet, somehow, she was both.

---

Somewhere across the field, Celia's voice echoed one last time:

"Tell my father I died doing cardio!"

Seraphina shook her head and began walking.

Yes. Training here would be… lively.

But strangely, she didn't mind.

Not at all.

---

🌟 Bonus Scene – Lap 90

Celia, halfway through her final lap, summoned every ounce of strength she had left.

"I'm almost there," she wheezed. "I can see the light. It looks like… my bed. With snacks."

Then her foot caught on absolutely nothing.

Gravity, the traitor, struck.

SPLAT.

Face. Grass. Dignity: 0.

From across the lawn, Mariette didn't even blink.

"Ninety percent effort," she called out. "Ten percent nose first."

Seraphina, watching with the faintest smirk, simply said,

"She's resilient."

Celia groaned into the dirt.

"I hate running."