7

Mara moved the soft cloth carefully across Lady Aurora's back, dipping it into the warm water and gently pressing away the wear of the road. Her touch never faltered, even when it passed over the raised, uneven skin.

The scars.

Aurora sat still, shoulders drawn in slightly. Her voice was barely louder than the water around her.

"…Don't you think it's ugly?"

Mara didn't freeze, didn't change her expression. She simply paused, then answered softly.

"Do you mean your scars, my Lady?"

Aurora nodded, eyes fixed on the rippling water in front of her.

"I know they're ugly. The skin's wrong. Some of it feels like it isn't even mine."

Mara sat back on her heels for a moment, cloth resting gently in the water.

"Everyone has scars, Lady Aurora," she said. "Some wear them on the outside. Some carry them deep, where no one sees. But they're still there. Yours don't make you less. They make you real."

Aurora's shoulders twitched slightly, unsure whether to believe it.

Mara kept her voice soft but firm. "And… you should know. With the right ointment — and time — they will disappear."

Aurora turned her head slightly, uncertain. "Really?"

Lira, who had returned with fresh towels and was quietly folding them nearby, spoke up then — her voice calm and sure.

"Of course. You're a Silverwood now, my Lady," she said. "There is no limit to what care, magic, and time can restore in this house."

Aurora blinked.

The words settled over her like warmth.

Not a dream.

Not a trick.

A truth.

Mara resumed washing, slower now. "And no matter what stays or fades," she added, "you'll still be you. Not less than. Not broken."

Aurora didn't respond at first.

Then, so quietly it was almost lost in the steam, she whispered, "I want to believe that."

Mara smiled softly.

"As Lady of Silverwood, you won't need to believe it, my Lady."

She wrung out the cloth, brushing it over Aurora's shoulders like a quiet promise.

"You'll live it."

The water lapped gently as Aurora stood up, a little unsure on her feet after so long in the warmth. Mara was there immediately, holding out a thick towel with blue-stitched edges.

"Let us help you, my Lady," she said gently.

Aurora nodded.

She didn't flinch as they wrapped the towel around her, didn't pull away when Lira carefully took her arm and guided her toward the soft rug near the vanity. The stone floor never felt cold beneath her bare feet. Everything had been prepared — not for a guest, but for her.

They dried her with practiced care, never rough, never rushed.

Then Lira held up a small palm-sized disc made of polished bronze, etched with delicate runes. She clicked something on its edge, and a soft hum filled the air. Warm air flowed from it, gentle and steady like a breeze on a spring morning.

Aurora blinked at it, startled. "What is that?"

"A wind stone," Lira said, adjusting the angle so it moved through Aurora's hair. "Used to be just for noble salons and princesses, but Lord Damien had one placed in every family bath years ago. Said comfort shouldn't be a luxury."

Aurora didn't answer. But she sat still as the warm air dried her hair in smooth waves, her eyes half-closed, hands folded in her lap.

Then came the dress.

It wasn't stiff or frilly or covered in lace.

It was soft. Light. The color of cream with pale blue threads running along the seams and cuffs — nothing too grand, just elegant. Practical. Comfortable. A dress made for movement, not display. One she could sit in, walk in, breathe in.

Mara helped guide her arms into the sleeves. Lira adjusted the waist, tying it neatly behind her back.

It felt strange at first — wearing something new. Something hers.

Aurora glanced at the mirror.

The girl reflected back at her didn't look like someone who'd just come from the orphanage.

But she also didn't look like a stranger.

She looked like someone who might have always been here… if the world had been kinder sooner.

Mara stepped beside her with a small smile. "You look perfect, my Lady."

Aurora looked down at the fabric beneath her hands, then at the hook by the wall.

Her rosary still hung there — right where they'd left it.

"…Can I wear it?" she asked quietly.

"Of course," Lira said.

Mara lifted it carefully and placed it around her neck. The familiar weight settled against her chest.

Not heavy.

Just right.

Once the final folds of the dress were smoothed and her rosary rested gently against her chest, Lira stepped back to inspect her work with a small nod of approval.

"You're ready, my Lady."

Aurora looked down at herself again, then to the polished door across the room.

It didn't feel real. But it didn't feel wrong, either.

Lira picked up a folded towel and handed it to Mara. "You'll clean up here?"

Mara gave a cheerful salute. "Yes, ma'am! Wind stone off, towels collected, and no soap left behind."

She grinned at Aurora. "Enjoy dinner! It's always good here."

Aurora nodded faintly — still unsure how to smile back without it feeling strange.

Lira offered her arm, not forcing it, just presenting it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"This way, Lady Aurora. The dining hall is just down the east wing."

Aurora hesitated for only a second before lightly resting her hand on Lira's arm. Her steps were small at first, but steady.

They left the family bath behind — warm and fragrant — and stepped into the cool, quiet hall.

The sounds changed out here.

Softer.

The hush of slippers over rugs. The distant echo of glass being set on polished wood. Somewhere a harp was playing — not performance, just ambiance.

The estate wasn't trying to impress her.

It was simply breathing around her.

"Lord Damien and his sons are already waiting," Lira said as they walked. "He asked that we not hurry you — but said the food might not be as patient."

Aurora's lips tugged upward at that. Just a little.

They passed tall windows, a few paintings, and a hallway lined with white flowers in crystal vases.

Then came a large oak door trimmed with blue and silver.

Lira paused.

"Ready?"

Aurora nodded, heart tapping lightly in her chest.

Lira opened the door and stepped aside.

Aurora took one deep breath.

Then walked into the dining hall of Silverwood for the first time — as herself.

The doors opened with a quiet glide.

Aurora stepped through, and the world shifted.

The dining hall of Silverwood was not what she expected. It was large, yes — vaulted ceilings with soft-painted beams, tall arched windows that let in the last light of day — but it didn't feel cold or echoing like the grand rooms nobles used in stories.

It felt alive.

The chandeliers overhead glowed with magic instead of flame — soft light like early morning sun. The long table stretching through the room was set with polished silver, blue-trimmed plates, and crystal glasses, but none of it felt like display. There were baskets of bread, bowls of roasted vegetables, glazed meats sliced thin on silver trays. Warm scents filled the air: spiced cider, roasted garlic, sweet root glaze.

And at the head of the table sat Damien, casually resting one hand on his glass, the other folded on the arm of his chair.

He stood the moment he saw her.

And to his left—

Three boys.

Each of them, at a glance, looked like a younger version of him. Same inky-black hair, same sharp features softened by something thoughtful in the eyes. But each was different too, in the way trees grow differently from the same soil.

The tallest had a strong jaw and broad shoulders, maybe seventeen. His posture was proper, but his expression was curious — not judgmental, just… focused.

The middle one, maybe fifteen, had sharper eyes, clever and quick. He leaned back in his chair like rules didn't worry him much. He was already smirking slightly — not mocking, just interested.

And the youngest, no older than fourteen, looked the most surprised to see her. His eyes widened just slightly before he straightened up, giving the tiniest respectful bow of his head, like he'd been practicing.

Damien gave her a small smile.

"There you are," he said, voice warm. "We were about to send a search party."

The boys chuckled lightly.

Aurora didn't move right away.

She stared at the food. The warmth. The candles. The family.

She wasn't used to being welcomed into things like this.

Only told to stay out.

But no one here looked angry she'd come.

They looked like they'd been waiting.

Aurora took a few careful steps into the room, her eyes flicking across the table, the food, the boys.

Damien gestured to the seat beside him. "Come. Sit here, next to me."

She obeyed without speaking, her feet barely making a sound against the polished floor. She didn't rush — part of her still expected someone to shout. To pull her back. To say she wasn't allowed.

But no one did.

She reached the chair and paused, fingers resting on the edge of the seat. Damien noticed.

With a faint smile, he pulled the chair out for her.

"Always," he said quietly. "You sit where you're welcomed, not where you're tolerated."

She nodded once — not quite understanding, but holding onto the words — and sat down.

Across from her sat the oldest son.

He didn't look away, but his gaze wasn't cold. It was just steady. Watching her, measuring in a way that wasn't hostile. More like… trying to figure out how he was supposed to welcome a girl who looked too small for the chair but sat like she didn't want anyone's pity.

From the corner of her eye, Aurora caught a small twitch of the middle boy's mouth — a smirk, faint and sharp.

"Search party," he said under his breath, repeating Damien's earlier joke.

But there was no heat in it.

No mocking.

Just a sideways grin, like teasing was his natural language.

Aurora didn't answer.

But she didn't bristle either.

She didn't feel hate in his tone.

Didn't feel the kind of edge that used to follow her around the orphanage like a shadow.

So she let it slide.

She sat straight, hands folded in her lap, her eyes taking in the spread of food again. Every tray, every bowl, every plate shimmered faintly from the warmth. There were things she didn't recognize. Things she'd only ever seen in books. And they were all placed like they belonged to everyone at the table.

Like she wasn't here to serve.

But to eat.

Damien leaned slightly toward her. "You're allowed to enjoy it," he said softly. "No one's going to take it away."