There was a time, before Lucian ever crossed her path, when Elysia still dared to dream of belonging.

An invitation had arrived at the manor—an elegant script on gilded parchment, announcing a gathering at the Duke’s hall. Veyra had set her eyes on arranging a match for Elara, and excitement buzzed through the household like a wasp nest disturbed. Gowns were ordered, jewels polished, and Elara spent her afternoons twirling before the mirror, her laughter high and sharp.

Elysia, forbidden the luxury of finery, had quietly stitched a gown of her own from scraps and remnants—silk panels pieced together with clever hands, ribbons dyed in shades of midnight. It was not grand, but it was hers. When she stood before her cracked looking-glass, cheeks flushed, she saw not a servant but a girl who might walk proudly into the light of chandeliers.

On the night of the ball, she descended the stairs, the gown whispering around her ankles. For a moment—even Countess Veyra’s painted smile faltered.

But then the spell broke.

“Where did you get that?” Veyra’s voice cut like glass.

“I made it,” Elysia answered softly, but firmly.

Elara’s lip curled. “Mother, she can’t possibly think—”

“Go on,” Veyra said, her tone sharp with command.

And Elara obeyed. With a cruel grin, she summoned a flicker of flame at her fingertips. Elysia gasped, clutching at the skirts as fire licked hungrily at the fabric. In moments, the gown was nothing but smoke and ruin, pooling in blackened tatters around her bare feet.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she bit them back, lifting her chin.

“Oh, don’t cry, Ella,” Veyra crooned mockingly, her voice honeyed with venom. “It’s only cinders and ashes.” She tilted her head, her painted lips curling into a wicked smile. “Hmm… Cinder-Ella.”

Elara laughed, sharp and cruel, and the name caught like a spark in dry grass.

From that night on, the Countess never called her Elysia again. To them, she was only Cinderella—a jest, a scar, a reminder of her place among the ashes.

But in the quiet of her heart, she still clung to the memory of her father’s voice, calling her Ella with gentleness, as though the name had always meant light instead of ruin.