Aubrelle pressed her fingers gently over her blindfold, breath trembling.
"I never asked for this scar…" she whispered. "…but at least once—someone wasn't afraid of it."
Pipin chirped—soft, comforting. Aubrelle exhaled… and let the memory pull her under.
Her mind drifted back—years and years back—
to the night everything changed.
————————————————————————————
The Rosenthal estate glowed with soft evening light. Summoning lanterns hovered in gentle arcs, pale blues and violets drifting like sleepy fireflies. Spirit wisps floated freely between the gardens, humming quiet little tunes only the magically attuned could hear.
Eight-year-old Aubrelle sat atop a cushioned stool in her mother's room, feet dangling, while Lady Evelyne au Rosenthal coaxed a comb through her long blonde hair. Evelyne's reflection—green eyes tender, smile serene—shone in the mirror before them.
"Hold still, blossom," Evelyne said gently. "Your hair tangles faster than I can brush it."
