The music had barely recovered from Dahlia's Blooming when the great doors opened again.
Conversations quieted — not in wonder this time, but in awareness.
The stepmother entered the hall as though summoned by the applause itself.
Her gown was structured gold, sharp in silhouette, its rigid lines catching light in deliberate flashes. Where Dahlia glowed, she commanded. Her presence pressed gently but firmly against the room, rearranging its atmosphere.
Aurèlle felt it immediately — that shift.
The evening no longer belonged to celebration.
It belonged to positioning.
The stepmother crossed the marble floor without hesitation and stopped before Dahlia, her expression unfolding into polished pride.
"My beautiful girl," she said, her voice warm enough to carry. "You have surpassed even my expectations."
Her hands cupped Dahlia's face, tilting it upward for the court to admire.
"You are the pride of this family."
The words settled heavily.
Applause followed.
Aurèlle stood close enough to be included in the picture — far enough to be excluded from the praise.
She told herself she was used to this.
She told herself it did not matter.
But something tight began forming beneath her ribs — small at first, like a knot pulled too firm.
The stepmother finally turned her gaze toward her.
"You look well tonight," she said politely.
There was no embrace.
No public affection.
Only acknowledgment.
Aurèlle inclined her head. "Thank you."
The stepmother's smile lingered a fraction too long before she turned back to the crowd.
"Tonight marks a turning point for this house," she announced. "The future stands before you — radiant and certain."
Her hand rested deliberately on Dahlia's shoulder.
Singular.
A murmur rippled outward.
Aurèlle became acutely aware of the way people looked at her now — not openly dismissive, but curious in a quieter way. Evaluating. Comparing.
A nobleman approached Dahlia first, bowing deeply. "Your Blooming was magnificent. The kingdom is fortunate."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Aurèlle — then away again.
Not malicious.
Just… finished.
The tightness in her chest pulled sharper.
The air in the hall felt warmer than before.
Too warm.
She stepped back toward a jasmine-wrapped column, trying to breathe more deeply. The music swelled again as dancing began, skirts spinning across polished stone.
A draft brushed her cheek.
Strange.
All the windows were closed.
She glanced upward.
The nearest lantern flame flickered sharply, bending sideways — toward her.
Aurèlle frowned.
It must have been the dancers moving too quickly. A disturbance in the air.
She shifted her weight.
The flame straightened.
Across the hall, a cluster of petals lifted suddenly from the floor — not dramatically, not like Dahlia's controlled bloom — but abruptly, as if caught in a vertical current. They hovered for half a second before scattering awkwardly across the marble.
A woman gasped softly.
"Did you see that?"
"See what?"
Aurèlle's heart skipped.
She looked around.
No one was looking at her directly.
But a few brows had furrowed.
Her pulse quickened.
It's just nerves, she told herself. You're imagining patterns.
Dahlia approached, flushed from congratulations. "You disappeared."
"I needed air."
"You look pale."
"I'm fine."
As Dahlia reached for her hand, a tremor ran lightly through the floor beneath them — so faint it might have been nothing. The crystal strands of the nearest chandelier chimed softly together.
Both sisters looked up.
"That's odd," Dahlia murmured.
"It's an old building," Aurèlle replied quickly.
But her voice felt distant in her own ears.
Across the hall, the stepmother had gone still.
She was watching.
Not Dahlia.
Aurèlle.
A group of council members approached, drawing Dahlia away again. The stepmother guided her easily back into the centre of the room.
Aurèlle remained near the column.
The tightness in her chest returned — stronger now. Not sadness. Not quite anger.
Pressure.
Like something pressing outward from inside her bones.
She inhaled sharply.
The music faltered.
Just for a beat.
The violinist's bow jerked unexpectedly, screeching across strings before recovering. A ripple of confusion passed through the musicians.
Aurèlle's breath hitched.
"I'm sorry," she whispered instinctively — though she had done nothing.
Had she?
A cold sensation slid along her arms.
The lanterns flickered again — several this time.
One extinguished completely.
A servant hurried forward to relight it, glancing around in embarrassment.
The hall was fully enclosed. No wind should have reached them.
Aurèlle pressed her palm against the column to steady herself.
The marble felt warm.
No.
Not warm.
Vibrating.
She snatched her hand back.
The vibration stopped.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Across the floor, Isidale had noticed. She was watching Aurèlle carefully now, not with fear — but with sharp curiosity.
The stepmother approached slowly, her expression composed but intent.
"Are you unwell?" she asked quietly.
The question sounded gentle.
It was not.
"I'm fine," Aurèlle replied.
"Perhaps the evening is overwhelming."
"I said I'm fine."
For a fraction of a second, something flashed in the stepmother's eyes — not irritation.
Recognition.
Behind them, laughter rose abruptly — too loud, too brittle — as if someone were trying to smooth over tension they couldn't name.
The stepmother lowered her voice further.
"You must be careful," she said. "This is not a night for… unpredictability."
Aurèlle's throat tightened. "I don't know what you mean."
"I imagine you don't."
She stepped back, her gaze lingering.
As she turned away, the temperature in the hall seemed to drop noticeably. A few guests rubbed their arms.
"Was it this cold earlier?" someone muttered.
Aurèlle's breath fogged faintly in front of her.
She stared at it.
No one else's did.
Her heart pounded harder.
This isn't real.
It can't be.
The chandeliers swayed gently overhead.
Not enough to alarm.
Enough to notice.
A crack sounded somewhere along the high ceiling — faint, splintering.
The music stopped entirely this time.
Silence fell like a stone dropped into water.
All eyes lifted upward.
The movement ceased instantly.
The chandeliers stilled.
The cold evaporated.
The lanterns steadied.
It was as though the hall had inhaled sharply — and then decided to pretend it hadn't.
Whispers broke out.
"Did you feel that?"
"What was it?"
"Structural settling, perhaps—"
The stepmother's voice rose smoothly above the murmurs. "It seems the excitement of the evening has stirred even the foundations of the palace," she said lightly. "How fitting."
Polite laughter followed.
The narrative had been chosen.
The moment reframed.
But as the music cautiously resumed, the stepmother's gaze found Aurèlle once more.
This time there was no softness.
Only calculation.
Aurèlle stood frozen where she was, breath uneven, skin prickling as if charged with invisible static.
She hadn't done anything.
She hadn't meant to do anything.
Yet the air around her felt altered — thinner somehow, aware.
Dahlia returned to her side, concern written plainly across her face. "Something strange is happening tonight."
Aurèlle swallowed. "Yes."
She did not trust herself to say more.
Because beneath the confusion —
Beneath the fear —
There was something else.
Not understanding.
Not control.
But the unmistakable sense that the world had reacted to her.
And she had no idea why.