Alek sprawled on the training ground, blood staining the dusty earth from his bruised cheek. Anastasia stood above him, her crimson hair, woven with raven strands, pulled back in a tight braid that emphasised the fiery glint in her eyes. Her face, once timid and unsure, was now etched with a steely resolve, years of training carving away any remnants of uncertainty.
A slow clap echoed behind her. Anastasia spun, the blade flashing like a silver serpent in the sunlight. Duke Dmitri Romanov, a mountain of a man with a face etched by experience, observed his children with amused eyes.
"Very good, my dear," he boomed, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "In just three years, you've outmatched your brother."
Alek scrambled to his feet, spitting dirt. "Father! Swordplay is worthless in the face of real power! It's the arcane that matters!"
Anastasia's eyes, usually pools of molten fire, turned to glacial ice. "And are you so confident, brother, that your magic could best my sword?"
Gone was the shy girl of ten. This Anastasia stood with quiet confidence, a predator sizing up its prey.
Alek's chuckle died in his throat, replaced by a strangled cough. His voice, still cracking with the awkwardness of adolescence, spat venom. "Are you challenging me? Your magic hasn't even materialised yet, half-breed."
Duke Dmitri could have intervened, but he remained silent. He knew this rivalry, this need to prove themselves, was essential for both his children. Anastasia, his illegitimate daughter from his forbidden relationship with an Azuran sorceress, was an anomaly, a fire mage with hair like molten lava, interwoven with the ebony locks of her mother. Offspring from this union were destined to be water mages, yet he detected a latent ember of fire within Anastasia.
Anastasia's lips curled into a smirk. "Do I need magic to defeat you, brother?"
With a dancer's grace, she lunged. Steel flashed, cutting through the air with a hiss. Alek barely parried her blow, fire sparking off the clashing blades. He stumbled back, eyes wide with fear as Anastasia pressed her attack.
He lashed out blindly, conjuring a ball of flame. Anastasia, quicker than a viper, danced away from the searing heat. Each dodge became a taunt, a silent dare that fueled Alek's rage. He gathered his power, pouring it into a torrent of fire aimed at his sister.
But a fire mage would anticipate fire.
Anastasia, instead of backing away, leapt skyward with the grace of a dancer, her crimson cloak billowing behind her like a burning phoenix. She landed behind her brother, the cold steel of her blade once again pressed against his throat.
"You'd be dead if we were in a real battle, brother," she whispered, her voice laced with the quiet menace of a predator. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she turned and walked away, leaving Alek sputtering on the ground, his pride wounded.
Duke Dmitri let out a hearty laugh, the sound booming like thunder. His eyes, however, remained cold, calculating. Alek, the heir apparent, wouldn't let this humiliation stand. He roared, channelling his remaining rage into a final fireball. It streaked across the clearing, a vengeful comet aimed at Anastasia's retreating figure.
The courtyard held its breath.
With a scream that ripped through the air, Anastasia crumpled to the ground, flames licking at her back. Smoke billowed, obscuring her from sight. In that moment, even Duke Dmitri's amusement faltered, replaced by a flicker of concern.
**
"You're alright."
"Anastasia, you're alright."
A warm voice washed over her, coaxing her from the swirling darkness. Blinking open eyes still heavy with pain, Anastasia focused on a pair of kind golden eyes brimming with relief. His face, framed by sun-kissed brown hair, softened with concern as he bent closer.
"Are you...a priest?" Anastasia rasped, her throat dry and her back throbbing.
The young priest smiled reassuringly. "Indeed, Lady Anastasia. My name is Indigo Crane, and I'm here to mend you."
"Priest Crane?" Anastasia echoed, disbelief etching her voice. This man, merely thirty, but revered throughout the Empire for his healing touch, tending to her in this dusty ducal infirmary? The incongruity stung like a fresh burn. "But...they said you were in the capital," she stammered, a flicker of hope igniting in the embers of confusion.
Priest Crane's hands, calloused yet light, hovered over her wounded back. A soft radiance, reminiscent of a captured sunrise, bloomed from his fingertips as they traced the jagged burn. "Duke Dmitri insisted," he hummed, his voice a low, soothing rhythm.
Anastasia remained silent, absorbing this unexpected turn of events. Duke Dmitri, a man known for his cold pragmatism, concerned about her? It gnawed at her skepticism, leaving behind a seed of something else, something she couldn't quite name.
This was no ordinary encounter, and as Priest Crane's gentle ministrations soothed her pain, Anastasia knew this meeting, born from ashes and whispers, would leave an indelible mark on her destiny.
**
"Still waiting for that little spark, Ana?" Alek sneered, his voice dripping with poisonous honey. "Maybe try rubbing sticks together? Might be faster than waiting for your magic to light a match." His laughter echoed through the training yard, a stark counterpoint to the clanging of swords and the murmurs of other students. To Alek, it was an anchor, a reminder that Anastasia's dormant magic could never threaten his claim to the dukedom.
Mikhail, the ever-present shadow, chimed in with a mocking drawl, "Watch out, everyone! Anastasia's got a new trick: extinguishing candles with her bare hands!" The students erupted in guffaws, their amusement fueled by the unspoken truth of Anastasia's lack.
But Anastasia? She walked on. Head held high, eyes narrowed against the sting of their mockery, she wove through the crowd, each snicker chipping away at a dam she'd built around her heart. For months, years, she'd built it, brick by taunting brick, a bastion against the gnawing fear that maybe, just maybe, they were right. That maybe she was a disappointment.
Magic, for the nobles, was a hidden garden, seeds dormant within, waiting to sprout. Some sprouted early, like wisps of smoke at five, others slumbered past puberty. Anastasia, however, was a late bloomer, taunted by the whispers of "barren" and "half-breed." It was as if the water magic of her late Azuran mother doused any sparks of inferno within her, a cruel fate for a child of fire and ice, for a daughter of the Duke of Inferno.
Then, one day, the garden exploded, literally.
Duke Dmitri's pounding heart echoed the tremor that had ripped through his manor. He burst into the lavender garden, expecting a scene of destruction. Instead, an eerie calm settled over the normally vibrant haven.
The sweet fragrance of lavender, usually thick and comforting, hung heavy in the air, tinged with a metallic tang of power. Dmitri's gaze fell upon the heart of the garden, where a circular crater marred the perfect rows of purple blooms. Crushed lavender petals littered the ground, their vibrant color muted by the dust churned up by the unseen force.
In the center of this devastation stood Anastasia, sixteen years old and breathless, a stark contrast to the wreckage around her. Her once pristine dress hung in shreds, revealing singed skin beneath. But her eyes, though wide with shock, held a newfound fire within them, their youthful brilliance replaced by a glow that sent shivers down Dmitri's spine. It was the glow of a nascent sun, a power awakening, raw and untamed. The Duke, his weathered face etched with shock, rushed to shroud her tattered clothes in his cloak.
"My child," he commanded, his voice rough with awe, "show me what you can do."
Anastasia swallowed, she moved to an empty area, her hand trembling as she lifted it towards the ravaged earth. She closed her eyes, summoning the theories of arcane she'd devoured, the whispered stories of her father's people. Then, she opened her eyes, connecting to the very core of the world, and unleashed her flames.
Dmitri watched, his breath caught in his throat. This was no child's fireball, no flickering candle. It wasn't even the roaring inferno of his son Alek or the swirling pyre of Mikhail. This was a detonation, a column of fire that split the sky, a miniature sun birthed from the earth. The shockwave rippled through him, the very ground vibrating under the sheer force of her magic.
His eyes, cold and calculating just moments ago, now shimmered with unbridled excitement. "Anastasia," he breathed, his voice a reverent whisper, "destined for greatness!"