At three years old, Celestia Blackwood was anything but ordinary. The east wing of the ducal estate—her designated exile—had become her own small kingdom, far from the warmth and bustle of the main house. Morning light filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across rooms where crystal lamps pulsed in gentle harmony with her carefully contained power.
While other noble children her age played with dolls and demanded attention in sun-filled nurseries, Celestia spent her days in her makeshift study, surrounded by books and quiet observation. The room itself reflected her unique situation—simple furniture meant for a lesser noble's child, but arranged with the precision Elizabeth Crawford had once used in corporate boardrooms.
"Young miss, please eat something," Clara Bennett urged softly, setting down a bowl of porridge that steamed in the cool morning air. Unlike the other servants who avoided the 'cursed' child, Clara's water magic danced with genuine concern, creating delicate patterns in the air that caught the early light. At eight, she carried herself with a grace that belied her age, her simple maid's uniform neat despite the early hour.
Celestia looked up from the basic text on holy power theory she'd convinced Clara to bring her—its pages worn with use, margins already filled with her careful notes. In her previous life, Elizabeth Crawford had mastered the art of reading people. Here, those skills revealed Clara's dark circles and slightly trembling hands.
"You were up all night with James again, weren't you?" Celestia asked, her child's voice carrying unusual clarity that made the crystal lights flicker in response. Her three-year-old features held an expression far too knowing, too understanding for her apparent age.
Clara startled, nearly dropping the silver spoon—one of the few fine items allowed in the east wing. Her water magic rippled with surprise, creating momentary rainbows in the morning light. Even after months of service, she hadn't grown used to her young charge's uncanny perceptiveness. "James's fever returned," she admitted, smoothing her apron with nervous hands. "But don't worry about such things, young miss."
The morning sun caught Celestia's silver-blonde hair—that distinctive Blackwood trait that marked her as surely as her isolation did. In her previous life, she'd revolutionized medical technology. Here, she had something potentially more powerful—if she could learn to use it properly.
"Bring him here tonight," she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of two lives' worth of decision-making.
"Young miss?" Clara's water magic swirled with uncertainty.
"Your brother. Bring him after the evening prayer bells." Celestia turned back to her book, but not before adding with gentle authority, "And Clara? Thank you for the porridge."
Through her window, she could see the main house where her twin brother Theodore lived with their two-year-old sister, Rosalind. The morning sun painted the grand building in shades of gold and crystal light, making the contrast with her simpler quarters all the more stark. Theo's condition hadn't improved much since birth, despite the constant attention of priests and healers. The golden thread of power connecting them—visible only to her—pulsed with each of his labored breaths.
'Soon,' she promised silently, watching a procession of priests enter the main house for another healing attempt. 'I'll figure out how to help you properly, brother.'
A commotion from the main house drew her attention. The duchess—their mother—was carrying Rosalind across the garden, the little girl's golden curls shining like captured sunlight. Behind them, servants struggled with toys and treats, their arms full of the kind of luxuries never allowed in the east wing. The garden itself seemed to bloom brighter in their presence, as if even the flowers knew who held the family's favor.
"Lady Rosalind is such a blessing," Celestia heard a maid whisper outside her door, the words carrying clearly through the morning air. "Unlike..."
The words didn't hurt anymore. Elizabeth Crawford had faced worse in corporate boardrooms, had learned that sometimes being underestimated was its own kind of power. Instead, Celestia turned her attention back to the book, particularly the passage about power transference. The crystal lights around her dimmed slightly, responding to her intense concentration.
That evening, after the prayer bells rang their melancholic song across the duchy, Clara brought her brother James—a boy of five who worked in the stables. His face was flushed with fever, his breathing labored in the cool evening air. The crystal lamps cast uncertain shadows across his pain-drawn features.
"Young miss, you shouldn't—" Clara began, her water magic creating protective patterns in the air, but Celestia was already moving.
"Help him sit," she instructed, remembering how her mother—her first mother—used to care for her and Alex when they were sick. The memory gave strength to her resolve.
Standing before James, Celestia closed her eyes. The power within her stirred, vast and warm like summer sunlight captured in a vessel meant for winter storms. In her studies, she'd learned that holy power was meant to flow in one direction—from the gods through the priests to the people. But something in her remembered innovation, remembered breaking rules to find better solutions.
Golden light bloomed between her small hands, turning the evening air thick with holy power. Clara gasped as Celestia placed them on James's chest, her water magic reacting to the pure energy that filled the room. The crystal lamps pulsed in harmony with her power, casting the scene in ethereal light.
'Please,' she thought, not to the gods but to the power itself, letting Elizabeth Crawford's determination merge with this new world's magic. 'Help him.'
The light pulsed once, twice, then sank into James's skin like sunlight into still water. Color returned to his face, replacing fever's flush with healthy warmth. His breathing eased, each breath drawing in clean air instead of pain. The transformation was immediate and complete—as if the fever had never existed at all.
"Impossible," Clara whispered, her water magic creating unconscious patterns of awe in the air. "Only high priests can—young miss!"
Celestia swayed, suddenly tired as if she'd just finished one of Elizabeth's marathon board meetings. Clara caught her before she could fall, water magic cushioning them both. The crystal lights dimmed in response to her exhaustion, casting soft shadows across the room.
"Worth it," Celestia mumbled, fighting to keep her eyes open. Even as a child, she carried herself with the dignity Elizabeth had learned in corporate wars. "Clara, you can't tell anyone. Promise me."
"But your power—it's extraordinary! The temple should—"
"Promise me," Celestia insisted, her child's voice carrying the weight of her adult mind. The crystal lamps flickered with her emphasis, creating dancing shadows on the walls. "Some gifts are better kept hidden."
As Clara and James swore their silence, Celestia caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Golden light still swirled in her eyes, marking her as different, special—dangerous, according to some. But for the first time since her rebirth, she felt truly purposeful. Elizabeth Crawford had built an empire by identifying needs and filling them. Perhaps Celestia Blackwood could do the same, one secret healing at a time.
That night, as she drifted off to sleep, she heard Clara and James whispering prayers of thanks. Not to the gods, but to her. Their voices mixed with the gentle hum of crystal lights and the distant sounds of nighttime in the duchy.
In the main house, Theodore coughed in his sleep, and the golden thread between them trembled with shared pain and promise.
'Soon, brother,' Celestia thought as darkness claimed her. 'I just need to grow a little stronger first.'