The soft clatter of cutlery echoed through the sunlit dining room as the scent of spiced bread and roasted vegetables lingered in the air. Morning light filtered in through tall windows, casting long, golden streaks across the wooden floor.
Zenith sat quietly at the table, posture poised, eyes half-lidded as she took slow, deliberate sips of her tea. Her long silver hair fell neatly over her shoulders, unbothered by the warm breeze coming in from the open windows. Across from her, Zeshia was already halfway through her breakfast, humming a cheerful tune as she practically inhaled her food.
Despite their identical appearances—silver hair, striking eyes, and flawless skin—their temperaments couldn't be more different. Zenith was composed, distant to most, her mind always quietly calculating. Zeshia, on the other hand, was impulsive, chaotic in the most cheerful way imaginable—and unpredictably dangerous if provoked. Two halves of the same strange coin.
Madam Binne walked in moments later, her fire-toned robes trailing behind her and a familiar look of exasperated fondness on her face. Even at thirty-seven, she looked barely older than twenty-five. Her skin was smooth, her steps graceful, and her presence impossible to ignore.
"Well," she said, placing a dish of warm bread in the center of the table, "you two still haven't exploded the house. I'm shocked."
Zenith raised an eyebrow, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "There's still time."
Binne smirked, but her eyes softened as she sat across from them. "I'd say I'm worried about sending you off, but let's be honest... one of you would probably make the capital implode before you let anything happen to the other."
"Aw, you do believe in us," Zeshia said with a grin, her mouth still half full.
"I believe in Zenith," Binne replied, earning a rare snort from her.
Zeshia dramatically clutched her chest. "Betrayed in my own home!"
Zenith rolled her eyes. "She's not wrong."
Despite her stoic tone, there was a subtle warmth in Zenith's voice that only those close to her could recognize. She rarely said much, but her presence alone was a comfort—anchoring and steady. And even when she teased Zeshia, there was a protective edge to her words.
Binne sipped her own tea, eyeing them both over the rim of her cup. "Alright, listen closely. The capital is a different world. Bigger, messier, full of people who smile with sharp teeth."
"Sounds fun," Zeshia said.
"Zenith," Binne continued, her tone more serious now, "I trust you'll keep this one from starting any accidental fires."
Zenith nodded once. "As long as she doesn't touch anything flammable."
"No promises," Zeshia muttered with a wink.
Binne chuckled. "I'm not going to give a long speech. You're capable. I've seen what you both can do. Zenith, you're sharper than most nobles I've met, and twice as composed. Zeshia might act like a hurricane in a dress, but she's dangerous when it counts."
Zeshia beamed like it was the greatest compliment ever.
"You'll make a good team—like always. Just keep watching each other's backs."
Binne reached down and slid a small pouch across the table. "Here. Some travel money. I'll send more along with letters while you're at the Academy."
Zenith picked up the pouch, weighing it in her hand. "We won't waste it."
"Speak for yourself," Zeshia said.
Binne gave a half-smile. "Also—if anyone touches either of you in a way you don't like, just cut their hand off. Send it to me as a souvenir."
Zenith didn't even flinch. "Left or right?"
"Surprise me."
Zeshia cackled. "You're the best, Madam B."
"You'll thank me one day," Binne replied, pushing her plate aside and standing up. "Oh, and before I forget... I have a twin too."
Both girls blinked in unison.
Zenith tilted her head, her voice calm but curious. "You've never mentioned that."
Binne shrugged like it was the weather. "She's in the capital. We... don't speak much. Complicated history. You may run into her, or you may not. Just thought you should know."
Zeshia leaned forward, intrigued. "Is she like you? Or... crazier?"
"Let's just say," Binne said, brushing crumbs from her sleeve, "if she tries to hug you, duck."
Zenith filed the information away quietly, not asking more than necessary. Something about the way Madam Binne spoke told her there was more beneath the surface—but now wasn't the time to pry.
Zeshia, naturally, wanted to pry immediately, but Zenith gave her a look. She quieted—reluctantly.
Binne stepped around the table and, for a rare moment, placed her hands on both of their shoulders. "I'm proud of you. Both of you. Go cause trouble, but the right kind."
Zeshia jumped up to hug her tightly. Zenith stood as well, a step behind, offering a nod instead—but it was a meaningful one.
"You'll be okay," Binne said softly, resting a hand on Zenith's cheek for a fleeting moment. "You always are."
Zenith didn't smile, but her gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual. That was enough.
Outside, the carriage wheels creaked on the stone path. The world was waiting. And Zenith, for the first time in a long while, felt the faint stirrings of something she rarely let surface.
The road to the capital stretched like a ribbon between hills, cutting through forests touched with sunlight and shadow. The hum of the wheels against the dirt road and the rhythmic clatter of hooves filled the carriage, soothing in its constancy.
Inside, the contrast between the twin sisters was as sharp as day and night.
Zenith sat with her legs crossed, silver hair tied back, a book laid open on her lap. The morning light filtering through the window reflected off her pale eyes, giving her an almost statuesque serenity. Her gaze moved methodically across the page, absorbing every detail about the Academy they were traveling to—not for prestige, but for answers.
Across from her, Zeshia lay dramatically sprawled on her seat, head dangling off the edge as she groaned like a dying actress. "I think I've lost the will to live..."
Zenith didn't look up. "You said that ten minutes ago. You were fine after I gave you medicine."
"That was before this bump," Zeshia moaned, gesturing vaguely to the last pebble in the road. "It shook my soul."
With a sigh, Zenith slid a small bottle from her pouch and tossed it over. "Drama queen."
Zeshia caught it with a grin. "You love me anyway."
Zenith gave her a side glance, dry. "Unfortunately."
They shared a small smile. That warmth, that unspoken understanding—it was always there, beneath the bickering. But it was fleeting.
Because something was wrong.
Zenith felt it before she saw it. A disturbance in the air. A shift in pressure.
Then—crack.
The horses neighed in alarm. The carriage gave a violent lurch. Dust exploded from the ground as the vehicle was lifted—not by a bump, but by force.
Zenith's eyes narrowed. "Zeshia."
"Yeah, I feel it."
Another jolt.
"Out. Now."
The world spun. They moved on instinct.
Zenith grabbed Zeshia's arm with one hand and reached for the conductor with the other. As the carriage tilted unnaturally, she pulled them out through the splintering side. They landed roughly in the grass as the carriage flipped into the air behind them—twisting, crashing, shattering.
They hit the ground in a roll. Zenith's arm cradled the dazed conductor. Zeshia hit the grass in a crouch, her head whipping up.
The forest around them hissed with unnatural quiet.
Figures emerged from the shadows—ten, maybe twelve, clad in mottled cloaks and ill-fitting armor, faces hidden behind bone-like masks. One held a hooked staff, another a rusted saber. They moved with the lazy confidence of wolves circling prey.
"Quite the fall, pretty things," one of them said, stepping forward. His voice was oily, mocking. "Bit far from the city for girls like you."
Another snorted. "They're nobles, I bet. Soft. Look at that one with the book." He jerked his chin at Zenith. "Thinks she's better than us."
"Maybe we teach them some respect," said a third, licking his teeth. His eyes raked across Zenith's form with no shame. "Starting with her."
Zeshia's face froze.
She had been brushing dirt off her skirt, still smiling faintly.
That smile didn't vanish. It just changed.
The sweetness remained—but something behind her eyes snapped. Like glass cracking in silence.
"I really, really didn't want to get blood on this dress," she said, voice soft, almost childlike.
One of the bandits barked a laugh. "Oh no. What will we ever do."
"You won't have to," she said, stepping forward.
Wind coiled around her like invisible serpents.
The first bandit raised his hand—then screamed as it vanished in a spray of blood, a blade of wind slicing it cleanly off. Before he could fall, Zeshia moved.
One breath.
She was in the middle of them.
Her hand slashed down—air pressure collapsed like a vice, sending two more bandits sprawling, blood spraying in arcs. Another lunged. She didn't dodge—she welcomed it, catching his weapon mid-swing and shoving her dagger between his ribs with a twist that was almost casual.
"You shouldn't have said that about my sister," she whispered in his ear before he dropped.
Zenith stood behind her, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. But her fingers glowed faintly with magic, ready.
One of the bandits broke ranks. "She's a demon—!"
"Zeshia," Zenith said quietly.
Zeshia froze.
She stood above a bleeding man, shadows already twisting around her fingers, leaking like smoke from her skin. Her grin was wide, her eyes shining with something too wild, too unhinged.
"Zeshia." Zenith's voice was sharper. Not commanding, but firm. Final.
The shadows stopped.
Zeshia's smile twitched—then faded back into something sweet and innocent, like a mask slipping into place. She stood up straight, brushing her skirt again. "Sorry. Got carried away."
The remaining bandits stumbled back—but Zenith moved now. She didn't attack with fury or noise. She stepped forward, calm as winter, and raised her hand.
Space rippled.
One of the bandits suddenly dropped, unconscious—his body twisted in a blink, his own weight distorted against him. Another cried out, trying to run. Zenith raised her other hand and snapped her fingers—ice shot from the ground, freezing his legs in place.
In under a minute, it was over.
Nine lay dead. One screamed, clutching his ruined arm. Two were unconscious. One groaned beneath Zeshia's boot.
Zenith turned toward them, eyes cold. "You were saying something about teaching us respect?"
The man whimpered.
"Thought so."
Zeshia giggled. "Shall I burn them?"
"...why not?" zenith said not opposing the idea.
"Say no more."
Zeshia whirled her hand. Flames crackled, licking across the ground. Zenith joined her, combining her magic to burn the corpses quickly and efficiently. The fire was high and hot, but controlled—leaving no evidence for scavengers or searchers.
The conductor, now seated on a fallen log, looked pale. But alive.
Zenith crouched beside him. "You all right?"
He nodded shakily. "Y-you two... You're not normal."
Zeshia smiled sweetly from behind her. "Never said we were."
Once the area was cleared, the carriage was patched enough to continue.
Zeshia plopped back in her seat. "Well that was exciting."
Zenith sat across from her, silent. She looked out the window, past the smoke still curling behind them. Her thoughts returned to the Academy. To the secrets waiting for them. To the truth of their origins.
This wasn't a coincidence. It was a warning.
Someone was watching.
And they hadn't even arrived yet.