# Chapter 1: The Glass Scullery

The silver soup tureen was heavy enough to break a wrist, but it was the ghost of the Duchess’s singing voice vibrating through the metal that made Elara’s skin crawl. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Magic was a closed circuit, a sealed inheritance that flowed from parent to child like hemophilia or a title. It didn’t just spill over because a servant spent too long polishing the cutlery. But as Elara’s calloused fingers gripped the ornate handles, a trill of high-octave vibrato pulsed against her palms, cold and sharp as a needle.

"Elara, if you stare at that reflection any longer, you’ll turn into a statue," a voice snapped.

Elara jerked her hands back. The tureen settled onto the velvet-lined tray with a dull thud. She wiped her damp palms on her apron, the coarse linen scratching against the sudden, frantic heat in her fingertips. 

Mina stood at the end of the long washing table, her brow glistening with the steam of the scullery. She was scrubbing a set of crystal flutes with a rhythmic, aggressive efficiency. Mina didn’t get echoes. Mina didn’t feel the residue of the High Born’s souls on their dinnerware. To Mina, a cup was just a cup, and the Duchess was just a woman who ate too much pheasant.

"I thought I saw a smudge," Elara lied. Her voice felt thin, like parchment stretched too tight.

"There’s always a smudge. This is Oakhaven. The air is half-soot and half-arrogance." Mina paused, squinting at Elara. "You’re shaking. Is it the fever again?"

"No. Just… the cold."

Elara reached for the polishing cloth, but she couldn't bring herself to touch the silver again. Not yet. The sensation—the *theft*—was still thrumming in the marrow of her bones. It wasn't her magic. It belonged to Duchess Vane, a woman who had never stepped foot in the scullery, who spent her days weaving light into tapestries that never faded. 

Elara closed her eyes for a second, and she could see them: threads of pale, shimmering gold behind her eyelids. She shouldn't know what they looked like. She shouldn't feel the phantom tug of the loom in her shoulders. 

"Don't let Mrs. Gable catch you idling," Mina warned, though her tone softened. "She’s in a state today. The prince arrives by sundown, and if the glass isn’t singing, we’ll all be out in the gutters by moonrise."

"The glass singing?" Elara whispered.

"It’s an expression, Elara. Move."

Elara moved. She picked up a linen rag and moved to the next station, a row of delicate wine glasses that belonged to the Prince’s retinue. She tried to be careful. She tried to touch only the stems, only the edges. But the moment her skin made contact with the crystal, the scullery vanished.

*The scent of crushed cedar. The taste of aged brandy and old blood. A sharp, stinging sensation in the back of her throat.*

Elara gasped, her fingers clenching. The wine glass didn't shatter. Instead, it turned a deep, bruised purple in her hand. The clear crystal bled color like an ink drop in a basin. 

"Elara!" 

Mina was at her side in an instant, grabbing her wrist and twisting the glass away. Mina stared at the violet stem, her eyes wide with a terror that surpassed the fear of a broken dish. 

"What did you do?" Mina hissed, her voice a jagged whisper. "What is this?"

"I didn't—I just touched it," Elara stammered. The cedar scent was fading, replaced by the suffocating smell of lye and wet stone. "I don't know why it changed."

"You shouldn't be able to change it. You’re a Null, Elara. Your blood is dead." Mina looked toward the heavy oak door that led to the upper kitchens. If the Cook saw this, or worse, the Royal Purifier, Elara wouldn't just be fired. She would be harvested.

The High Born didn't tolerate leaks. Magic was their divine right, and a servant who could accidentally tap into the reservoir was a hole in the dam.

"Hide it," Mina whispered, shoving the purple glass into the depths of a dirty wash-bucket. "Wipe your hands. Give me the cloth."

"Mina, I think I'm sick," Elara said, her chest heaving. The heat in her hands was migrating toward her heart. It felt like a swarm of bees was trapped under her ribs, stings rhythmic and searing. 

"You’re not sick. You’re terrified. Now work, or we both die."

Elara picked up another cloth, but her hands wouldn't stop twitching. Every object in the room began to scream at her in a language of vibration. The copper pots hummed with the heat of a dozen fires; the iron ladles tasted of salt and sweat; the very stones under her feet groaned with the weight of the mountain they’d been carved from. 

She was a sponge, and the world was soaked in power she had no right to hold.

The door swung open, the hinges screaming a high, metallic note that sounded like a funeral dirge to Elara’s heightened ears. Mrs. Gable marched in, her stays creaking, followed by a man in a coat the color of a fresh bruise. 

The Purifier.

His eyes were pale, almost colorless, the mark of someone whose blood had been bled and refined until only the essence remained. He carried a silver rod topped with a jagged piece of raw quartz.

"The resonance is peaking in here," the Purifier said. His voice was cold, clipped, the sound of a blade sliding over silk. "Who touched the Vane silver last?"

Mina stepped forward, her head bowed low. "I did, My Lord. I was finishing the tureen just now."

The Purifier moved toward Mina. He didn't look at her face; he looked at the air around her, as if searching for a scent. He raised the quartz rod. The stone remained dull, a muddy grey. 

"Your blood is quiet," he muttered, sounding disappointed. He turned his gaze toward the back of the room, toward the dark corner where Elara stood, her hands hidden behind her back, her fingers digging into the flesh of her palms until she felt the hot slick of blood.

"You," he said, pointing the rod at Elara. "Come here."

Elara didn't move. Her heart was a drum, beating out a rhythm that felt dangerously like the Golden Threads she had stolen from the Duchess. If he touched her, he would feel it. He would feel the stolen song, the cedar-scent, the bruised purple of the glass. 

"Step forward, girl," Mrs. Gable barked. "Or I'll have the guards drag you to the courtyard."

Elara took a step. Then another. The bees under her ribs grew louder, a roar of energy that demanded to be let out. She felt a drop of sweat roll down her temple. 

The Purifier smiled, a thin, needle-sharp expression. He raised the quartz rod toward her chest. 

"Let's see what you’re hiding in those unlucky veins," he whispered.

As the crystal tip touched the coarse fabric over her heart, the quartz didn't just glow—it screamed. A blinding, violent light erupted from the stone, turning the scullery into a white-hot furnace. The silver tureen on the tray leapt into the air, its metal dissolving into a liquid melody that swirled around Elara’s head.

The Purifier stumbled back, his face a mask of sudden, panicked Greed. 

"A siphon," he breathed, the word a death sentence. "A living siphon."

Elara looked at her hands. They weren't shaking anymore. They were glowing with a pale, golden light, the Duchess’s threads weaving themselves into a shroud around her fingers. The power felt like wine, like fire, like everything she had ever been denied. 

And then, she felt the most terrifying thing of all: she wanted more.

Elara didn't wait for the guards. She didn't look back at Mina’s horrified face. She turned and bolted toward the service stairs, the stolen magic roaring in her ears, silencing the world until the only thing she could hear was the frantic, hungry beating of her own heart.