Chapter 10: Three Letters, or Rather, Six Letters.
April 1892
Four months had passed since Vaenyra's birthday, and spring was beginning to paint the Carpathians with shades of green and bloom. However, the air in the Lhaerys family's library still carried a coolness reminiscent of winter, and the atmosphere within the room was one of concentrated seriousness. Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, illuminating piles of books and parchments on a large oak table, where Serena Lhaerys conducted one of her regular lessons.
Serena, with her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and her violet eyes fixed on the twins, was not the maternal figure Lyra represented. She was the teacher, the strategist, the force that transformed theory into practice. Her voice was clear and incisive, leaving no room for digressions.
"You know the history of Valyria," she began, gesturing to an ancient map showing the European continent. "You know the power of our blood and the glory of our dragons. But the world you are going into is different. It has its own rules, its own histories. And to survive, to prosper, you need to know them."
She pointed to an unrolled parchment, detailing the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, dated 1689. "This is the foundation of the modern wizarding world. After centuries of persecution, wizards decided to hide from Muggles. A decision that, for us Valyrians, is difficult to comprehend. We were the rulers, the lords of fire. We never hid."
Daemyr listened attentively, his mind absorbing every detail. He understood the logic behind the secrecy, the need for protection. Vaenyra, however, couldn't suppress a slight snort. "Fear of Muggles?" she murmured, thinly veiled disdain in her voice. "That's weakness."
Serena raised an eyebrow but did not reprimand her. "For some, yes. For others, it's survival. But the fact is, this is the rule. And the consequences of breaking it are severe. You cannot simply set a Muggle village on fire because someone annoyed you or reveal your magical abilities to Muggles, Vaenyra."
Vaenyra rolled her eyes, but the glint in them showed she had understood the warning.
Serena then moved on to the next topic: the Three Great Schools of Magic in Europe. She began with Hogwarts, in Scotland.
"Founded approximately a thousand years ago by four highly influential wizards, Hogwarts has established itself as the leading magical educational institution in the British Isles. From its inception, the school admits students with magical aptitude regardless of their ancestry, including Muggle-borns, in accordance with its foundational principles. During the period when Phineas Nigellus Black holds the headship, Hogwarts presents an administration of a markedly traditional character, reflecting recurring debates within the magical community regarding the preservation of traditions and the identity of the wizarding world, especially among pure-blood families."
Daemyr felt a familiar tug in his chest. Hogwarts. The castle of his dreams. He looked at the map, his gaze fixed on the British Isles, imagining the towers and the dark lake. Vaenyra, for her part, merely shook her head. "Too soft," she commented, her voice low.
Next, Serena described Durmstrang, the school Maeric had attended.
"Located in some remote region of northern Europe, Durmstrang keeps its geographical position under strict secrecy. The institution is known for an educational approach focused on discipline, resilience, and the mastery of magical power. Unlike Hogwarts, it does not admit Muggle-born students, reflecting a selective policy associated with valuing magical lineage. Durmstrang is also known for including the study of the Dark Arts in its curriculum, albeit in a regulated and institutionally controlled manner."
Vaenyra's eyes gleamed with approval. That aligned with her own values. Daemyr felt a respect for the discipline, but Durmstrang's atmosphere did not attract him in the same way as Hogwarts.
Serena held Daemyr and Vaenyra's gaze before continuing, adopting a deliberately more incisive tone.
"Throughout their history, both Hogwarts and Beauxbatons refused to legitimize the teaching of the Dark Arts as a formal part of their curricula. At Hogwarts, this field of knowledge was systematically relegated to the sphere of defense and theory, under the premise that indirect understanding would be sufficient to contain real threats, an assumption that many magical education historians consider excessively idealistic. Beauxbatons took this stance even further, practically excluding any academic involvement with such arts, prioritizing a tradition of refinement and containment that, while ethically commendable, is often criticized for producing wizards ill-prepared to confront deliberately aggressive forms of magic. In both cases, the institutional rejection of the Dark Arts reveals less an absence of knowledge and more a conscious choice to avoid the risks, and responsibilities, inherent in this domain."
Finally, Serena spoke of Beauxbatons, in France. "An academy of refinement and excellence. Focused on magical arts, etiquette, and diplomacy. It is aristocratic, cultured, and sophisticated. Rhaella Vharanor, Lord Kaelan's eldest daughter, studies there and has excelled.
"Both twins recognized Beauxbatons' prestige, but neither imagined themselves there. It was a world of elegance that did not seem to fit their personal natures.
"Beyond the schools," Serena continued, her voice taking on a graver tone, "there are current tensions. The wizarding world is in constant turmoil. There is a growing pure-blood supremacy movement in some circles, and the fear of Muggles is still a powerful force. The Dumbledore case, which your father read about in the Daily Prophet, is just a symptom of a larger illness. You are not like other wizards. You carry a legacy that this world has forgotten. But to survive here, you need to understand their rules.
"Vaenyra, ever defiant, asked: "What if their rules are weak?"
"Then you bend them," Serena replied, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "But first, you need to know them. Knowing the enemy and your allies is the first step to victory."
Daemyr, thoughtful, asked: "And Hogwarts? Why do so many despise it?"
Serena sighed. "Because it accepts everyone. For some, that is weakness. For others, it is strength." She paused, and a faint smile touched her lips. "Your grandfather would say it is wisdom."
Afterward, her gaze became more serious.
"Still, the disdain for Hogwarts is greater on this side of Europe. Elsewhere, it remains deeply respected and, like it or not, remains the best-known magic school on the entire continent."
When the lesson ended, the sun was already beginning to set, painting the sky orange and purple. Daemyr and Vaenyra left the library, the silence of the corridor echoing their thoughts. The conversation between them was brief, but full of meaning.
"Do you still dream of Hogwarts?" Vaenyra asked, her voice a whisper.
"Perhaps," Daemyr replied, looking at the horizon. "And you? Durmstrang?"
"Durmstrang makes sense. It's strong, disciplined," she said. "Butโฆ"
The word hung in the air.
Daemyr waited.
"That's not what matters, after all," Vaenyra continued, without looking at him.
He frowned slightly.
"Then what matters?"
Vaenyra turned to him just enough for her violet eyes to meet his.
"The choice."
"Mine?" Daemyr asked.
She nodded.
"I will go where you go."
There was a brief silence.
"Why?" he asked, softly.
Vaenyra did not answer. She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, as if the answer was already there.
Then she turned and left, leaving the question unspoken.
____________________________________
June 1892
Summer arrived in the Carpathians with a promise of warmth and an almost palpable tension that hung over the Lhaerys family's fortress. June was the month. Everyone knew. The letters from the European magical schools, which would determine the next step in Daemyr and Vaenyra's lives, were expected at any moment. The anticipation was a stretched thread, invisible, yet present in every room, in every exchanged glance.
At breakfast, the family was gathered, but the usual formality was tinged with a silent unease. No one ate much. Conversations were superficial, and everyone's eyes, almost involuntarily, drifted to the high windows, scanning the blue sky for a sign. Aelarion, at the head of the table, puffed on his pipe, his eyes distant, as if he already knew what was coming. Maeric, though controlled, displayed an unusual rigidity, his jaw tense. Lyra and Serena exchanged worried glances, and Daemyr and Vaenyra, seated side by side, maintained a thoughtful silence, each lost in their own desires and fears.
Then it happened. A distant dot in the blue sky, growing rapidly. Then, two. And then, three. Three distinct silhouettes, flying in formation, approaching the fortress with impressive speed. The clinking of cutlery ceased. The silence in the room became absolute, broken only by the beating of approaching wings.
The first to arrive was an elegant and agile gray barn owl. Attached to its leg was a thick parchment letter, sealed with a vivid red wax seal bearing the Hogwarts crest: a stylized H, flanked by the four house animals. The bird landed softly on the table, its amber eyes fixed on Daemyr and Vaenyra.
Seconds later, an imposing white snowy owl descended with a stronger beat of its wings. It carried a letter sealed with black wax, marked with the Durmstrang crestโa Viking ship, a symbol of its austere tradition. The owl landed beside the first, observing the surroundings with a penetrating, almost evaluative gaze.
Lastly, but no less gracefully, a golden barn owl glided to the table. The letter it carried was sealed with blue wax, displaying the Beauxbatons crest, formed by crossed wands. Its presence brought a serene elegance that contrasted with the severity of the other two messages.
Most notably, and what made the air in the room seem rarefied, was that each owl carried not one, but two letters, one for Daemyr and one for Vaenyra. It was an extraordinary feat, almost unprecedented, that the Lhaerys twins were coveted by all three of Europe's greatest magic schools. An undeniable recognition of their power and lineage.
A slow, wise smile formed on Aelarion's lips. "I knew it," he murmured, more to himself than to the others. Maeric, for his part, displayed a rare expression of surprise, quickly replaced by contained satisfaction. Serena, a fierce glint in her eyes, seemed exultant. Lyra brought her hand to her mouth, restrained tears of pride shining in her eyes.
Daemyr and Vaenyra exchanged glances, then looked at the letters before them. Aelarion, with a solemn gesture, took the Hogwarts letters and opened them, his grave voice filling the silence:
๐๐ธ๐ฐ๐๐ช๐ป๐ฝ๐ผ ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฑ๐ธ๐ธ๐ต ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ฆ๐ฒ๐ฝ๐ฌ๐ฑ๐ฌ๐ป๐ช๐ฏ๐ฝ ๐ช๐ท๐ญ ๐ฆ๐ฒ๐๐ช๐ป๐ญ๐ป๐
๐๐ฒ๐ป๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฝ๐ธ๐ป: ๐๐ฑ๐ฒ๐ท๐ฎ๐ช๐ผ ๐๐ฒ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ต๐ต๐พ๐ผ ๐๐ต๐ช๐ฌ๐ด
๐๐ฎ๐ช๐ป ๐๐ป./๐๐ผ. [๐๐ช๐ฎ๐ถ๐๐ป / ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฎ๐ท๐๐ป๐ช] ๐๐ฑ๐ช๐ฎ๐ป๐๐ผ,
๐ฆ๐ฎ ๐ช๐ป๐ฎ ๐น๐ต๐ฎ๐ช๐ผ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ฝ๐ธ ๐ฒ๐ท๐ฏ๐ธ๐ป๐ถ ๐๐ธ๐พ ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ช๐ฝ ๐๐ธ๐พ ๐ฑ๐ช๐ฟ๐ฎ ๐ช ๐น๐ต๐ช๐ฌ๐ฎ ๐ช๐ฝ ๐๐ธ๐ฐ๐๐ช๐ป๐ฝ๐ผ ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฑ๐ธ๐ธ๐ต ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ฆ๐ฒ๐ฝ๐ฌ๐ฑ๐ฌ๐ป๐ช๐ฏ๐ฝ ๐ช๐ท๐ญ ๐ฆ๐ฒ๐๐ช๐ป๐ญ๐ป๐. ๐ ๐ต๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฝ ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ท๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ผ๐ผ๐ช๐ป๐ ๐ซ๐ธ๐ธ๐ด๐ผ ๐ช๐ท๐ญ ๐ฎ๐บ๐พ๐ฒ๐น๐ถ๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ ๐ฒ๐ผ ๐ช๐ฝ๐ฝ๐ช๐ฌ๐ฑ๐ฎ๐ญ.
๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ป๐ถ ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ฒ๐ท๐ผ ๐ธ๐ท ๐ข๐ฎ๐น๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ซ๐ฎ๐ป 1๐ผ๐ฝ. ๐ฆ๐ฎ ๐ช๐๐ช๐ฒ๐ฝ ๐๐ธ๐พ๐ป ๐ธ๐๐ต ๐ซ๐ ๐๐พ๐ต๐ 31๐ผ๐ฝ ๐ช๐ฝ ๐ฝ๐ฑ๐ฎ ๐ต๐ช๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ผ๐ฝ.
๐ข๐ฒ๐ท๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฎ๐ต๐,
๐๐ป๐ธ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ผ๐ผ๐ธ๐ป ๐๐พ๐น๐ฑ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ฒ๐ช ๐ก๐ธ๐๐ต๐ฎ
๐๐ฎ๐น๐พ๐ฝ๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ช๐ญ๐ถ๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฝ๐ป๐ฎ๐ผ๐ผ
Next, he opened the Durmstrang letters, the tone of his voice becoming more austere:
๐ฏ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ด๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐ฏ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐: ๐ธ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐ฟ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐/๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ณ๐๐๐๐ ๐ท๐๐๐๐๐๐,
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐. ๐ฟ๐๐ ๐ฏ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ด๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐.
๐บ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐. ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐.
๐ฝ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐.
๐ฑ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐,
๐ฏ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ธ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐
Finally, the Beauxbatons letters, read with subtle elegance:
๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ญรฉ๐ถ๐ฒ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ฎ ๐๐ช๐ฐ๐ฒ๐ฎ ๐๐ฎ๐ช๐พ๐๐ซรข๐ฝ๐ธ๐ท๐ผ
๐๐ฒ๐ป๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฝ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฌ๐ฎ: ๐๐ช๐ญ๐ช๐ถ๐ฎ ร๐ต๐ธ๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ฎ ๐๐ธ๐ป๐ถ๐ธ๐ท๐ฝ
๐๐ฑ๐ฎ๐ป(๐ฎ) ๐๐ช๐ญ๐ฎ๐ถ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฎ๐ต๐ต๐ฎ/๐๐ธ๐ท๐ผ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐พ๐ป ๐๐ฑ๐ช๐ฎ๐ป๐๐ผ,
๐'๐ฎ๐ผ๐ฝ ๐ช๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐ป๐ช๐ท๐ญ ๐น๐ต๐ช๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฒ๐ป ๐บ๐พ๐ฎ ๐ท๐ธ๐พ๐ผ ๐ฟ๐ธ๐พ๐ผ ๐ฒ๐ท๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ฝ๐ธ๐ท๐ผ ร ๐ป๐ฎ๐ณ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ท๐ญ๐ป๐ฎ ๐ต'๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ญรฉ๐ถ๐ฒ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ฎ ๐๐ช๐ฐ๐ฒ๐ฎ ๐๐ฎ๐ช๐พ๐๐ซรข๐ฝ๐ธ๐ท๐ผ ๐น๐ธ๐พ๐ป ๐ต'๐ช๐ท๐ทรฉ๐ฎ ๐ผ๐ฌ๐ธ๐ต๐ช๐ฒ๐ป๐ฎ 1892-1893.
๐ฅ๐ธ๐ฝ๐ป๐ฎ ๐ฎ๐๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ต๐ต๐ฎ๐ท๐ฌ๐ฎ ๐ฎ๐ฝ ๐ฟ๐ธ๐ผ ๐ฝ๐ช๐ต๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ๐ผ ๐ถ๐ช๐ฐ๐ฒ๐บ๐พ๐ฎ๐ผ ๐ป๐ฎ๐ถ๐ช๐ป๐บ๐พ๐ช๐ซ๐ต๐ฎ๐ผ ๐ฟ๐ธ๐พ๐ผ ๐ป๐ฎ๐ท๐ญ๐ฎ๐ท๐ฝ ๐ญ๐ฒ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ฎ ๐ท๐ธ๐ฝ๐ป๐ฎ ๐ฒ๐ท๐ผ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฝ๐พ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ธ๐ท.
๐๐ธ๐พ๐ผ ๐ช๐ฝ๐ฝ๐ฎ๐ท๐ญ๐ธ๐ท๐ผ ๐ฟ๐ธ๐ฝ๐ป๐ฎ ๐ปรฉ๐น๐ธ๐ท๐ผ๐ฎ ๐ช๐ฟ๐ช๐ท๐ฝ ๐ต๐ช ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐ท ๐ญ๐พ ๐ถ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ผ ๐ญ๐ฎ ๐ณ๐พ๐ฒ๐ต๐ต๐ฎ๐ฝ.
๐๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ฌ ๐ท๐ธ๐ผ ๐ผ๐ช๐ต๐พ๐ฝ๐ช๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ธ๐ท๐ผ ๐ญ๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ท๐ฐ๐พรฉ๐ฎ๐ผ,
๐๐ช๐ญ๐ช๐ถ๐ฎ ร๐ต๐ธ๐ฒ๐ผ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ฎ ๐๐ธ๐ป๐ถ๐ธ๐ท๐ฝ
๐๐ฒ๐ป๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฝ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฌ๐ฎ
Beauxbatons Academy of Magic
Directress: Madame รloise de Lormont
Dear Miss/Mister Lhaerys,
It is with great pleasure that we invite you to join the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic for the academic year 1892-1893.
Your excellence and remarkable magical talents make you worthy of our institution.
We await your reply before the end of July.
With our distinguished regards,
Madame รloise de Lormont
Directress
A heavy silence fell over the table. The letters, now open, were the materialization of an imminent future, but also the trigger for an endless debate that had lasted for months, if not years.
Maeric was the first to speak, his voice firm and unwavering. "The choice is obvious. Durmstrang will prepare them for the real world. They value our lineage, our power. Hogwarts will weaken them with its soft philosophy, and Beauxbatons is for those who seek a flowery life, they do not represent the ideals of this family."
Lyra, with her soft voice, yet with a thread of steel, retorted. "Beauxbatons offers refinement and valuable political connections. Rhaella Vharanor thrives there. It's not just about power, Maeric, but about influence and the art of navigating the world without the need for constant confrontation."
Aelarion, with an enigmatic smile, puffed on his pipe. "Dreams do not lie, Maeric. There is a reason Daemyr sees that castle. Perhaps their destiny is not where we wish, but where it is necessary."
Serena, who until then had observed the exchange with calculating intensity, intervened. "They must choose. Not us. But they must choose wisely, understanding the implications of each path."
Daemyr and Vaenyra, at the center of that storm of opinions, remained silent, their eyes fixed on the letters. Daemyr felt the familiar pull of Hogwarts, the echo of his dreams, but his father's expectation weighed heavily on him. Vaenyra, for her part, saw the logic in Durmstrang, the strength and discipline that aligned with her own nature, but she had already committed to going wherever Daemyr went.
Maeric, impatient, slammed his hand on the table. "Daemyr. Vaenyra. You are Lhaerys. You carry dragon blood, a path I have already trodden. Durmstrang is where you belong."
Aelarion, calm, but with unquestionable authority, replied. "They belong where destiny calls them, my son. Not where we wish."
The silence that followed was dense, charged with a tension that seemed to vibrate in the air. Daemyr, finally, raised his head, his voice low, but clear. "I... need time."
Vaenyra, beside him, remained silent.
Maeric scoffed. "Time? Replies are expected in weeks!".
"Then they have weeks," Aelarion concluded, his voice ending the debate for now. "Let them think."
The family dispersed, leaving behind a dense tension that seemed to hang in the air like a cold mist. The three letters still rested on the table, each whispering a path, promising a different future. Later, Daemyr and Vaenyra returned to the library, the letters firmly clutched in their hands, feeling the overwhelming weight of the choice they still dared not face. The silence around them seemed to intensify every doubt, every fear, making it impossible to ignore the responsibility of their decisions.
"You will choose Hogwarts," Vaenyra stated, the conviction in her voice making it clear that she would follow wherever he went.
Daemyr averted his gaze to the fireplace flames. "Perhaps... And you?"
Vaenyra gave a slight, almost imperceptible smile. "You already know."
________________________________________
June 1892 (a few days after the letters arrived at the Lhaerys)
The Vharanor House, though imposing in its dark stone architecture, was a place of heavy silences and cold echoes for Sylara. She sat in a corner of the large living room, pretending to read an ancient tome, but her ears were sharp for the whispers that floated through the corridors. The servants, who usually moved like shadows, seemed more animated today, their voices low, but charged with excitement.
"...the Lhaerys siblings..." "...three schools, they say..." "...all three!" The fragmented phrases reached her, each like a small needle piercing her already fragile armor of indifference. She didn't need Kareth to bring her the news with scorn; the whole house buzzed with it.
A wave of envy, bitter and familiar, rose in her throat. Daemyr and Vaenyra. Always them. With their clear destinies, their dragons, their family support. They were the center of New Valyria's universe, while she, Sylara, was a shadow, a dark-haired anomaly in a house of silver-haired, a constant reminder of a union, of a mistake, that her uncle Kaelan preferred to forget.
The loneliness enveloped her like a cold cloak. She was only ten years old, and it was still a whole year until her letter arrived โ if it ever would. The uncertainty was a slow poison, corroding her confidence. Would my uncle let me go to a school? Do I even have enough talent for it? The words of Kareth, her tutor, echoed in her mind, reminding her of her "condition," her "difference," her "lack of purity" compared to the other Vharanors.
Later, she retreated to her room, a small, sparsely decorated space that reflected her status in the house. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, her heterochromatic eyes ,one deep violet, the other an intense red ,staring back at her.
She reached out, trying to cast a simple levitation spell, but her mind was clouded with doubt. The object trembled, but did not rise. When it finally seemed she would succeed, she quickly suppressed it, afraid of being seen, of being judged, of not being "good enough."
She thought of Rhaella, the only one who showed her kindness, who was at Beauxbatons. But would she, Sylara, be accepted there? Or at Durmstrang, which her uncle so valued, but which rejected the "impure"? The idea of Hogwarts, which accepted everyone, arose, but was quickly dismissed. She was not like the Lhaerys. She was different. And that difference, she knew, was both her curse and her strength.
Sylara closed her eyes, a flame of resolve igniting within her, despite the pain of envy and loneliness. She had no dragons, nor the unconditional support of a family like the Lhaerys, but she had latent power and an iron will. "A year," she thought, her voice in her mind firmer than she would ever dare to speak aloud. "A year to prove that I am more than they think. More than I myself think."
And Sylara would not disappoint.