In the noble house of Cecilia, the blood runs cold — not from cruelty, but from power.

Ice magic flows through their veins, as much a mark of legacy as the snow-white hair and deep, glacial blue eyes every Cecilia bears. They are a family revered across the Kingdom of Cessia, known not just for their magic, but for their dignity, strength, and unshakable loyalty to the crown. The Cecilia name stands tall among the Four Ducal Houses — a pillar of noble blood and elemental might.

Every member of the family was born with the gift.

Every member... except Elodie Cecilia.

Known affectionately as Elle, she came into the world bearing all the hallmarks of her lineage — the silvery hair, the piercing blue eyes — but none of its power. No matter how many tutors her family hired, how many magical therapies they tried, or how many sleepless nights she spent hoping to awaken something, anything — Elle remained magicless.

In the world of Cessia, a noble without magic is as good as a dead branch on a thriving tree.

The court whispered. The nobles sneered. But her family never wavered.

Her father, Duke Nigel Cecilia, stood tall beside her. Her mother, Marielle, held her close and called her perfect. Her twin older brothers, Elijah and Eleazar, treated her not as a burden, but as their beloved little sister. The outside world may have seen her as a defect, a disgrace — but in the halls of House Cecilia, she was loved.

Her engagement to the second prince, had been arranged when they were both young. It was a political alliance, yes — a binding of royal and ducal blood — but Elle thought it also held the potential for something more. The second prince was distant, aloof, and often indifferent, but he was never cruel. She told herself they were allies. Maybe, in time, they could become friends. Maybe even something more.

She was wrong.

It began with a visitor.

Uncle Benjamin — her father's younger brother — returned after years away from the capital, bringing with him a girl.

She looked just like Elle.

She was named Elodie as well.

A supposed bastard child born of a common woman, she bore the white hair and blue eyes of House Cecilia. But unlike Elle, this new Elodie wielded ice magic with terrifying ease. A prodigy. A miracle. She was welcomed with cautious grace — an outsider, yes, but still family. Elle, ever hopeful, smiled at her cousin and offered friendship.

But behind that gentle face was a dagger.

One by one, Elle’s world unraveled.

Her brothers, loyal to a fault, were sent to a distant battlefield under the pretense of glory — and never returned.

Her father was accused of embezzlement and fraud, thrown into prison without trial.

Her mother withered from grief, heartbroken and helpless.

The prince who had once sworn to stand by Elle’s side turned away, enamored by the other Elodie — the gifted one, the magical one, the convenient replacement. He believed every lie whispered by the impostor.

And Elle?

Elle was poisoned in the dead of night.

Silenced.

Forgotten.

Left to die alone as the false Elodie rose in her place — bride to the prince, jewel of the Cecilia house, heiress to the dukedom her father had stolen.

But fate, it seems, was not finished with Elodie Cecilia.

Death was not the end.

She awoke once more — in her own bed, in her younger body, before the ruin began.

The memories of betrayal burned behind her eyes. The pain, the loss, the injustice — it carved itself into her soul.

This time, she would not be powerless.

This time, she would wield magic, no matter the cost.

She would unravel her uncle’s schemes before they took root. She would protect her family with the ferocity of a blizzard and the precision of a blade. She would not hesitate. Not again.

Elodie Cecilia is no longer the girl they discarded.

She is the storm they never saw coming.

And she will not let them win.

Not in this life. Not ever again.

The world was cold.

Not the biting chill of winter or the familiar sting of ice magic.

No — this cold was different. A dull, suffocating stillness that seeped into her skin and settled in her bones like rot.

A bed. A window.

The quiet drip of a distant icicle melting somewhere beyond the glass.

Elodie Cecilia opened her eyes.

And screamed.

But no sound came out.

Her mouth was open, her chest heaving, but only silence greeted her. A scream lodged in her throat — stuck somewhere between disbelief and terror. Her body shot upright in bed, every muscle locking into place. Her heart pounded like a war drum against her ribs, wild and panicked.

Her fingers clenched the silk blanket covering her legs, bunching it up like a lifeline. Her breath came in gasps, sharp and ragged, as though she’d been drowning for years.

No — she had.

Poisoned. Paralyzed. Forgotten.

Her last memory: the other Elodie standing beside her bed, her hand nestled gently in the second prince’s. Elle’s hand. It should’ve been hers. It was hers.

Once.

And now…

Her gaze snapped around the room. Familiar, too familiar. The ivory canopy above. The pale blue curtains dancing in the breeze. The scent — lilac and snowmint — clung to everything like an old dream. There, across the room, stood her battered wooden desk, still stacked with books on elemental theory, mana channeling, and noble etiquette. Books she had studied for years in vain.

Back then, they had been symbols of hope. Then reminders of failure.

And now…

Elle’s hand flew to her chest. Her heart thundered beneath her ribs.

“I’m alive,” she whispered, barely able to believe it. Her voice cracked. “This is… this is my room.” She looked around again, slower this time. “Before…”

Before the letters came.

Before the battlefield swallowed her brothers whole.

Before her father was chained in a dungeon and her mother faded away.

Before the prince slipped a ring onto another Elodie’s finger.

Before her uncle smiled at her funeral.

Elle stood up — and nearly collapsed. Her knees shook as if they were made of glass. She grabbed the nearest post of her bed and steadied herself, breath sharp and thin.

The mirror beside the armoire caught her reflection.

A pale girl with snow-white hair and storm-colored eyes stared back. Her cheeks were flushed from panic, her lips parted in disbelief. Her expression twisted — confusion gave way to horror, then rage.

Her knees buckled, but she forced herself to stay upright.

“No,” she whispered. “Not again.”

Tears blurred her vision. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Her voice sounded younger. Softer. Her body felt lighter — smaller. She had gone back. Back before everything fell apart.

Her hands gripped the mirror’s frame like it might anchor her to reality.

“Father. Mother. Elijah. Eleazar…”

Their names left her lips like a prayer. Like a vow.

She stared at her reflection — the same powerless girl everyone had pitied. The magicless disgrace of the Cecilia name.

“I’ll stop it,” she swore, voice trembling. “I don’t care if I have to crawl through the underworld. I will wield magic. I will protect this family. I will destroy Benjamin.”

Her uncle. The man who wore a kind smile and hid a serpent’s fangs beneath it. The one who called her niece with one breath and cast her into ruin with the next.

Elle wiped at her tears, her expression hardening like frost forming over water. Her eyes turned to ice.

“I’ll become the monster they should have feared.”

She exhaled slowly.

“From now on… I won't be their pity. I'll be their reckoning.”

And the frost in her veins began to stir.

The Cecilia estate was as grand as she remembered — towering silver walls dusted with frost, elegant glass windows that shimmered like crystal, and the snow-kissed gardens that stretched across the hills like a dream too fragile to last.

It had always been beautiful. But beauty was no shield.

Not against betrayal.

Not against death.

Elle paused just inside her doorway, her fingers resting on the frame as she steadied her breath. Everything was the same — the scent of snowmint and lilac wafting faintly through the halls, the soft hum of magic layered beneath the structure like a sleeping beast, the subtle glint of enchantments woven into the walls to preserve warmth without melting the frost.

But she wasn't the same.

She had died here. Lived here. Lost everything here.

And now, she had come back.

Her hand tightened on the doorframe, and she stepped out into the corridor.

"Elle?"

The voice stopped her heart.

She turned, slowly.

Elijah and Eleazar stood at the end of the hall, still dressed in their morning fencing attire, wooden swords slung lazily across their backs. They were both tall, even as teenagers — Elijah with the posture of a soldier, straight-backed and alert, and Eleazar with that familiar relaxed grace, like he was always half a step from twirling a girl in a ballroom.

Their faces were the same. The lines she remembered from portraits and dreams. Their eyes shone with vitality — not the distant, empty echoes she had seen on gravestones.

They were alive.

"Are you finally done sulking?" Elijah teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me you're still heartbroken after seeing the second prince flirting with half the noble ladies at last night's banquet?" Eleazar added, grinning.

Elle blinked.

The sound of their voices. The sharpness of their jabs. The way their energy filled the hallway, loud and normal and painfully bright. They had no idea. No idea what was coming. What would be taken from them.

Her throat closed. Her legs threatened to give out beneath her. But instead of crumbling — she laughed.

It was a small sound, light and quick, but real. Even she was surprised by it.

"I didn't know you two were such experts on heartbreak," she replied, lifting her chin. "Should I be taking notes?"

The twins paused.

Then, in perfect unison, they grinned.

"Oh, she fights back now," Eleazar said, elbowing Elijah.

"She's definitely not heartbroken," Elijah added. "Too smug for it."

Their laughter filled the corridor like sunlight.

Elle swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled — because if she didn't, she'd cry.

You're alive. Both of you.

Then came the gentle sound of approaching footsteps, like silk brushing stone.

"Elodie," her mother's voice called, soft and warm. "Are you feeling well?"

Elle turned.

Marielle Cecilia stood in the hallway, dressed in pale blue with her silver hair pinned elegantly. Her eyes were kind — and concerned. There was a softness to her features that Elle had not seen in so long, it felt like remembering a lullaby.

"I'm fine, Mother," she answered quickly, forcing steadiness into her voice. "Truly."

Marielle studied her carefully, brow furrowing.

"She's probably just embarrassed," Elijah cut in, slinging an arm around Elle's shoulder. "Too much wine, not enough dancing."

"More like too much staring at Prince Charming," Eleazar added with a wink.

Elle rolled her eyes and shoved him lightly away, earning a chuckle from them both.

Marielle smiled, though her gaze lingered a moment longer than comfort allowed.

Then, a familiar voice echoed down the stairwell.

"Is my daughter finally gracing us with her presence?"

Elle's breath caught.

Duke Nigel Cecilia descended the grand staircase, stately as ever — tall, broad-shouldered, his presence calm and commanding. He wore his usual deep navy coat, the crest of House Cecilia pinned proudly at his breast. His eyes — so stern to others, but always gentle for her — crinkled as he smiled.

She had not seen him alive in years.

Elle held her breath as he approached.

"I was feeling… nostalgic," she managed.

He stopped before her and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "You're just in time. The estate's been far too quiet without your steps."

So have I, she thought.

Later, Elle wandered the estate grounds alone.

She'd told the servants she needed air, but that was only half-true. She needed to remember. She needed to burn every moment into her mind.

The training yard still bore faint marks from old sparring matches — she traced her fingers over them, remembering the sounds of wooden blades clashing and her brothers' laughter as they pulled her in to cheer them on.

The rose garden was in bloom, pale blossoms dusted in frost. Her mother had once taught her how to tend them gently, magicless hands working alongside enchanted shears. A memory wrapped in warmth and petals.

The library smelled of aged parchment and lavender oil. Her spot — second chair from the window — was just as she'd left it. Books lined the walls, thick tomes on spellcraft and theory she once devoured in desperate hope, even when she couldn't cast a spark.

And then there was the western corridor.

She stopped.

That hallway had once led to nothing more than a sitting room. But soon, it would welcome a guest — a girl who would wear Elle's name and face like a mask. A girl with ice in her veins and lies on her tongue. The beginning of the end.

Elle stood there a long while.

The wind picked up, rustling the frost-covered ivy along the walls.

And then the memories returned — not the happy ones, but the ones that came with ice daggers buried in her chest.

Her mother's body, still and pale.

Her father, imprisoned behind iron bars, too proud to beg.

Her brothers — letters sent too late, their names spoken only in eulogies.

Her own body, unable to move, slowly fading in a bed no one visited.

Her knees gave way.

She collapsed into the corner of her carriage, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. Her fingers clutched the velvet cushion, knuckles white.

"I won't let it happen again," she whispered.

Not this time.

That night, Elle lit a single candle in her bedroom.

She sat at her desk, ink and parchment laid before her like a battlefield map.

No more innocence.

No more pretending.

Everything she had once ignored — court politics, estate records, noble alliances, whispers in the ballroom — she would master it all. She would wield information like a blade. Magic would come, too. She would find it. Carve it from stone if she had to.

She dipped her quill.

The plan began now.

She would tear every lie apart before it was ever spoken.

She would shield her family — not as a helpless daughter, but as a strategist.

As a Cecilia.

And the world would learn:

The forgotten girl was not so easily erased.