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I sit at my mother’s vanity, looking at my reflection in the mirror, Mother standing behind me as she places different tiaras on my head.

Today I turn five, which means I’m finally old enough to pick out my tiara for official appearances.

Mother took it upon herself to present all the options to me herself, instead of having a servant do it.

So far we’ve gone through six, and there’s only two left.

I hope I like one of them.

The next tiara Mother places on my temples takes my breath away. It’s nothing like the ones I tried on before—they were either too heavy, didn’t fit appropriately, or simply didn’t look perfect upon my head.

But this one? It is most definitely perfect.

It’s silver, of course, but instead of diamonds, it has rich, purple gems embedded in it, each one so vibrant it reminds me of the soft purple at the center of the moon lilies in the royal gardens. The gems make a pretty swirling pattern, and I know this is the one I want.

“This one, Mother. It’s beautiful,” I say to her, leaning closer to the mirror for a better look. I can’t help but grin from ear to ear at the sight.

I can’t help but think about how much I look like my mother.

The straight of my nose. My heart-shaped face. Even the set of my lips. It all resembles her.

“Alright, my sweet. It’s a lovely choice,” she said, tucking all of the other headpieces back into the boxes they came in. Then, she comes and kneels beside me, taking my small hands in hers.

I look at the scars on her wrists, the ones that look red and puffy, as though they never fully healed. I asked her once what they were from, but she started to cry, so I didn’t ask again. Now, I’m unsure if I really want to know.

“You look stunning,” she said softly, placing her finger under my chin and tilting my head up, forcing my gaze away from her scars, so our eyes meet.

“Thank you, Mother. I think I look like you,” I say with a smile. She smiles in return.

“Now, are you ready to practice? Remember, this is our little secret,” she said in a low voice. I notice her eyes shift to check that the door to her chambers is shut.

I nod enthusiastically. This is just another reason, one of countless, why I love my mother so much.

She actually lets me practice my zirilium, while Father only wants me to hide it.

I don’t understand why, but he can be mean and scary, so I don’t use it around him.

I only feel safe letting them show when I’m with Mother.

She smiles at my excitement, letting go of my hands and cupping hers together in front of her. I mimic her movements, doing the same.

“Great. Now, just like we practiced last time. Envision the flower sprouting from the palm of your hands, and…” she trailed off, having closed her eyes as she spoke.

A small, green sprout emerges from her hands, out of thin air.

I watch with wide eyes as it grows taller and taller, until a fully mature moon lily sits in her hands.

She opens her eyes and smiles at me, then shifts my hair, placing the flower behind my pointed ear. I return her smile, amazed that she’s able to conjure plants from nothing. I don’t know anybody else in the North that can do the things that Mother does.

Then again, Mother is special. She’s not like the other Northerners—she doesn’t have wings like the rest of us.

“Now it’s your turn, alright? You’ve got it this time, my sweet. You were nearly there last time we practiced,” she said. “Focus your energy on the task at hand, and it’ll come to you. The zirilium needs an outlet.”

I nod, closing my eyes, just as I had seen my mother do countless times before.

I strain, feeling all my zirilium coursing through my small body. I reach for the one I need, the one that has the same softness as a flower petal, and focus all of my energy into the palms of my hands where the plant should sprout from.

But I never get the chance.

I hear Father’s voice before I see him. The door to Mother’s chambers slams open, rattling the doorframe. He begins yelling at Mother, saying all sorts of things that he’s too loud and angry about for me to hear him clearly.

My eyes fly open, startled, and I see Mother is standing between me and Father now. She’s… shielding me from him , I realize with a start.

“Elore, I told you what the plan was regarding her , and yet you’re still going against my direct orders! This,” Father points between me and Mother, “is not happening.”

“Horace, just let me explain—" Mother attempts to rationalize, but Father moves faster than either one of us could’ve anticipated. The back of his hand flies across Mother’s cheek, causing her to crumple to the ground, holding her hands over her reddening face.

“Mother!” I gasp.

Time seems to slow in that second. I can feel where I still have harnessed energy resting in the palm of my hands, but suddenly I’m losing control over it.

Instead of the softness I felt before, the zirilium feels hot, almost painfully so.

I can’t seem to stop it as the rest of the energy in my slight form gathers in my hands, beginning to shake from the strain.

The sound of Father’s voice grounds me to the moment, a constant string of curses flying from his mouth as he stands over Mother. I watch as Father raises his hand in an attempt to strike Mother again. She’s kneeling now, begging him not to hurt me. A wave of sadness overcomes me, then anger.

With a cry, I use my wings to boost me, to be able to run fast enough to get in between the two of them before Father can strike again.

“No!” I yell, then throw myself into my Mother’s arms, trying to shield her body with my own, like she had done for me so many times.

Except this time, when my hands make contact with her skin, there’s a flash of blue.

Then she lets out a gut wrenching scream of pain.

Assuming the scream is from the pain of Father hitting her, I hold on tighter, trying to provide her with even an ounce of comfort.

Suddenly, I’m yanked backwards, off of Mother, by strong hands—Father’s hands. I squirm, screaming for Mother, but for some reason, she’s crumpled on the ground, not moving.

This only causes me to panic more, but for a reason I can’t place, I realize I’m suddenly extremely tired.

The fight dies out of me, and I stand with Father holding me by the shoulders as we both stare down at my mother’s unmoving form.

I listen, as if from a distance to my father’s voice, devoid of all emotion, say, “You did this to her, Aviva. This is all your fault.”

I don’t see Mother again after that day.