Chapter 1

The night Sarah was born, a chilling fog clung to the Blackwood estate, mirroring the cold calculation in Agnes' s heart, she stole her brother Ethan' s trueborn daughter from the nursery, a tiny bundle radiating an unseen energy, and in her place, Agnes left her own infant, Claire, securing a twisted future for them all. This was the first secret, the dark seed from which all suffering would grow.

Sarah grew, a shadow in the opulent Blackwood household, the immense spiritual power of the Silvercreek tribe thrumming beneath her skin, a wild, ancient magic she learned to choke back, to hide, presenting to the world a façade of a frail, cursed child, because revealing her strength too soon would mean death, not victory.

Agnes, her supposed mother, was a relentless tormentor, every slap, every cruel word, every act of deprivation was a ritual, a siphoning of Sarah' s innate spiritual energy, a theft to bolster Claire, the cuckoo in the Blackwood nest, who blossomed under the stolen light. Agnes ensured Sarah knew her only worth was as a living battery for her "sister."

Years of this vile spiritual leeching and Agnes's deliberate cruelty twisted Sarah's features, her skin marred, her body thin and scarred, a living testament to the abuse she endured, the family and staff whispered she was disfigured by a curse, a blight on the Blackwood name, her low status cemented by her appearance.

Meanwhile, Claire, Agnes' s biological daughter, thrived as the cherished heiress of Ethan and Eleanor Blackwood, her laughter echoing in halls where Sarah only knew fear, her days filled with tutors, fine clothes, and the doting affection of the parents Sarah would never know, a stark, painful contrast that fueled Sarah's silent, burning resolve.

One day, a lavish party was announced, the Founder's Centennial Gala, a night where Claire' s position as future head of the Blackwood empire was to be solidified, Agnes, however, saw it as her own stage, a moment to unveil her grand, self-serving deception, planning a dramatic revelation she believed would elevate her, not destroy her.

The news of Agnes' s planned confession at the Gala sent ripples of unease through the few who suspected her depths of manipulation, Eleanor, Sarah' s true mother, felt a familiar dread, a sickness in her stomach, while Ethan, oblivious, simply anticipated a night of triumph for the family.

Sarah, overhearing Agnes' s gleeful, hushed plotting with a confidante, offered no outward reaction, only a flicker in her eyes, a silent, cynical acknowledgment of the coming storm, "Let her play her cards," Sarah thought, "her ambition will be her undoing, not mine."

As guests began to arrive for pre-Gala events, their whispers followed Sarah like flies, "There' s Agnes' s wretched girl," one society woman sneered to another, "such an unfortunate thing to look at," their scorn reinforcing the decades of humiliation, a familiar sting that no longer drew tears, only hardened her resolve.

Sarah' s daily life was a tapestry of pain, her joints ached from the spiritual drain, her muscles sore from endless, demeaning chores, Agnes forced her to serve at these smaller gatherings, a broken exhibit for the Blackwood' s peripheral cruelty.

During one such evening, a visiting cousin, emboldened by wine, grabbed Sarah' s scarred arm, "They say a touch of the cursed brings luck," he slurred, his fingers digging into her flesh, a casual act of grotesque entitlement, normalized by the Blackwood' s disdain for her.

"You should be grateful, girl," Agnes would hiss later, her voice dripping with venom after witnessing such an encounter, "grateful you exist at all, even as a source of amusement, a lightning rod for their petty superstitions, you serve a purpose, however small."

Sarah remained silent, her eyes downcast, her spirit coiled tight within, this endurance was not weakness, it was strategy, a decades-long game of patience, every insult, every blow, she cataloged, fuel for the inferno she would one day unleash. "Soon," she' d tell the ancient power within her, "soon."

Agnes, never missing a chance to assert dominance, would often "correct" Sarah in public, a sharp slap for a perceived slight, a kick to her shins if she moved too slowly, "Useless creature," Agnes would mutter, loud enough for others to hear, enjoying the way Sarah flinched.

"Don't mind her," Agnes would say to any guest who looked mildly uncomfortable, a dismissive wave of her hand, "she' s hardy, like a weed, and it' s for her own good, keeps her from getting ideas above her station, besides, her unique aura is quite the conversation starter, isn't it?"

The abuse often escalated when Agnes felt slighted by others, or when Claire was not receiving enough attention, then, Agnes would unleash her fury on Sarah, a storm of blows and vile words, the staff turning blind eyes, some even joining in with taunts and shoves, a collective torment Sarah weathered alone.

Sarah would feign collapse, her body trembling, her breath shallow, a performance of utter desolation, inside, she was a fortress of ice and fire, listening to Agnes' s satisfied laughter, a sound that echoed the hollowness of the Blackwood legacy.

Then, one evening, Josiah Blackwood, the patriarch, observed a particularly brutal display, his voice, cold and sharp as winter, cut through the room, "Agnes, enough, your methods are... unseemly in front of our associates, control yourself."

The blows stopped instantly, the circle of tormentors around Sarah melted away, leaving her crumpled on the floor, vulnerable, Josiah' s intervention was not out of kindness, but a concern for appearances, for the Blackwood image.

Claire, who had been watching from a doorway, her face pale, her eyes wide with a sheltered person's shock at raw cruelty, quickly averted her gaze when Josiah spoke, she had never seen such ugliness so close, her perfect world momentarily fractured.

Agnes, her face contorting from rage to a mask of maternal concern in a heartbeat, rushed to Claire' s side, "My dear, don't trouble yourself with this, it' s merely... discipline, this creature understands nothing else," she cooed, pulling Claire away.

Agnes fussed over Claire, straightening her dress, murmuring reassurances, her touch gentle, her voice soft, a stark, sickening contrast to the complete disregard, the active malice, she showed Sarah, who remained on the cold floor, ignored.

Eleanor, Sarah' s true mother, who had witnessed the scene from afar, moved forward, a glass of water in her trembling hand, intending to offer it to Sarah, but Agnes intercepted her, her hand a vise on Eleanor' s arm, "Don't."

"You waste your pity, Eleanor," Agnes hissed, her voice low and dangerous, "focus on what matters, Claire' s debut at the Gala, she must shine, not be distracted by your misplaced sentimentality for... that."

Agnes then turned to Claire, a small, ornate box in her hand, "For you, my darling," she said, her voice bright again, "a little something to enhance your natural radiance at the Gala, a charm, energized just for you," she opened it, revealing a dull, grey stone that pulsed faintly, a stone Sarah recognized as having been near her during Agnes's "treatments."

Claire accepted the "gift," a flicker of pleasure in her eyes at the attention, yet she glanced towards Sarah, then at Eleanor' s distressed face, a shadow of discomfort crossing her own, she knew, on some level, the source of her blessings, and it troubled her, but not enough to refuse.