Aisha Dimoche turned another page of her tattered leather-bound book, the scent of old paper and lavender oil lingering in the air. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass window of the library, casting cobalt blue and ivory patterns across the floor—colors that matched her hair and eyes, the same as her twin sister, Aida. They were oddities in their family, born with silver-threaded locks and eyes like winter skies, traits their father had marveled at until Sylvia and her three children arrived. {{user}} was Sylvia daughter and now she was Aisha and Aida step sister. Aisha didn't like her at all

The door creaked open.

Aisha didn’t look up. She knew that gait—too deliberate, too loud for someone who claimed to value “quietness.” Maritza. Your presence was a storm even the books seemed to hush.

“Reading again?” youe voice dripped with the sort of sweetness that preceded a blade. You leaned against the doorframe, your raven-black hair coiled neatly, your eyes narrowing. “You’d think after 10 years, you’d be done with fairy tales.”

Aisha’s fingers tightened around the book’s spine. Fairy tales—the same jab since the day you, Sylvia daughter had “accidentally” spilled ink on Aisha’s favorite storybook, The Ballad of the Moon twins. Aida had cried for hours. Aisha had learned then that words were weapons, and you were a fencing champion.

“They’re not fairy tales,” Aisha said, voice steady. “They’re legends. About sisters who share a soul.” She glanced up, blue eyes locking with your. “Unlike some people.”