1 Chores and Ascendance.

The apartment, though spacious, seemed to hold its breath under the weight of neglect. Dust danced in the slanting rays of sunlight that filtered through tattered curtains, casting ethereal patterns on the worn carpet. Celestia's steps were punctuated by the soft creaking of the floorboards, each one a silent witness to the years of toil and turmoil.

Amidst the clamor of demands, the kitchen was a sanctuary of pots, pans, and fragrant remnants of meals past. Delilah's culinary attempts were often more misadventure than mastery, and the lingering scent of burnt offerings mingled with the delicate aroma of herbs and spices.

As Celestia's day unfolded, each chore and request became a thread woven into the fabric of her routine.Celestia's nimble fingers danced over the stove, a well-practiced symphony of motion as she orchestrated a modest breakfast. The scent of breakfast, a humble affair of porridge and tea, hung in the air as she moved about the cramped apartment. The sound of cutlery against plates filled the space, mingling with the impatient calls that echoed through the walls.

"Celestia, have you managed breakfast? We're starving," came the impatient calls, their urgency matched only by the demands that followed.

"Celestia, can you help Samuel with a bath and get him ready for school?" the requests continued.

"Celestia, the house is a mess—can you clean it up now?" The urgent voices persisted.

"Celestia!" The single word encapsulated the demands that were an integral part of her life.

This was her reality, for as long as she could recall. Each waking moment was dedicated to others, leaving no room for herself. Celestia's life unfolded like a weary routine. From dawn's earliest light, she was already entrenched in the ceaseless rhythm of her responsibilities. Her days were a symphony of obligations, an unending orchestra of tasks and duties. Every sweep of the broom and swipe of the cloth saw Celestia navigating through the clutter of her aunt's sizable yet somehow chaotic apartment.

Sharing the confined space were two other souls, each enveloped in their own brand of indifference. Her aunt, Delilah, was a scrooge-like, miserable woman consumed by gambling and get-rich-quick schemes. Beside her lounged Peter, the embodiment of poor decisions, idleness, and gambling. His sole delight was found at the bottom of a beer bottle. Their presence cast shadows that dimmed Celestia's world.

Yet, amidst the gloom, a solitary ray of light penetrated through—her cousin, Samuel. Although not her brother, he was the closest semblance of family. With his cherubic smile and innocent wonder, the eight-year-old represented purity in Celestia's increasingly jaded life. He was the only link to family she had, and she loved him as he loved her. Taking care of Samuel became her favorite chore, the highlight of her day.

In Samuel's room, toys and books lay scattered like a patchwork quilt, a testament to the boundless curiosity and restless energy of childhood. Celestia navigated the sea of toys, each one a vessel of memories, as she prepared the bath. The sound of water cascading into the tub mingled with Samuel's laughter, a sound that echoed with pure, unbridled joy.

"Celie, seriously, I'm big enough to bathe myself now," he'd protest each morning.

She sighed, knowing the routine all too well. They were running late; the school bus wouldn't wait. Celestia hurriedly bathed Sam and dressed him.Afterward, she tended to her own needs, just barely making it in time. The school bus arrived with its mechanical sighs and muted hums, a vessel of education that waited for no one. Celestia ushered Samuel out, his small hand enveloped in her steady grasp. The morning air held the promise of a new day, the scent of blossoms mingling with the distant bustle of city life.

At school, Celestia found solace in the quiet rhythms of learning. The scent of chalk and the rustle of pages filled the air, each one a familiar companion in her pursuit of knowledge. She listened intently, her mind a sponge absorbing the wisdom imparted by patient teachers.

As the day progressed, Celestia's thoughts returned to the apartment—a world of tasks and responsibilities that awaited her return. The journey back held a sense of inevitability, a march towards familiar challenges. Yet, in the back of her mind, a spark of something unnameable flickered—a sense that change, however subtle, was on the horizon.

And so, as evening descended, the apartment welcomed Celestia back into its embrace, its worn walls and timeworn furnishings holding the echoes of countless days gone by.

Afterward, chores filled her time until she could retreat to her room, a personal haven, for some much-needed rest. The room was simple but hers—it had been for all her sixteen years. A faded photograph adorned the wall, a reminder of the woman who had left her with more questions than answers. And then there was the bracelet—the last relic of her mother's legacy—a treasure evoking both hope and sorrow in equal measure; a glimmering reminder of a heritage shrouded in mystery, awaited her gaze on the dresser. It seemed to hum with a quiet energy, a whisper of the extraordinary that lay dormant within. Gazing at it, Celestia sighed, leaving it on the dresser before lying down to rest.

Swiftly, evening descended—a night like countless others, until the delicate balance of Celestia's existence was disrupted. In her half-awake state, she glimpsed someone entering her room, reaching for her bracelet on the dresser. Alarmed, she sprung up and pursued the culprit—a half-drunk Peter.

"Give it back!" Her voice quivered.

He ignored her, moving towards the door with a staggering gait. "Give it back!" she repeated, her voice growing louder and stronger.

"This will fetch a good price. It's gold, and I've already found a buyer," he sneered with a sinister smile.

"It's not yours to sell. It's mine. Give it back!" she exclaimed. Peter's attempt to pilfer the bracelet kindled a dormant power within Celestia—a surge of energy coursing through her veins, an inexplicable force crackling with energy.

The room transformed into a theater of the extraordinary—a dance of lights and shadows that painted the walls with a kaleidoscope of colors. Gasps of astonishment mingled with the electric energy, and in that fleeting moment, Celestia's destiny was forever altered.

Far above mortal comprehension, the gods themselves stirred. They sensed the tremors of a long-hidden power—a sign that a new player had entered the cosmic stage. Silent agreement spread among them, acknowledging that Celestia's awakening signaled change.

As the echoes of her newfound power faded, it was young Samuel who bore witness. Wide-eyed and trembling, he regarded Celestia with a mix of fear and wonder.

With a knock that resonated like thunder, the chapter of Celestia's mundane existence concluded. The door swung open, revealing a figure radiant and enigmatic—the messenger of the gods. With a staff and a face divided into contrasting halves, this being heralded an extraordinary destiny for Celestia.

"You're awake. Come, divine child," its voice echoed with the chorus of many.

In the presence of this enigmatic messenger, Celestia exchanged a glance with Samuel, his expression one of awe. Reaching out, she took the offered hand, embarking on her journey into the extraordinary.