Darkness did not simply surround her.
It devoured.
It pressed against her skin like damp earth, thick and unyielding, seeping into her lungs until every breath felt stolen rather than given. There was no sky, no ground—only an endless void that stretched in all directions, swallowing sound, thought, and reason alike.
Lillian ran orr at least, she believed she did.
Her feet struck nothing, yet the sensation of movement persisted—unsteady, frantic, desperate. The echoes of her own breathing chased her, ragged and uneven, mingling with whispers that did not belong to her.
They came from everywhere.
Soft at first. Then louder.
Sharper.
Crueler.
"Poisoner."
"A disgrace to her house."
"The unwanted heiress."
"She deserves to die."
"No…" Her voice trembled, fragile as glass. "No, that wasn't me… I didn't do anything…"
But the darkness did not listen and it only tightened.
The whispers grew into voices—clear, distinct, condemning.
And then—
A figure emerged.
Faint at first, like a shadow painted over deeper shadow. Then slowly, painfully, it took form.
A boy.
No—a young man.
His frame was slender, almost delicate, yet there was a quiet resilience in the way he stood. His clothes were simple, worn from labor and time. But it was not his appearance that made Lillian's breath hitch.
It was his eyes.
Or rather—
The absence of light within them.
Clouded. Empty. Lifeless.
Lambert La Cartier.
"You took everything from me."
His voice was soft.
Too soft.
It carried no anger, no fury—only a hollow emptiness that was far more terrifying.
"I didn't!" Lillian cried, her hands trembling as she reached toward him. "I'm not her—I didn't poison you—I didn't—!"
Her fingers passed through him.
Like mist.
Like a lie.
Lambert did not react. He only stood there, unmoving, unseeing.
"You took my light," he continued quietly. "And yet… you still breathe."
Lillian's chest tightened painfully.
"I'm not Selena…" she whispered, though even she could hear how weak her voice sounded.
A sudden chill swept through the void.
Colder than anything before.
He appeared without warning.
Tall.
Imposing.
Unyielding.
Lucas Del Sol Lorraine.
His presence alone felt suffocating, like standing beneath a blade poised to fall. His golden eyes—sharp, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth—fixed upon her with unmistakable disdain.
"You dare deny it?" he asked, his voice calm yet cutting.
Lillian froze.
"I—"
"You are nothing but a stain," Lucas continued, each word precise and merciless. "An existence that should have never been allowed to continue."
His gaze did not waver.
It judged.
It condemned.
It erased.
"No… no, please—this isn't real…" Lillian staggered back, shaking her head violently. "This is just a dream… I just need to wake up—"
The ground beneath her feet cracked and a sharp, deafening sound split the void.
"No—!"
Darkness surged upward, swallowing everything—Lambert, Lucas, the whispers, the light that never existed.
It swallowed her whole.
---
"Uwahhhh!!…"
A cry shattered the silence.
High-pitched. Broken. Helpless.
Morning light streamed gently through tall windows, filtering past sheer silk curtains that swayed with the faintest breeze. The room was vast—too vast—and adorned with quiet opulence. Ivory walls were lined with intricate gold detailing, while polished floors reflected the soft glow of dawn.
The scent of roses lingered in the air.
Sweet.
Delicate.
And unbearably foreign.
At the center of it all lay a grand bed, draped in layers of embroidered fabric so fine it seemed almost unreal.
Upon it, a small figure trembled violently.
Selena Claire de Akkadian.
Her lackluster green eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, brimming with terror that did not belong to someone so young. Tears streamed freely down her flushed cheeks as her tiny hands flailed helplessly, grasping at nothing.
"Uwahhhh!!…"
Her cries echoed through the chamber, raw and desperate. Her chest heaved, but the breaths she took were shallow, uneven—wrong.
Everything felt wrong.
Her body—
Too small.
Too fragile.
Too… powerless.
No… no… this isn't…
Her thoughts came in fragments, scattered and incomplete. She tried to speak—to call out, to deny, to scream properly—but all that escaped her lips were broken wails.
"Uwahhhh!!…"
Panic clawed at her chest.
I can't breathe—why can't I—
Her limbs moved, but they did not obey her as they once had. They were short, uncoordinated, trembling without purpose.
This isn't my body.
The realization struck her like ice water.
Footsteps.
Quick.
Urgent.
The heavy doors of the chamber burst open with a resounding force that seemed far too loud for the delicate morning.
"Selena!"
A voice rang out—deep, steady, yet laced with an unmistakable alarm.
A man rushed in.
He was… breathtaking.
Even through tear-blurred vision, Selena could see it.
He was a gorgeous and lean man in his early twenties, his movements swift yet controlled, like a blade that knew exactly where it would fall. His dark hair framed his sharp, refined features, and his presence carried a quiet authority that filled the entire room without effort.
But it was his eyes—
They were not cold.
Not condemning.
They were filled with concern.
Real. Immediate. Unfiltered.
He crossed the distance in mere strides and reached the bed without hesitation.
"My daughter—" His voice softened.
Carefully—so carefully—he lifted her into his arms.
The moment she left the bed, her cries faltered.
Warmth.
It enveloped her.
Solid. Certain. Real.
Selena's tiny fingers instinctively clutched at his clothing, gripping the fabric as though her life depended on it.
Because, in that moment—
It felt like it did.
"Shh… it's alright…" he murmured, his voice low and soothing as he cradled her against his chest. "You're safe. You're alright."
His hand moved gently along her back, slow and rhythmic, grounding her in a way nothing else could.
Selena's breathing remained uneven, her small body trembling despite the warmth surrounding her.
Safe…?
The word felt distant.
Unfamiliar.
Her mind was still trapped in that void—in those voices, those accusations, those eyes that saw her as nothing more than something to be erased.
Her fingers tightened weakly against him.
"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked softly, adjusting his hold as he looked down at her.
Nightmare.
Was that what it was?
Her green eyes—dull, unfocused—stared blankly at the space beyond his shoulder.
No…
Nightmares ended.
They faded.
They released you.
But this—
This did not feel like something that would let her go.
Her lips quivered.
Another sob escaped her, quieter this time. Weaker.
Because deep within her—
She already knew.
Selena Claire de Akkadian.
The name echoed through her mind, heavy with meaning she did not want.
The fiancée of Lucas Del Sol Lorraine.
The woman who poisoned Lambert La Cartier.
The villainess.
The unwanted heiress.
Her breath hitched sharply.
Her small hands trembled.
The one who will be executed.
Tears welled up again, spilling silently this time as her cries softened into broken whimpers.
"I… became her…"
The thought formed slowly, painfully, like a wound being reopened.
Her gaze shifted—barely—until she could see the man holding her.
Her father.
She knew it instinctively.
The way he held her.
The way his voice softened.
The way his presence shielded her from everything else.
He looked at her as though she was something precious.
Something irreplaceable.
Not a stain.
Not an unwanted existence.
Not a villainess.
Just—
His daughter.
Concern lingered in his expression as he gently brushed away her tears with the pad of his thumb.
"You're alright," he repeated softly.
Selena stared at him.
At the warmth in his eyes.
At the sincerity she had never expected to receive—not as Lillian, and certainly not as Selena.
Her grip on him tightened.
Weak.
Desperate.
As if letting go would send her back into that endless darkness.
Her sobs quieted, though her chest still trembled with every breath.
If this is real…
Her thoughts wavered, fragile and uncertain.
Then…
She swallowed—though even that felt unfamiliar in such a small body.
Then I will die.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
But eventually.
Inevitably.
Because that was how the story ended.
Because that was who Selena Claire de Akkadian was.
A girl destined to be hated.
A woman destined to fall.
A life destined to end.
Her small fingers curled tighter into her father's clothes.
A silent plea.
A desperate refusal.
I don't want to die.
The thought came not as panic this time—
But as something quieter.
Stronger.
A fragile spark flickering in the depths of fear.
Her tear-filled eyes slowly closed as exhaustion overtook her trembling body.
Yet even as she drifted into uneasy rest within the warmth of her father's arms—
One truth remained, etched deeply into her very being.
She was no longer Lillian.
And this—
This was no longer a story she could simply read.
It was a fate she would have to survive.