The maid led me through winding corridors, her footsteps soft but deliberate on the stone floor. I trailed behind, clutching the sealed scroll like a lifeline, my mind a storm of questions. The air was thick with the scent of wax and old wood, and every shadow seemed to watch me. I wasn't just a stranger in this body—I was a stranger in a world that wanted to kill me. Lira, the villain's apprentice, was a role I hadn't chosen, and yet here I was, wearing her skin, her gloves, her fate.
The maid, a girl no older than sixteen with mousy hair and downcast eyes, glanced back at me. "Mistress Lira, you seem… unwell. Shall I fetch a healer?"
"No," I said quickly, my voice sharper than intended. Lira's voice, low and smooth, felt foreign on my tongue. "I'm fine. Just tired."
She nodded, but her eyes lingered, curious or wary—I couldn't tell. "Your chambers are modest, but Lord Valthorne insists on discipline for his apprentices. You've always said you prefer it that way."
Always said? My stomach twisted. Lira had a history, a personality, and I knew none of it. "Right," I mumbled, forcing a smile. "Thank you…"
"Elara," she supplied, her tone neutral. "I've served you for two years, Mistress."
Two years. I swallowed hard, nodding as if that made sense. Elara pushed open a heavy door, revealing the sparse room I'd seen briefly before—narrow bed, wooden desk, a single candle flickering on a stand. A mirror hung on the wall, and I avoided it. I wasn't ready to see Lira's face, to confirm I was truly trapped in her body.
Elara hesitated at the threshold. "You've never been late to Lord Valthorne's summons before. He… doesn't forgive easily."
"I know," I said, though I didn't. "It won't happen again."
She studied me, then bowed and left, the door clicking shut. Alone, I sank onto the bed, the scroll heavy in my hands. I wanted to tear it open, but Valthorne's words echoed: Open it when you're alone. I was alone now, but fear held me back. Instead, I turned to the desk, searching for clues about Lira.
A leather-bound journal lay tucked in a drawer, its pages worn but unmarked. I flipped through it, hoping for notes, plans, anything—but it was blank. A chill crept up my spine. Had Lira been so loyal, so obedient, that she left no trace of herself? Or had something—someone—erased her?
A knock startled me. Elara's voice came through the door. "Mistress, Lord Valthorne requests your presence in the great hall. At once."
My heart sank. Already? I tucked the scroll into my robes, smoothed my hair—Lira's hair, dark and braided tightly—and followed Elara. The corridors grew grander as we approached the great hall, stone giving way to polished marble, tapestries depicting battles and serpents lining the walls. My boots echoed, each step a reminder of the role I had to play.
The great hall was vast, its ceiling vaulted with beams carved like twisting vines. A long table dominated the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs, but it was empty save for one figure at the far end. Lord Valthorne stood before a massive stained-glass window, his silhouette framed by fractured light—red, blue, gold. He turned as I entered, his silver hair catching the glow, his eyes locking onto mine.
"You kept me waiting again," he said, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. "Explain yourself."
I froze, Elara's warning ringing in my ears. "I… lost track of time, my lord. It won't happen again."
He stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "See that it doesn't." He gestured to the table, where a single chair waited. "Sit."
I obeyed, my hands trembling as I clasped them in my lap. Valthorne didn't sit. He paced, slow and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. "You've been… different since the ritual. Distracted. Weak."
The ritual again. What had it done to Lira—to me? I forced myself to meet his gaze, though every instinct screamed to look away. "I'm still your apprentice, my lord. I'm ready to serve."
"Are you?" He stopped, leaning forward, his hands braced on the table. His face was close now, close enough for me to see the faint scar across his jaw, the cold calculation in his eyes. "Prove it."
He reached into his cloak and produced the same sealed scroll I'd tucked into my robes—or so I thought. My hand flew to my side, confirming the scroll was still there. This was a second one, identical in every way: black wax, serpent crest. He slid it across the table, his fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. Ice shot through me, not from the touch, but from the weight of his stare.
"This is your task," he said. "The details are within. You leave at dawn, as I said. But know this, Lira: failure is not an option. Not for you."
I nodded, my throat tight. "I understand, my lord."
He straightened, his expression unreadable. "Good. Dismissed."
I stood, bowing, and hurried out, the scroll burning against my side. Elara was waiting outside, but I barely noticed her as I rushed back to my chambers. The moment the door closed, I broke the seal, my hands shaking. The words were stark, written in that same sharp script:
Travel to the Ruined Chapel at the edge of the Blackwood. Retrieve the Blade of Dusk. Trust no one. If you fail, you will not return.
My breath caught. The Ruined Chapel. The Blade of Dusk. Neither was in the novel—at least, not this early. The story was already wrong, and I was being sent into a mission that felt like a death sentence. Valthorne's words echoed: Failure is not an option. But what scared me more was the realization that I didn't know this story anymore. And if the story was changing, what did that mean for me?