The candle in my chamber flickered, casting long shadows across the stone walls. I sat on the edge of the bed, the scroll from Lord Valthorne open in my lap, its words seared into my mind: Travel to the Ruined Chapel at the edge of the Blackwood. Retrieve the Blade of Dusk. Trust no one. My fingers traced the serpent crest on the wax seal, now broken, as if touching it could unravel its meaning. It didn't. Instead, it felt like a noose tightening around my neck.
I wasn't Lira. Not really. But I was trapped in her body, her life, her doom. And this mission—it wasn't right. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to dig through the fog of my old memories, the ones from before the truck, before this world. The novel. I'd read it last summer, curled up on my couch with a bowl of popcorn, engrossed in a fantasy epic called The Fall of Kingdoms. It was a sprawling tale of heroes, betrayals, and a villain—Lord Valthorne—who orchestrated a war only to die at the hands of the chosen hero, Aric. Lira, his apprentice, was barely a footnote. She died early, betrayed by her master, her name forgotten by the time the final battle rolled around.
But the Ruined Chapel? The Blade of Dusk? I racked my brain, trying to pull the plot into focus. The novel had mentioned a cursed weapon, but it was late in the story, wielded by Valthorne himself during the siege of the capital. It wasn't something his apprentice fetched on some early errand. And the Blackwood? That was a place of monsters and dark magic, barely touched until the heroes ventured there in the book's second act. This mission wasn't supposed to happen now. Maybe not at all.
My stomach churned. The story was wrong. Either my memory was failing me, or something had changed the moment I woke up in Lira's body. I stood, pacing the small room, my boots scuffing the stone floor. The mirror on the wall caught my eye, and this time, I couldn't avoid it. I stepped closer, my breath hitching as I faced Lira's reflection.
She was younger than I'd expected—maybe nineteen or twenty. Dark hair, braided tightly against her scalp, framed a face that was sharp and pale, with high cheekbones and eyes the color of storm clouds. A faint scar ran across her left eyebrow, a detail the novel never mentioned. She looked fierce, capable, nothing like the disposable pawn I'd imagined. But those eyes—they weren't mine. They were hers, and yet I was the one staring back.
I turned away, my heart racing. "Okay," I whispered to myself. "Think. You know the story. Valthorne betrays everyone. Lira dies. The heroes win. But this…" I glanced at the scroll. "This isn't part of it."
What had changed? Was it me? My arrival in this world, in this body? The novel had been predictable, almost formulaic—hero rises, villain falls, love interest swoons. But if the plot was shifting, if events were happening out of order, then I couldn't rely on what I knew. And if I couldn't predict the story, how was I supposed to survive it?
A knock at the door jolted me. "Mistress Lira?" Elara's voice, soft but insistent. "You're to prepare for departure. The stablemaster has your horse ready."
"Already?" I called back, my voice steadier than I felt. "It's not dawn yet."
"Lord Valthorne's orders," she replied. "He wants you gone before the first light."
Of course he did. No time to think, no time to plan. Just his command, pushing me toward a mission that felt like a trap. I tucked the scroll into my robes, grabbed a cloak from a hook by the door, and opened it. Elara stood there, holding a small leather pack. "Provisions," she said, handing it to me. "For the journey."
"Thanks," I said, searching her face for any hint of what she knew. Her expression was blank, professional, but her eyes darted to the scroll's outline under my cloak. Did she know what it said? Did she suspect I wasn't the real Lira?
"Be careful, Mistress," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The Blackwood is… unkind to travelers."
I nodded, my throat tight. "I'll manage."
She bowed and stepped back, leaving me to face the corridor alone. The fortress was quiet, its halls dimly lit by torches that flickered like dying stars. I made my way to the stables, my mind racing. If the Ruined Chapel mission wasn't in the book, then Valthorne was either testing me or sending me to my death. Or both. But refusing wasn't an option—his eyes in the great hall had made that clear. He'd seen something in me, something that wasn't Lira, and I couldn't afford to give him more reasons to doubt.
The stablemaster, a grizzled man with a limp, handed me the reins of a black mare. "She's fast," he said gruffly. "Don't push her too hard in the Blackwood. The paths twist."
I mounted the horse, the motion surprisingly natural—Lira's muscle memory, not mine. The scroll pressed against my ribs, a constant reminder of the task ahead. I had to play along, follow Valthorne's orders, at least until I understood what was happening. If the story was changing, maybe I could change it too. Maybe I could keep Lira alive, keep myself alive. Maybe I could even stop Valthorne from becoming the monster I knew he would.
But as I rode out of the fortress gates, the night air cold against my face, a single thought gnawed at me: what if changing the story made everything worse?