Chapter 1: The Gate to Nymira
The gates of hell opened in Seraphyne. Not a portal tearing through the sky, but blood seeping over stone, screams frozen in the Nymiran spring air. Amidst the chaos tearing the Kingdom of Seraphyne apart, Princess Anya, a fifteen-year-old in a dust-stained silk nightgown, flinched at every sound. Her long, blonde hair, usually shimmering like golden thread, was now tangled and matted with cold sweat against her temples. She didn't understand why deafening laughter filled the palace, why the sweet scent of flowers was now mixed with the stench of smoke and metal. Beside her, Prince William of Astellia, her own age, moved with terrifying speed, his strong fingers gripping her wrist tightly. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his eyes, eyes that usually gazed at Anya with tenderness, now burned with a suppressed panic.
"Run, Anya! Faster!" William whispered, his voice hoarse and desperate. His long legs strode relentlessly, dragging Princess Anya across the rough Nymiran forest floor. Thorns from the undergrowth tore at her gown and scratched her pale skin, but she felt no pain. A paralyzing fear was the only sensation she knew. The trees towered above them, their dark branches dancing in the night breeze as if mourning the catastrophe. The moonlight, usually a comfort, now seemed like a cold, watchful eye, spying on their every step.
Suddenly, a shrill laugh shattered the suffocating silence. A sound more terrifying than a hundred rampaging orcs. "No one gets away, William! Especially not her!"
Princess Isolde, a twenty-seven-year-old woman who had once shone like a black pearl in the court of Seraphyne, emerged from the shadows of the trees. Her once-elegant green gown was now spattered with dark stains that were undoubtedly blood. Her long, black hair danced like snakes down her back, and in her hand, a knight's sword glowed red, slick with blood. Her face, which once radiated enchanting beauty, was now distorted by a burning vengeance. Her cruel eyes were fixed on Princess Anya, a gaze steeped in years of hatred.
"Isolde, stop!" William yelled, stopping abruptly. He released Princess Anya's hand, drawing his sword from its sheath. "This has nothing to do with you! What do you want?!"
Isolde laughed, a laugh devoid of warmth, filled only with madness. "You ask what I want? Everything! Your father took it all from me for *that* woman!" Her sword rose, pointing toward Princess Anya. "That woman, her mother, and now, her daughter! They've taken everything from me, and now, I will take everything from you, William!"
Princess Anya, now trembling behind William, fell to her knees on the damp earth. "Mercy, Isolde! Please!" Her voice trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks. "What have I done wrong?"
"Your mistake?" Isolde drew closer, her footsteps making a sickening crunch on the dry grass. "Your mistake was being born! Born an obstacle, an unwanted shadow!" She raised her sword high, the moonlight glinting off its polished blade. William lunged forward, but countless of Isolde's soldiers swarmed from the darkness, intercepting his every move. William fought desperately, his sword clanging against shields and armor, but he was outnumbered. He screamed Princess Anya's name, his voice filled with despair.
Isolde's sword pierced Princess Anya's chest. Thick, red blood sprayed out, dyeing her white silk gown a gruesome maroon. Princess Anya gasped, her eyes wide as she looked at William. A faint smile touched her pale lips, lips that had always spoken sweet words. William saw it all, trapped in the brutal circle of the fight, unable to reach her. He snarled, an inhuman strength filling his every swing, but it was all for nothing.
Princess Anya's body crumpled to the ground, Isolde's sword still embedded in her chest. William screamed, a cry that tore through the Nymiran sky, a sound that carried all the sorrow and despair in the world. He managed to break free, lunging forward, ignoring the wounds on his own body. He knelt beside Princess Anya, pulling the sword out with trembling hands. Blood poured from the gaping wound.
"Anya! No! Wake up!" William cradled Princess Anya's cold body. Her eyes, once so full of life, were now dimming.
Princess Anya's breath was a rustle, as faint as a whisper of wind. She raised a trembling hand to touch William's cheek. "My love … will be … eternal …." Her words were halting, then her eyes closed, her last breath escaping. Her fingers fell limp.
Princess Anya's body stiffened, and then, she was still. William felt the last of the warmth leave the body he loved. His world collapsed around him. His heart shattered, breaking into a million pieces. He screamed, he roared, he called Princess Anya's name, but only a cold silence answered. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the drying blood on his hands. The smell of blood and death filled his lungs, searing itself into his memory. This world, a world once so full of hope, was now nothing but a graveyard for his heart.
**
William's scream was still echoing in Shapira Elanora's head as she jolted awake. The teenager's body was drenched in cold sweat, her nightgown clinging to her skin. Her eyes flew open, staring at the familiar ceiling of her bedroom in modern-day London. This was her room, in the small apartment she shared with her mother. But the horror of the dream still felt so real. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her heart pounded as if she'd just run a marathon. Her hands trembled as she touched her cheeks, wet with tears she hadn't realized she'd shed. This dream, a dream of slaughter, a dark forest, and a dying girl named Anya, had haunted her for years. But this time, something was different.
"Isolde," Shapira whispered, her lips forming the name with reluctance. The face of the cruel woman in her dream, the one who had stabbed Anya, looked so much like her own mother. It was a frightening resemblance, like a haunting shadow. A feeling of unease crept through every fiber of her being. This wasn't just a normal dream. It was something deeper, older than her own memory.
Then, she heard it. A song. A whisper in a foreign language she didn't recognize, but somehow, she could feel it. The melody had haunted her since childhood, but now, the sound was clearer, more urgent. As if it were calling to her, pulling her into a fog of memories that were not her own.
"Shapira, are you awake, dear?" Her mother's voice called from the kitchen, breaking the silence. "Breakfast is ready!"
Shapira didn't answer. She leaped out of bed, her mind racing. Her mother was an ordinary woman, a street artist who supported them with her songs and paintings. There was no way she could be connected to that horror, or to the cruel woman named Isolde. But the resemblance in her dream… it was too real to ignore. She had to find out. She had to find answers.
Shapira waited until she heard her mother's footsteps move away from the apartment, the creak of the closing door signaling she had left for work. Now was the time. She had to investigate. She crept out of her room, her footsteps nearly silent on the wooden floor. The lingering scent of coffee and toast in the air did nothing to calm her unease. She had to find a clue, something that could explain these strange dreams. Her destination was her mother's room. A place she had always considered sacred, full of untouched secrets.
She opened her mother's bedroom door carefully. The smell of oil paint and old paper greeted her, a scent she had always associated with safety and comfort. But now, the scent felt foreign, cold. Her eyes swept the room, searching for anything that seemed out of place. An old teak wardrobe in the corner of the room caught her attention. Her mother had always forbidden her from touching it, saying it was just full of old, unimportant things. But Shapira's intuition told her otherwise. With a pounding heart, she opened the wardrobe. Old clothes, worn fabrics, and stacks of old books filled it. But behind it all, on the back wall, there was something else.
A door. An ancient wooden door, carved with strange symbols she had never seen before. Symbols that somehow felt familiar, as if she had seen them somewhere far, far away. The whispering voice, the same one from her dream song, was now clearer, more real. It was calling her name, but it wasn't calling for Shapira.
"Anya … open … Anya .…"
A powerful urge pulled her toward the door, a compulsion she couldn't resist. Her mother had strictly forbidden her from touching this wardrobe, let alone finding anything behind it. But that prohibition, which once felt like a thick wall, was now just a faint whisper amidst her burning confusion and curiosity. Her hand reached out, touching the cold carvings on the wood's surface. It felt like she was touching a memory of her own, something locked deep inside her.
She pulled on the door's handle, feeling a strong pull from the other side. Just as she was about to open it, her mother's voice suddenly came from behind her, full of confusion, "Shapira! What are you doing in my room?"
Shapira flinched but didn't turn around. She ignored the prohibition, ignored her mother's voice. The urge to know was stronger than anything. With all her strength, she pulled the door open. A blinding white light exploded from the threshold, enveloping her, and she felt an unstoppable pull dragging her into a disorienting void.
When Shapira felt her feet touch solid ground again, she staggered. The blinding light faded, replaced by the sight of a dense forest. The damp, cold air bit at her skin, carrying the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. The trees loomed tall, their dark branches forming a menacing canopy overhead. This wasn't London. This was Nymira, the forest from her dream. The same forest where Anya had died. Fear gripped her, colder than the air.
Suddenly, a harsh growl shattered the silence. A large, hideous figure leaped out from behind the bushes. Its skin was a murky green, its tusks a filthy yellow, and its eyes burned with bloodlust. An orc. Not just one, but a whole group of them. Shapira screamed, scrambling backward in panic. She had no weapon, no way to defend herself. Her legs felt paralyzed with fear.
"Get away from her, you beasts!" a deep voice boomed from behind the trees. A flash of a sword split the air, and in an instant, a man with long black hair and sharp blue eyes leaped between Shapira and the orcs. His sword sang, cleaving the air with deadly force. The man moved with the grace of a true knight, cutting down the orcs with ease, as if they were nothing more than straw dummies. His face was hard, his jaw set, but there was something familiar in his eyes. Those eyes…
William. Prince William. He, a thirty-five-year-old William, stared at Shapira with a look of shock and suspicion. His eyes widened as he saw Shapira's face, a face so much like that of his late fiancée. He saw the stunning resemblance, saw the form he thought he had lost forever.
William cut down the last orc, then turned to face Shapira. Confusion, shock, and then, a burning rage filled his expression. He strode closer, his steps heavy, his eyes stripping her bare, searching for an answer he feared.
"Who are you?" William asked, his voice low and menacing. His sword was still dripping with orc blood, and he pointed it at Shapira's throat. "You … how can you have that face? Are you a spy? Part of another one of Isolde's schemes to get to me?"
Shapira gasped, fear mixing with confusion. "I … I don't know what you're talking about!" she answered, her voice trembling. "I'm not a spy! I'm from London! I don't know how I got here!"
"London?" William snorted, a cynical laugh escaping his lips. "Nonsense! There's no place called London in Nymira! You must be a witch, or perhaps, a trickster sent by Isolde to torment me!" He grabbed her arm with undeniable strength. "You're coming with me. You'll be interrogated in Astellia!"
Shapira tried to resist, but William was too strong. Fear of an unknown future enveloped her, a destiny she didn't understand, tied to a name that was not her own. Under William's suspicious gaze, with danger lurking in every corner of the forest, Shapira Elanora was taken captive into a world that had once existed only in her nightmares.