Elira stirred.
Her breath caught violently in her throat, as if the dream still had its hands around her neck.
Flashes of fire.
Screams swallowed by smoke.
A blade slicing through the air—aimed for her.
And Lucan's eyes.
Not the king's eyes.
The storm's.
Fury. Grief. Something deeper. Something ancient. Something that looked at her like she was both salvation and curse.
She gasped and bolted upright, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out.
Her skin was slick with sweat. Her fingers trembled. The room spun.
She reached for her back—pain bloomed instantly. Bandages. Blood. Memory.
She was alive.
But barely.
Thank you, she thought, though she didn't know who she was thanking.
It had terrified her to death. She'd prayed to every saint she could name—ones she didn't even believe in.
So that was the feeling of nearly dying.
The dream clung to her like smoke, whispering in her ear, refusing to let go.
She looked around.
Not a battlefield.
Not a prison.
A room.
Lavish. Quiet. Draped in velvet and gold. The scent of herbs and candle wax lingered in the air. The bed beneath her was too soft, too clean. The linens were embroidered with a crest—one she recognized but couldn't place.
Her gaze darted to the window.
Outside, the sky was bruised with dusk. The city stretched beyond the hills, rooftops glowing amber in the fading light.
She remembered they were en route to the palace.
Is this the palace? she wondered.
But no—the architecture was older, colder. The stonework whispered of northern bloodlines and quiet power.
She tried to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her. Pain flared—sharp, but not fatal. Someone had tended to her wounds.
The door creaked open.
A maid entered, startled to see her awake. "My lady! You shouldn't be up."
Elira's voice was hoarse, barely more than a breath. "Where am I?"
"You're at the Duke's Mansion," the maid said gently. "Before the attack, the king ordered you placed under Duke Rensic's protection."
Elira's breath caught—not from pain, but from memory.
Lucan.
The battlefield.
His arms around her.
His fury unleashed like a god betrayed.
"What day is it?" she asked, her voice strained behind the ache in her ribs.
"If you're asking how long you've been unconscious… I would say three days, my lady."
Elira blinked. "Three?"
The maid nodded solemnly. "Your wound was deep. You lost a great deal of blood. Thankfully, the king's men brought you here in time. The bleeding stopped, and the healer here is one of the finest in the kingdom."
Elira sank back against the pillows, her thoughts spinning.
Three days.
What had Lucan done in that time?
She closed her eyes, trying to silence the storm still roaring in her chest.
A sharp groan escaped her lips as the pain surged again.
"My lady, I'll call the healer," the maid said gently before slipping out of the room.
The door clicked shut.
Elira's hand trembled as she reached for the cup of water on the bedside table. Her fingers barely managed to grip it, but she brought it to her lips and drank greedily.
The water was cool, sharp against her parched throat.
She emptied the cup in seconds.
Still thirsty.
She opened her mouth to call for more—but the maid was already gone.
Silence settled around her like a second skin.
She stared at the empty cup, her breath shallow, her body aching. The thirst was more than physical—it clawed at her from within. A hunger for answers. For safety. For Lucan.
I need to go home.
Her eyes drifted to the door.
And then she felt it.
The weight of his gaze.
Heavy. Unspoken. Familiar.
Before she could turn, before she could breathe, the darkness pulled her under once more.
The door opened.
Boots stepped across the polished floor.
Duke Rensic Albrecht entered, his cloak trailing behind him like shadow. He paused at the edge of the bed, eyes narrowing as he watched her pale face, the trembling fingers still curled around the empty cup.
The healer followed, carrying a satchel of herbs and salves.
"She woke?" Rensic asked quietly.
The maid, returning just behind him, nodded. "Only for a moment, Your Excellency. She asked where she was. Then… I believe she fell asleep again."
Rensic stepped closer, gaze lingering on the bandages, the bruises, the quiet strength still etched into her features even in sleep.
"How is her wound?" he asked the healer.
"It's healing slowly, Your Excellency," the healer replied, head bowed. "But she mustn't move yet. It will take at least a month for full recovery."
"And why did she pass out again?"
"Likely from weakness. She's been unconscious for three days. When she wakes again, she'll need food, water, and rest."
Rensic nodded.
As the healer finished tending Elira, he bowed and quietly exited the room.
Rensic remained.
Alone.
He stepped closer to her side, watching her persistently.
His brows furrowed at the sight of her face.
She looked familiar.
He stared longer, no one knew how long.
And then—a face surfaced in his memory.
"She must be around the same age as her," he muttered, more to himself.
He paused.
Then turned sharply and strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing through the spacious hallway.
He entered his study, lit only by the fading light of dusk.
He took a piece of parchment and a quill.
He wrote swiftly, his script precise and urgent.
When he finished, he folded the letter and sealed it with his crest.
Just then, the steward entered.
"Send this to the Monroe Orphanage. Immediately," Rensic ordered.
"Monroe?" The steward blinked, surprised by the sudden mention of the remote orphanage. But he didn't question it. "As you wish, Your Excellency."
Rensic watched the letter disappear into the steward's hands.
Then turned back to the window, his gaze distant, unfocused.
A memory surfaced—fragile and uninvited.
A young child with golden, flaxen hair—her face half-hidden behind curls and laughter. Innocent. Carefree. Untouched by the weight of the world.
She had once clung to his hand with trust.
With warmth.
"She's a special child, young lord," someone had once told him.
His chest tightened.
"It's been so long since I remembered her," he whispered, voice barely audible—spoken more to the fading light than to anyone else.
And in that quiet, he found himself hoping.
For what, he wasn't sure.
He turned from the window and strode out of the room, his cloak trailing behind him. There were duties to fulfill. Orders to carry out.
His Majesty's will awaited.
Morning broke gently over Duke Albrecht's manor.
Elira stirred beneath the soft linens, her body still tender but no longer screaming with pain. The golden light of dawn spilled through the tall windows, casting warm patterns across the polished floor. Outside, the breeze danced through the trees, carrying the scent of dew-kissed petals and sunlit earth.
It had been eight days since the battle.
Eight days since she'd nearly died.
Eight days confined to bed, as ordered by the healer—her body too fragile to move, her strength too slow to return.
But today felt different.
Elira sat up, her limbs stiff but responsive. She rose carefully, her bare feet brushing the cool marble floor, and made her way to the window.
She unlatched the pane and pushed it open.
A rush of fresh air enveloped her pale face, brushing against her cheeks like a whisper of life. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting it wash over her.
Then she looked out—and froze.
The view stole her breath.
The manor stood atop the highest hill, its stone walls wrapped in ivy and crowned with turrets that gleamed in the morning light. Below, a sprawling garden unfurled like a tapestry—rows of vibrant flowers, winding paths, and sculpted hedges that shimmered with dew. Roses bloomed in clusters, their petals blushing in shades of crimson and gold. A fountain trickled softly in the distance, surrounded by benches carved from pale stone.
Birds flitted between branches. The trees swayed gently, their leaves rustling like a lullaby.
It was beautiful.
Too beautiful.
Elira gripped the windowsill, her heart swelling with something she couldn't name. After days of pain, silence, and uncertainty, this moment felt like a gift.
She whispered to herself, voice barely audible.
"Speechless."
And for once, she truly was.
Elira lingered at the window, the morning breeze brushing against her cheeks like a whisper of freedom.
Eight days.
Eight days confined to bed, wrapped in silence and bandages, her only company the occasional maid and the distant echo of footsteps in the hall.
But today, the garden called to her.
She glanced toward the door. No one was coming. The healer had warned her not to move too much—not yet. But her legs no longer trembled. Her breath no longer caught. And her heart… it was restless.
Just a few minutes, she told herself. Just to feel the sun. Maybe steal a flower. Or five.
She slipped into a simple cloak left on the chair, the fabric soft and warm against her skin. Her steps were slow, careful, but determined. She padded across the polished floor, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway.
No guards.
No servants.
Just quiet.
And opulence.
She blinked at the hallway's grandeur.
The vaulted stone ceilings arched high above her, supported by thick wooden beams darkened with age. Faded banners hung between the arches—deep blue with silver thread, bearing the crest of House Sebastian: a hawk in flight over stormy waves.
The walls were lined with carved stone molding, rough but skillfully etched with symbols of lineage and conquest. Iron sconces held flickering torches, casting dancing shadows across the uneven floor.
She paused, squinting at a narrow band of gold leaf running along the wall—subtle, worn in places, but unmistakably real. Not decorative excess, but a mark of noble pride. A quiet reminder that this house belonged to power.
It wasn't lavish.
But it was enduring.
"Is this… real gold?" she muttered, narrowing her eyes like a suspicious squirrel.
She stepped closer, poked it, then—without a shred of dignity—bit it.
Yes. Bit it.
She pulled back slowly, lips pursed in thought.
"It is," she whispered, eyes sparkling. "I could buy a castle with this. Or at least a lifetime supply of chocolate."
Her gaze drifted upward. If the Duke's hallway looks like this, imagine Lucan's palace. He's probably triple-loaded. Like, gold bathtub and diamond toothbrush rich.
She made a face. But he's also a tyrant. Mercy isn't even in his vocabulary. Marrying him would be like signing up for a lifetime of dramatic threats and zero cuddles.
She tapped her chin, cloak swishing as she turned. If I had to choose… definitely the Duke. He's rich, quiet, and probably lets people nap in peace. I could sleep all day, eat everything I crave, and shop till I drop—wait. Do they even have shopping malls here?
She frowned. Probably not. Just medieval markets and overpriced apples.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.
Panic flared.
She bolted—well, hobbled quickly—toward the scent of flowers, guided by the memory of the view from her window. Down the corridor, past the grand staircase, through a side door that creaked softly on its hinges.
And then—she was outside.
The garden unfolded before her like a dream.
Sunlight spilled across the stone paths, illuminating rows of roses, lilies, and wild blooms she couldn't name. The air was rich with the scent of earth and petals, and the sound of birdsong filled the space like music.
Elira stepped onto the path, her slippers brushing against dew-speckled grass. She walked slowly, her fingers grazing the tops of blossoms, her eyes wide with wonder.
A marble bench sat beneath a flowering tree, its branches heavy with pale pink blossoms. She lowered herself onto it, breathless not from pain—but from beauty.
For the first time since arriving in this world, she felt… alive.
Not hunted.
Not broken.
Just Elira.
She tilted her face to the sun, letting it warm her skin, and closed her eyes.
Let them scold me later, she thought. This moment is mine. And if anyone tries to drag me back inside, I'll fake a fainting spell so dramatic it'll make the palace gossip for weeks.
And for now, that was enough.
Elira found herself strolling through different parts of the garden, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was technically still recovering—or that the servants might be frantically searching for her.
It had been nearly an hour of wandering, and surprisingly, she didn't feel exhausted.
She was enjoying herself.
Alone.
Whenever she spotted a servant in the distance, she'd duck behind hedges, dive into flower beds, or speed-walk like a suspicious squirrel avoiding eye contact. It was her own version of hide-and-seek, and she was winning.
Eventually, she settled on a marble bench near the fountain, its gentle trickle soothing her thoughts. She tilted her face to the sky, letting the sun warm her skin and the breeze brush her cheeks.
"This is peaceful," she muttered, closing her eyes and sighing contentedly. "I could live here. Just me, the flowers, and zero tyrant kings."
A voice cut through the quiet.
"You should have stayed in your chamber."
Elira's eyes snapped open.
Standing at the entrance of the maze garden was a man dressed in regal attire—dark velvet layered with silver embroidery, a cloak draped over his shoulders, and a crest glinting at his chest. His posture was composed, his gaze unreadable.
Elira squinted at him, brows furrowing. "Who… are you?"
The man stepped forward, his boots silent against the stone path. "I am Duke Rensic Albrecht."
Elira blinked. "Oh. The Duke. Right. The one whose mansion I'm currently trespassing in."
"You're not trespassing," he said calmly. "You were placed under my protection."
She tilted her head. "Protection from what? Death? Tyrants? Overly dramatic prophecies?"
His lips twitched—just barely. "All of the above."
Elira sat up straighter, brushing a leaf off her cloak. "Well, I appreciate the hospitality. Especially the gold hallway. Very biteable."
Rensic raised a brow. "You bit the wall?"
"I had to check if it was real," she said defensively. "It was. You're very rich."
He didn't respond right away. Instead, he pressed a hand to his forehead, exhaling slowly in disbelief.
This Saintess is something else.
His gaze returned to her—pale skin still recovering, posture fragile yet defiant, and eyes that sparkled with mischief despite everything she'd endured.
She looked so much like the child from his youth.
Golden flaxen hair that caught the light like spun sunlight. Porcelain skin, cheeks tinged with a familiar blush. And those unmistakable deep green eyes—eyes that once looked up at him with trust, curiosity, and a quiet kind of wonder.
The resemblance was uncanny.
And unsettling.
"You shouldn't be walking yet," he said. "The healer warned against it."
"I know," Elira replied. "But I was going stir-crazy. And the garden was calling me. Literally. I think the roses whispered."
Rensic stepped closer, his gaze drifting toward the fountain. "You remind me of someone."
Elira blinked. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he turned toward the bench beside her and sat—his movements precise, his presence quiet but commanding.
Suddenly, Elira clapped her hands together, startling him.
She stood, beaming. "I know how to greet you properly! Thank goodness I read that noble etiquette novel last year. I didn't do this for Lucan, though—he creeped me out of my life."
Rensic narrowed his eyes slightly. "You call him by his name?"
"Uh-huh," she replied without hesitation, completely unfazed by the subtle shift in his tone.
Then, with dramatic flair, she grabbed the hem of her white nightgown and dipped into a curtsy—exaggerated, stiff, and just a little too enthusiastic.
Rensic blinked, watching her with a mixture of disbelief and reluctant amusement.
"I greet myself, Your Excellency. My name is Elira Douglas Mcfinn. You may call me Elira."
Rensic stared at her posture. The bow was technically correct, but her feet were awkwardly positioned, and her shoulders stiff. And allowing him to use her first name so casually… that was something reserved for intimacy.
He coughed, politely ignoring the breach of formality.
Elira watched him, curiosity blooming. "So, Duke Rensic. Do you always patrol your garden like a brooding noble in a romance novel?"
He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "Only when my guest escapes."
Elira grinned. "Then I'll make it worth your while."
Rensic furrowed his brows, staring at her smile. It was bright, unguarded, and oddly familiar.
"Do you, perhaps... remember something?" he asked quietly.
Elira tilted her head. "Remember what?"
He hesitated, then stood. "Nothing. It's not important."
She is not her. They just look a like. He thought.
She narrowed her eyes. "That's suspicious. You can't just say something cryptic and walk away like a mysterious duke with secrets."
"I can," he said, already turning toward the path. "And I often do."
Elira huffed. "You nobles and your dramatic exits."
He paused, glancing back. "Come. You've walked enough. The healer will have my head if you collapse in the rose bushes."
Elira followed reluctantly, casting one last wistful glance at the garden.
Then, without warning, she turned and skipped past him, her steps light and carefree, the hem of her nightgown fluttering with each bounce.
Duke Rensic furrowed his brows, watching her with quiet disbelief. "What exactly are you doing?" he asked, his voice laced with restrained confusion.
Elira turned her head mid-hop, her cloak fluttering behind her. "Skipping and hopping," she replied breezily. "You should try it sometime, Your Excellency. It's good for the soul."
Then, without missing a beat, she added with a grin, "Also, you're handsome. Very, very handsome."
She said it like she was commenting on the weather—casual, unbothered, and entirely sincere. Her smile widened before she turned her back and continued down the path, humming softly to herself.
Rensic stopped in place, his gaze lingering on her as she drifted away like a breeze that refused to be caught.
She was nothing like the child he remembered.
And yet… everything about her tugged at that buried memory.
The flaxen hair. The green eyes. The way she moved through the world like it owed her answers.
He needed a response to his letter.
A confirmation.
He turned away from the garden, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode back toward the manor following Elira. The sun warmed the stone beneath his boots, but his thoughts were cold and tangled.