The streets of Liberia bustled under the midday sun, the scent of candied fruit and fresh bread trailing from open stalls into the crowded avenues. Beneath the arching gates that marked the border of the inner city, a modest brown carriage with the Vreisz crest passed through, its curtains drawn halfway.
Inside sat a girl—twelve years old, back straight, hands folded properly on her lap. Her long lavender hair was braided neatly down her back, her attire simple but refined: a light gray traveling gown trimmed in Vreisz silver. She looked every bit the daughter of House Vreisz now, even if her etiquette was not yet flawless.
Vyrilleya Vreisz.
It had been four years since she awoke in the Vreisz estate. Three and a half since Prince Navelleir bid her farewell and left her with that embroidered handkerchief now kept folded in a small velvet pouch beneath her traveling cloak.
Riley—no, Vyrilleya—watched the capital go by in silence. The buildings here were taller, grander than anything in Reverie. Flags hung from second-story balconies. The streets pulsed with life: flower merchants waving from behind wagons, children tugging at their mothers' skirts, armored patrols clinking past with sharp gazes. It was her first time seeing Liberia.
"Remember," came the calm but firm voice of Viscount Sventius Vreisz across from her, "when they ask, speak only what you must. Keep your thoughts clear, still, and unclouded."
She nodded. "Yes, Father."
Today, she was to be registered—like every twelve-year-old in Fillemina. It was a requirement, a census of power and blood. Each child would be tested and identified as either comun or thriver. If the latter, their Macht would be logged by the Empire.
And Vyrilleya's Macht was not ordinary.
A thriver. But more than that—a bearer of a Macht so ancient and unstable that the Vreisz had taken great pains to hide it. For two years, she'd been plagued by uncontrolled peeks into other people's memories—visions that came like whispers, unbidden and vivid. At first, they'd surged without warning. But after Navelleir left, the episodes became more frequent. By age ten, she began teaching herself to suppress it.
She discovered she could block the passive activation by keeping her mind utterly blank. No thoughts. No emotions. Only stillness. It wasn't easy—especially in unfamiliar surroundings—but she had learned to hold it for minutes at a time. If she could maintain that state long enough during registration, they wouldn't see what she really was.
The carriage rolled slowly over cobbled stone. She placed one gloved hand lightly on the windowsill, watching the passing buildings with feigned calm.
A confectioner's stand passed. Then a pastry shop with sugar-frosted cakes displayed behind thick glass. Her gaze lingered without reason. Or so she thought.
And then—
A flicker.
A sharp tug inside her skull.
Her vision dimmed, warped, and then—
A flash.
A bakery. A crumbling facade. The scent of something sweet. A girl—not herself, but somehow her—sitting across the street, legs curled in, her body so thin it was barely upright. She was weak, hollow, eyes glassy with hunger. Her clothes were too big. Her hair matted. But what struck Riley most was the emotion.
Despair.
Then—
A hand reached into the vision. Offering something. A tart. Flaky, golden. Glazed with apricot and soft custard.
The girl blinked up. Her eyes met someone else's—a boy's. Tousled black hair. A gentle frown. A voice she couldn't hear, yet the warmth in his presence was undeniable.
But before she could make out the face, the image was gone.
Riley sucked in a breath.
"Vyrilleya?" Sventius's voice anchored her. "Are you alright?"
She quickly nodded, pressing her gloved hands into her skirt. "Just a little dizzy."
"Keep your focus. We're nearly there."
She nodded again, but her mind wasn't clear—not even close. That flash hadn't felt like a dream. It had been raw, jagged, and short. Too short. Too fragmented. Like a memory ripped from someone else's mind. Or perhaps... her own? She couldn't tell anymore.
What startled her more was the tart. The same kind she'd grown to love. Whenever they had trips to town, she'd beg the Vreisz kitchen staff to buy one from the local baker, claiming it was her favorite. She never knew why. Now she might.
Elsewhere in the same street—
Riellischus Desillix slipped a small white box into his coat pocket. The tart inside still warm, the sugary aroma seeping out.
He hadn't meant to stop by that shop—but something pulled him there.
His academy was on break, and he'd used the day to scout for replacement gear. Training gloves, weights, new chalk powder—tools that wore down as quickly as he did. His body bore the results of relentless effort, of trying to fill the void she left behind. Of trying to become someone strong enough to never be helpless again.
He wasn't even sure why he bought the tart. Maybe it was for nostalgia. Maybe something else.
It was his favorite after all—an apricot custard tart from a humble shop near the alleyway. He used to share it with her. Or perhaps, more accurately, she used to steal bites from his when she thought he wasn't paying attention.
He could almost hear her voice in his head.
"You eat too slow. It'll get cold, you know."
Riel shook his head slightly at the memory.
He turned from the shop, box in hand, when a brown carriage rolled past him at a measured pace. The crest on its door glinted briefly in the sunlight, but he couldn't make it out clearly. Still, its polished exterior and subtle guards confirmed it was a noble carriage.
He wouldn't have looked twice.
But just then, a movement behind the half-drawn curtain.
A glimpse.
Lavender hair. Pale skin. Eyes watching the street with unreadable calm.
His heart lurched.
He stopped walking, his boots scuffing the cobblestone. The world narrowed. No sounds reached him. No merchant calls. No chatter of the market. Only that image—brief and vivid.
He turned his head quickly, but the carriage was already pulling away, merging with other noble transports.
"...Riley?"
The word escaped him in a whisper.
He couldn't be sure.
He couldn't see her face. Only the shape of it. The color of her eyes lost in shadows.
But something in his chest twisted.
Was it truly her? Or was he just seeing ghosts again?
She'd be twelve now. That girl in the carriage looked around that age.
And yet—how could she be in a noble carriage?
Riel's brows drew low as he watched it disappear into the crowd. His hand tightened slightly around the box in his pocket.
Inside, the tart sat undisturbed. The same kind he once gave to a starving girl on the streets.
The very first thing he ever gave her.
His jaw clenched. That memory had never left him. The sight of her—broken and lost across the bakery. No name. No clue who she was. But her eyes had burned with something. A stubborn light. The same light he thought he just saw behind the curtain of that carriage.
"...No," he muttered. "It couldn't be."
He turned, but didn't walk away immediately.
He stood there for a while, his mind racing.
Then slowly, he moved again—toward nowhere in particular. Toward the memory that refused to let go.
Toward a truth he wasn't ready to believe.
And in the shadows of his thoughts, the name repeated—soft, persistent, and familiar.
Riley.