Warm light came through the tall windows and spread across the room in soft gold shapes. The bed under Sylvera felt too soft, too clean, too new. Nothing like damp forest ground or thin blankets that smelled of smoke. She blinked slowly. Her body felt heavy, slow to move, like waking itself hurt.
Something shifted beside her.
"Oh dear Lord," a voice said, shaky with relief. "You're finally awake."
Sylvera turned her head with effort. The room swam for a moment before settling. Then she saw the old woman sitting beside the bed.
"…Sister maid?" she whispered.
Berra gave a wet laugh. Tears sat in her eyes. She pushed a strain of hair away from Sylvera's face with trembling fingers. "Yes, love. It's me. You don't know how long you've been sleeping do you?."
Sylvera swallowed. Her throat hurt. "Asleep? How long?"
Berra looked down at her hands. "Two days," she said softly. "You didn't wake once. You were burning with fever. We were scared. Your fiancé… King Arther… barely left the door."
Two days.
Sylvera stared at her.
She doesn't remember about falling asleep. The last thing she remember was the bracelet easing the pain of the mark on her collarbone. Then darkness—thick, endless sleep.
"I slept… two days?" she asked again.
Berra nodded. "Deep sleep. Like you were gone."
Safe, Berra said next. That she was safe.
The word sat wrong in Sylvera's chest.
Safe in a place she didn't trust.
She pushed herself up slowly. The bracelet was there sitting on her wrist. Cool and Quiet. It looked harmless.
It didn't feel harmless.
It felt like something that wanted her calm.
"I brought tea," Berra said, setting a cup down. "Drink. Then dress. Your fiancé has been waiting since sunrise."
Fiancé.
The word felt strange in her mouth.
Sylvera nodded anyway.
Berra watched her for a long moment. Something worried passed across her face. Then she turned and left.
The door shut with a soft click.
Sylvera sat there and stared at the teapot for a while before picking it up. The warmth steadied her hands.
My fiancé...
They are really forced on believing I'm Lyria.
She looked at her shaking reflection in the tea.
Do they believe it… or are they trying to make me believe it?
Either way, she would play along.
For now.
She hung her legs off the bed. The rug was thick under her feet. Everything in this room was soft, pretty, expensive. Too perfect.
She went to the wardrobe. Opened it.
Rows of dresses in deep blue and forest green. Silk. Embroidery. Small stitched signs she didn't understand.
She chose the plainest one. Gray with silver trim.
It fit her perfectly.
Of course it did.
Everything here was made for her.
Or for Lyria.
Her fingers brushed the mark on her collarbone while she fastened the clasp. It didn't hurt anymore. But it was still there.
Waiting.
She looked in the mirror.
The girl staring back had clean skin. Soft hair. Calm eyes. No dirt under her nails. No cuts. No wild fear.
She looked like someone who belonged here.
She looked like Lyria.
But I'm not her.
She turned away quickly.
She needed answers. And Arther might give them if he thought she was still his lost love.
She walked to the door. Paused. Looked back once at the room.
Beautiful.
Silent.
feels like as if a cage wrapped in silk, then she opened the door and stepped into the hall.
Lanterns glowed on the walls without flame. The air smelled warm, comforting and sweet. Somewhere ahead, voices spoke quietly.
One of them was Arther's.
She walked toward it.
Her steps were soft. Her heart was loud.
Arther stood with two guards. He didn't see her at first. His hands were behind his back as he was talking with his guards and His shoulders tight.
When he turned and saw her, his face changed fast. The cold look melted. He waved the guards away.
They left without a word.
He came toward her, smiling. "You're awake."
His eyes searched her face. "How do you feel?"
"Fine," she said softly.
He looked relieved. Too relieved.
"Good," he said. "So… Lyria. What would you like to do today?"
She forced a gentle smile. "I want to know about my past," she said. "About who I was."
He blinked, surprised. Then nodded quickly. "Of course."
They walked side by side through the corridor, their steps echoing softly on the polished stone. Sylvera kept her pace slow, careful. She didn't want to look nervous. She didn't want to look eager either.
She wanted to look like someone who belonged.
The courtyard opened ahead of them. White roses grew along the paths, bright even in the fading season. The air smelled clean, almost sweet. Too perfect again.
Arther watched her quietly. Not smiling now. Studying.
"I want to know," she said, keeping her voice light, "what kind of mage I was."
He stopped walking.
The change was small, but she felt it.
His shoulders went stiff. His jaw tightened before he could hide it. For a moment, he just stared at her.
"You were never a mage," he said slowly. "You are royal. My beloved. We don't practice magic. We hate it."
The last words came out sharp. Too sharp.
He saw it the same moment she did.
Regret flickered across his face.
He looked away. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "You were taken by a mage. I lost you because of one. I spoke without thinking."
Sylvera nodded. She kept her smile gentle. Inside, something twisted.
He hates mages.
But I'm one.
She let out a slow breath. "It's alright," she said softly. "I know you missed me."
They walked again. Silence stretched between them.
Her bracelet felt warm on her wrist. Not hot. Just warm. Like it was listening.
After a while Arther spoke. "What is your power now?"
"Healing," Sylvera said. "I heal people."
He smiled faintly. "You always did."
She turned to him. "What do you mean?"
He looked ahead as he answered. "You were kind. Gentle. When you were near, people felt calmer. That was your gift. You healed hearts."
His words sounded sweet. Too sweet. Polished.
Not real.
Sylvera watched him from the corner of her eye. He wasn't lying about missing her. She could see that.
But he wasn't telling everything.
They stopped by a fountain. Water rippled softly. Her reflection broke apart on the surface.
She barely recognized herself.
"Do you remember what I liked?" she asked. "Before… everything?"
Arther nodded slowly. "You loved the upper gardens. Books. Old songs. Drawing flowers you said were ugly but kept anyway." He smiled a little. "Sometimes you'd disappear for hours. We'd search everywhere."
She raised a brow. "Sounds like I didn't want to be found."
He laughed, but it felt hollow. "You were curious. Always wandering."
Always wandering.
The words stuck with her.
She looked at the path behind them. At the tall walls. At the guards watching from far away.
Maybe Lyria had tried to run.
"Do you want to see the gardens again?" he asked gently.
"Not yet," Sylvera said. "I'd rather stay near."
He nodded. "Of course."
They sat by the fountain for a while. Neither spoke.
A bird cried somewhere above them. The sound felt too loud in the quiet.
Sylvera watched the water. Thought of Lorian.
The way he had shouted her name.
The way his voice broke.
He couldn't have faked that.
Could he?
Her chest hurt suddenly.
She pushed the thought away.
Arther stood first. "Rest if you need," he said. "When you're ready, I'll show you everything. Every place you loved."
She smiled again. Small. Careful. "Thank you."
He touched her hand before leaving. Just for a moment.
His fingers were cold.
When he walked away, Sylvera didn't move. She watched him from the back until he turned at the corner and disappeared.
Only then did she breathe with relief.
He's hiding something. He's lying. She could feel it in her bones.
She could feel it.
In the way he spoke about magic. In the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching. In the way this palace stayed too clean, too quiet, too careful.
She stood slowly. Her legs felt weak again.
The bracelet pulsed once on her wrist.
Soft.
Warning.
Or comfort.
She couldn't tell.
Sylvera turned toward the hall, ready to go back to her room, when something brushed her mind. Not a voice. Not a sound.
Just a feeling.
Cold.
Familiar.
The mark on her collarbone throbbed once.
Hard.
She froze.
For a second, she thought she heard her name.
Not Arther's voice.
Not Berra's.
Lorian's.
She grabbed the edge of the fountain, breath shaking. "No," she whispered.
The pain faded.
The courtyard was quiet again.
Birds. Water. Wind.
Nothing else.
But Sylvera knew one thing with sudden, terrible certainty.
Somewhere outside these walls, Lorian was still searching.
And somewhere inside them, Arther was lying.
She looked down at her wrist. At the bracelet glowing faintly.
Then up at the tall palace windows watching her back.
"I'll find the truth," she whispered.
Even if it broke her.