I didn't mean to go back.
At least, that's what I told myself as I stood at the edge of the castle grounds once more, the weight of the book heavy in my hands. But the truth was quieter—and far more dangerous.
I wanted to.
The fear was still there—tight and coiled in my chest—but beneath it pulsed something stronger. Curiosity. Recognition. A longing that felt older than my own name.
The castle loomed before me, unchanged and unwelcoming. Its walls bore the scars of time, stone darkened by years of neglect, vines crawling where banners must once have flown. This place had once ruled with fear and reverence. I could feel it in the air, in the way the silence pressed down on me like a held breath.
My fingers tightened around the black pocket knife at my side.
Follow your will. Fight for it.
My mother's words echoed softly—insistently.
I stepped forward.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the world shifted—not violently, not suddenly, but as if something unseen had finally clicked into place. The air grew heavier, richer. The scent of dust and stone gave way to something sharper: oil, metal, old fire.
The book grew warm in my hands.
I didn't open it.
It opened me.
I stood in the same place—but it was no longer abandoned.
Torches burned along the walls, their flames steady and bright. The stone beneath my feet was polished, unmarred. Voices echoed faintly in the distance—orders being given, armor clinking, footsteps moving with purpose.
I looked down at myself.
Gone were my simple clothes.
I wore a dark gown once more, fabric heavy with embroidery, its cut precise and unmistakably royal. The weight of it settled naturally on my shoulders, as if my body remembered how to carry it.
I swallowed.
This wasn't a dream.
Not entirely.
I moved through the corridors with a familiarity that startled me. Every turn felt instinctive. Every shadow felt known. I passed servants who lowered their heads as I went by, guards who straightened at my presence.
My feet carried me forward without hesitation, guided by instincts I didn't remember learning.
Then I saw it.
A narrow hallway—hidden, dim, yet strangely lit just enough to invite curiosity. Pale light and muted voices spilled through the thin opening of a door at its end.
My heart pounded.
I slipped closer—careful, quiet—pressing myself against the cold stone as I leaned toward the opening. Just enough to see.
And there he was.
My father.
He stood tall, draped in royal attire, his presence commanding the room. But something was wrong. His gaze was unfamiliar—cold, sharp, filled with vanity and authority. When he spoke, his voice echoed through the chamber, each word heavy with power and certainty.
This was not the man who had died protecting me.
This was a king.
"These creatures," he said, gesturing lazily toward the kneeling men, "exist only because I allow it."
A faint, cruel smile touched his lips.
"Slaves have no purpose beyond obedience. And those who forget that," he continued, his voice hardening, "are reminded—by pain, by chains, or by death."
A shudder ran through me.
I looked past him.
Kneeling before the throne were several men, dressed as commoners, thick ropes looped tightly around their necks. Some struggled to breathe, their hands clawing weakly at the cords biting into their skin.
Then—
I saw him.
Hazel eyes, touched with green.
My chest tightened painfully.
He knelt among them, blood staining his clothes, his jaw clenched in quiet defiance. Even on his knees—even wounded—there was something unbroken about him.
Adrien.
I barely had time to process it before my gaze shifted again.
To the man standing beside my father.
My brother.
Alaric.
He was dressed as a general, armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight. His presence filled the room effortlessly—commanding, formidable. The others seemed to shrink beside him.
But his eyes—
They were empty.
Lifeless.
The same look he had worn the night he stabbed our mother.
A chill crawled up my spine.
Then everything shattered.
Voices rose. Something crashed against stone. Shouts erupted as chaos tore through the chamber. I stumbled back instinctively, heart racing, the noise drowning out my thoughts.
The door burst open.
And I saw him again.
He ran past me—fast and desperate—his movements unsteady. Blood soaked his side, dripping onto the floor as he fled the castle.
Our eyes met for just a second.
Shock rooted me to the spot.
Before I could move—before I could speak—he was gone.
The world fractured.
I woke with a sharp gasp, my heart slamming violently against my ribs. Morning light filtered through the broken roof of the maids' house, dust floating lazily in the air as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all.
But everything had.
The book lay open beside me.
The knife was still clutched in my hand.
And this time, I knew.
Whatever this place was—
whatever this life had been—
It was no longer content to stay buried.