"Your Highness, wandering around in your nightgown is not appropriate."
His voice is a blade wrapped in silk—polite, yet sharp enough to cut through any protest. It carries the weight of authority, leaving no room for argument.
I blink, startled by the sudden reprimand, but his expression remains unreadable. He steps forward with mechanical precision, his movements fluid yet calculated, and gestures for me to follow.
His eyes—deep and oceanic—are beautiful in their stillness, yet unnervingly opaque. They reveal nothing, not even a flicker of emotion. Who is this man? And why does he look at me as though I am a fragile artifact, entrusted to his care but never truly his to hold?
He says nothing more, his silence as commanding as his words. I trail behind him, my bare feet brushing against the cold marble floor, the faint echo of our steps filling the cavernous hallway.
When the heavy doors to my room swing open, I am greeted by the sight of a line of maids already waiting inside. Their bows are synchronized, their faces blank, their movements swift and practiced.
Before I can utter a word, they descend upon me like a well-rehearsed storm. Gentle hands undress me, peeling away the nightgown as though it were a layer of my identity. They guide me to the grand bathtub—a masterpiece carved from marble and veined with gold.
Warm water envelops me, and I gasp softly, the sensation both startling and soothing. The scent of roses mingles with something sweeter—honey, perhaps, or an expensive perfume that lingers like a memory.
One maid massages my temples, her fingers tracing circles that ease the tension from my brow. Another kneads the knots from my shoulders, her touch firm yet comforting. Others attend to my hands and feet, their ministrations delicate and deliberate, as though I am a doll to be polished and displayed.
I lie there, suspended in this surreal luxury, detached from my own skin. It feels as though I am watching someone else's life unfold—a stranger's story, not mine.
When the bath ends, they dress me in a gown of deep emerald green, the fabric cascading like liquid silk. It clings to my form in all the right places, elegant yet understated, regal without being ostentatious.
As they fasten pearl buttons and lace the corset, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
And for a moment, I forget to breathe.
The woman staring back at me is stunning—Madeleine Ceres Habsburg, a vision of nobility and sorrow. Her flawless porcelain skin glows under the soft light, her burgundy hair spilling like spiced wine over her shoulders.
But it is her eyes—my eyes—that hold me captive. Deep orange irises, like embers smoldering in a dying fire. They are beautiful, yes, but hollow. Empty. Eyes that have seen too much and trusted too little.
The maids apply makeup to accentuate my features, their brushes sweeping across my skin with practiced precision. Another selects jewels—emeralds to match the gown, hanging like droplets of forest dew from my ears and throat.
I look like royalty. No—like a myth.
The more days I spend in this place, the more I understand who she was. Every night, her memories bleed into my dreams, haunting me like ghosts. I am not Madeleine, but somehow… I am living her life.
"Lyle…"
My voice is soft, almost hesitant, as I sit in the study, staring out the tall glass window. Sunlight pours through it like melted gold, pooling across the floor in shimmering waves.
He steps forward, bowing slightly, his movements as precise as ever. "Yes, Your Highness?"
"I want to go to the Capital," I say, my gaze shifting to the history book laid open on the desk. My fingers trace a passage that speaks of ancient magic—runes, temples, priests of old bloodlines.
"If anyone can understand what has happened to me, it must be someone from there."
His brows twitch, a subtle hesitation breaking his otherwise composed demeanor. "Your High—"
"I already have my father's written permission." I cut him off, lifting the letter sealed with imperial wax and handing it to him.
He reads it quickly, his eyes scanning the page with practiced efficiency. When he finishes, he nods, his silence an unspoken agreement.
My thoughts churn like a storm. Every morning, I wake to her memories—Madeleine, the second princess of the Seira Empire. Labeled a villainess. Feared. Despised. Misunderstood.
The whispers in the palace paint her as cruel, bitter, unstable. They say she tormented her half-sister, Laura Iris, the First Princess. That she lashed out at servants, abused her power.
But her memories tell a different story.
A girl banished at birth to the Emerald Palace. A legitimate daughter of royal blood, left to rot in a gilded prison.
She was brilliant—intelligent, witty, brave. A strategist. And yet, they crushed her brilliance with lies and manipulation.
I know the truth now.
I need answers. I need to understand what happened to my soul—and to hers. Did she switch with me too? Is she living in my body, lost in a world she does not know? Is she… okay?
The Capital Temple looms ahead, an architectural marvel of obsidian and gold, its snow-white spires piercing the sky like daggers.
It is beautiful. And suffocating.
Lyle walks beside me, his presence steady and silent. Behind us, my three ladies-in-waiting trail like shadows.
People in the streets turn their heads as I pass. Some bow respectfully, their gestures stiff and forced. Others glance and whisper behind their hands, their eyes sharp with disdain.
The hatred is familiar. In my old world, I was hated too. Called a monster. Looked down on.
At least here, I wear that label like a crown.
Inside the temple, high-ranking priests greet me with smiles that do not reach their eyes. They lead me through candlelit halls to a private prayer chamber, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone.
I stare at the statue of their god—a figure carved from marble, draped in ivy and light.
The priests leave me alone, the door closing with a heavy thud.
I laugh under my breath, the sound bitter and hollow. "Even if you are different from the god I once prayed to… you are still a god. Tell me—if I pray now, will you listen?"
The silence answers louder than any voice could.
"Ridiculous…" I whisper. "Even in this world, you ignore children left to suffer. Madeleine was just a child. Why did you not help her?"
There is no answer. Of course not.
I turn my back to the altar, my voice cold now. "It was a mistake to come here. I will not beg for mercy that never comes."
As I leave, the whispers of the priests trail behind me like dust.
Outside, I stop in my tracks.
There she is.
Laura Iris.
Golden hair gleaming like sunlight. Pale skin. Delicate features. A voice like silk and poisoned honey.
The perfect image of grace. And the root of all Madeleine's torment.
My lips curl into a smile that does not reach my eyes.
"Ah, sister," she says, her tone dripping with mock concern. "What are you doing here? Have you finally seen the light?"
I tilt my head, forcing a chuckle. "Why? Am I not allowed to enter a temple now?"
She steps forward, her hands reaching for mine in a dramatic gesture. Tears sparkle in her eyes, their sincerity as false as her smile. "Madeleine… are you finally choosing the path of redemption? Choosing to be… good?"
I slap her hands away—hard.
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
Her eyes widen, her lips trembling as she stumbles back. For a moment, her mask slips, revealing the fear beneath.
I lean close, my voice a whisper of venom. "You want me to play the role of the pitiful, helpless fool? Is that it?"
I smile wider, the expression sharp and cold. "No, Laura. I will be the villainess you and your mother painted me to be. I will wear the mask you crafted for me—only now, I will do it on my terms. Be prepared."
And in that instant, I see it—the flicker of fear behind her perfect, polished eyes.
Good. Let her tremble.
Because this game she started… I intend to finish it.
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