The air was laced with the scent of wet earth and dew-kissed grass, sharp and clean like the first page of a book still damp from printing. Morning mist hung low over the training field, blurring the edges of the Edelstein estate's outer walls into dreamlike silhouettes. Paige—my summoned reflection, my soldier, my mirror made flesh—was out there among the Count's knights, a silver streak in their formation.
This was our fourth lap around the field, though "our" was generous. I wasn't sweating. Paige was. She drove herself like a machine—sword slicing, shield snapping into place, boots drumming the soil in perfect cadence with the knights who had trained for years to reach half her sharpness.
The decision for Paige to join the drills had been "mutual." Which is to say: the knights suggested it, Regina raised a brow, and I knew better than to protest. Paige belonged in the field, cutting lines through air and earth. My battlefield was different: quiet corridors, shifting glances, whispered rumors, aristocrats whose appetites could wound sharper than any blade.
The Edelstein mansion's east wing—our wing—stood unusually quiet. Too quiet. The servants moved like ghosts, their footfalls muffled, their eyes lowered. The halls themselves felt abandoned, as if silence had settled here deliberately, like dust that no broom could dislodge.
Whispers drifted nonetheless. Curses. Ghosts. Of me being spotted in two places at once. The idea spread faster than fire through dry parchment. I didn't mind. Rumors built walls thicker than stone. And behind those walls, secrets could be tended like gardens, safe from prying hands.
That morning, my hands weren't on weapons or hidden screens—they were in Regina's golden-blonde hair.
She sat at her dresser, posture impeccable, book resting in her lap. The sunlight from the tall window painted her hair with firelight: gold near the crown, but streaked with darker shades near the roots, as though ink had seeped through strands of wheat. I stood behind her, weaving her hair into an intricate crown braid. Each turn of my fingers drew strands tighter, the circle closing like a coronet.
Regina's voice broke the silence, animated in a way that cracked through her usual mask of cool detachment.
"Hmph. Mermaids sound fascinating," she said, eyes flicking across a page of illustrations. "Perhaps we should go fishing someday."
Her tone was dismissive, but there was a spark beneath it—a child's curiosity buried under aristocratic pride.
It had been eight months since I woke up in this world, eight months of serving the girl who could smile like a saint and cut like a knife. I'd learned enough to braid her hair without the System whispering in my ear, enough to read her moods before they flared, enough to distract her with tailored stories before her temper spilled blood.
"Maybe we'll go swimming," I said, fingers threading smoothly through the silken strands. "Roast whatever we catch. If you catch any."
She gave a regal sniff, dismissive in theory, acquiescent in practice. Regina rarely argued against plans she secretly liked. Compliments she pretended to brush off. Warm milk and honey she insisted she didn't need to sleep—but always drained to the last drop.
On the bed behind us lay the green gown. Tonight was her coming-of-age debut in the capital. The dress shimmered like bottled springtime, light chasing along the folds with every shift of air. I could already picture it—her hair braided into a crown, the green dress wrapping her in elegance, the faint shadow she always carried trailing behind her like an unseen veil.
"You'll look breathtaking in that dress," I said, almost absentmindedly. More filler than flattery, but no less true.
She didn't respond. Instead she rose and walked toward the mirror, skirts whispering across the polished floor. The reflection that looked back tilted its head, studying itself as if unsure whether to praise or condemn. For Regina, love and loathing toward her own image were never far apart.
Across the room, Paige sat on a low stool, her silver hair braided now to match mine, her borrowed maid's dress still fitting awkwardly over soldier's shoulders. She had a book open—military theory, of course—absorbing troop formations, supply lines, tactics. She read like she'd been built for war. She had been. Yet the longer she stayed, the more she softened—learning to smile, to hesitate, to be human.
Sometimes I wondered which of us was the copy.
I'd thought once of revenge—for Regina forcing me into the path of that blade, for pulling my strings with invisible threads. But then, days later, she had wordlessly pressed a gold coin into my palm. Her eyes didn't waver, her lips didn't move. That was her apology, blunt and aristocratic. I accepted it. Not forgiveness, but balance.
---
By afternoon, the carriages arrived.
The Edelstein crest gleamed on the crimson lacquer of the coach, lions gilded in gold at the corners. Horses stamped impatiently, their bridles jangling like warning bells.
Regina swept into the carriage with the composure of someone who had never once been told no. Her gown shimmered green against the velvet seats, her every movement rehearsed by bloodline rather than practice.
I followed, my steps measured, posture corrected by weeks of head maid drilling and the System's quiet nudges. Chin lifted. Shoulders square. Hands folded just so.
The coach rolled to the main castle where Count Aurelius and Commander Rose joined us.
"Good morning, Father," Regina said, her tone polite but stripped of warmth, a mask so perfect it pained to look at.
For the briefest moment, something flickered across the Count's eyes—grief, maybe, or guilt. It vanished before it could soften his jaw. "How are you, dear?"
"Very well," she replied, voice flat but proper.
Rose entered behind him, armor faintly clinking, sword at her side. Her eyes scanned the carriage before settling on me. Assessing. Measuring.
"You look lovely, dear," she said, more genuine than her brother-in-law could manage.
I bowed slightly, murmured thanks, then sat beside Regina. Across from us, Aurelius and Rose carried the weight of silence, the kind that felt like strategy, not peace.
The other maids were ushered into the second carriage, leaving ours with the intimacy of a war council. Paige, unsummoned, waited quietly in the ether—better hidden until we reached the capital.
The coach jolted forward, wheels crunching on gravel, then steadied onto the road. Outside, trees blurred into green and brown streaks, sunlight flashing through branches like blades.
Regina was calm, face serene as marble. Rose watched me like I was a blade half-loose in its sheath. The Count's silence pressed heavy, a man carved of water and stone, waiting for the tide to turn.
The capital loomed ahead.
The lion's mouth.
And we were walking straight in.