Chapter 1 – When the Lights Went Out
In my first life, the world was noise. Mumbai was never quiet — not even at midnight. Rickshaw horns, TV serials from the neighbors, vendors calling out for customers under the orange streetlights. I thought that sound would follow me forever.
I was twenty-nine, Jain by birth, accountant by profession, and family mule by circumstance.
Our two-bedroom flat in Dadar was always loud — the hiss of the pressure cooker, my younger brother Arjun watching cricket with the volume up, my grandmother chanting her morning prayers. I loved them fiercely. I also sometimes wanted to vanish into the waves.
Being Jain meant more than just not eating meat — it was the constant awareness of every small life. I wouldn't crush an ant if I could help it. I wouldn't waste a grain of rice. But somehow, I didn't mind wasting myself.
My job in a Nariman Point office kept food on our table and my siblings in college. It also kept me bent over spreadsheets for hours that blurred into days.
The day it happened, I was running on nothing but chai and stubbornness. It was quarter past eleven at night.
The office windows reflected my own tired face back at me — hair in a loose bun, kurta wrinkled, kajal smudged. The monsoon clouds pressed against the glass like dark waves.
But when I died, the world went silent.
One moment, I was at my desk in Nariman Point, eyes blurring over endless columns of numbers. My stomach ached — no lunch, no dinner, just tea and deadlines. My younger brother's college fees were due; the rent was due; everything in life was always due.
Then came the pain. A sudden, crushing weight in my chest. My pen slipped from my hand and rolled across the desk. The floor rose up to meet me.
Darkness. Warmth. A strange, steady thump-thump like a distant drum.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a room washed with golden candlelight. High, vaulted ceilings. Velvet curtains that swayed as though moved by the gentlest breath. And I was small. Too small. My arms were no thicker than a man's thumb, my voice came out as a thin, helpless cry.
A man stood over me — hair like molten gold, eyes as deep and blue as the Arabian Sea. His large hands cradled me with a tenderness that did not match his warrior's build.
"She's alive…" His voice cracked, and for a moment, I thought he might cry.
I wanted to speak — to ask Where am I? Who are you? Why am I here? — but all I could do was cry. Somewhere in the corner of the room, a maid sobbed quietly.
Fragments of words drifted through the air:
"The Duchess… she… didn't make it."
"At least… the child…"
I didn't understand yet. Not fully. But the warmth of his arms and the cool silk against my skin lulled me back into sleep. And so, my second life began in the arms of a stranger who looked at me as though I were the last star in his sky.
Chapter 2 – The Mirror and the Stranger's Eyes
Two weeks. Fourteen days of waking, sleeping, and feeding. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw the same carved ceiling above my crib. The same velvet canopy. The same man — the Duke, as everyone called him — coming to hold me, speaking in a language I somehow understood without ever learning it.
My New Name is Elara.
But my mind was still mine.
I remembered the cramped flat in Dadar. The smell of frying pakoras in the monsoon air. My grandmother's soft chanting of the Namokar mantra. I remembered typing until my wrists throbbed. I remembered my body — my real body.
So where was it now?
I needed to see myself.
One morning, when the nursemaid set me down to change my clothes, my eyes caught on a polished silver mirror on the dresser. I reached out with clumsy baby hands. She frowned, assuming I just wanted something shiny, but brought it over anyway.
The face staring back at me wasn't mine.
A tiny, round face framed by wisps of golden hair. Skin pale as moonlight. Eyes so vividly blue they seemed unnatural. My warm brown eyes were gone. My dusky skin had turned to porcelain.
The Duke entered just then. He froze when he saw me holding the mirror. Our gazes locked — my new blue eyes and his.
"You have your father's eyes," he murmured, his voice trembling just slightly. For the first time, his guarded expression faltered, revealing something raw and unspoken.
And for the first time since waking in this body… I began to understand. This was no dream. This was my life now.
Chapter 3 – Steps into a New World
People here said noble children didn't walk until they were two or even three. I decided that was nonsense.
By a year and a half, I was toddling from one end of the nursery to the other. My steps wobbled, my balance swayed, but I refused to be carried everywhere like a delicate glass ornament.
The Duke found me one morning gripping the wall, determinedly moving forward.
"You'll wear out the rugs at this rate, little star," he said, kneeling until we were eye-level. His blue eyes sparkled with something like pride. "But… I am proud."
He took my tiny hand in his warm, calloused one and walked with me down the hallway, matching my clumsy pace. Every time I stumbled, he gave a gentle squeeze of encouragement.
In Mumbai, my father had been a shadow — gone long before I knew him. Here, I had one who crouched down to hold my hand as if it was the most important thing in the world.
Just Looking my Self i thought
I am Baby Now, Its so Difficult.
Chapter 4 – The Spring Festival and the Shadow
The spring festival smelled of honey pastries, fresh-cut flowers, and roasted chestnuts — though I wouldn't touch the chestnuts, because my Jain self still kept me vegetarian in this strange, mana-filled world.
Banners in crimson and gold lined the streets outside the ducal estate. Kael and Lucien, my older brothers, darted ahead, their laughter mixing with the lilt of festival music. The Duke walked beside me, a steady presence, one hand hovering protectively at my back.
I paused to watch a parade of painted elephants when a rough hand clamped onto my arm.
Before I could cry out, I was yanked toward a narrow side street. My sandals scraped against the cobblestones. The hooded man's grip tightened — and then a roar split the air.
"UNHAND HER!"
The Duke's voice was enough to stop hearts. In three long strides, he was upon us, sword flashing in the sunlight. The man barely had time to flinch before the Duke wrenched me free and shoved me behind him.
"You dare," he growled, pressing the blade to the man's throat, "touch my daughter?"
The crowd held its breath. The only sound was my shaky breathing. He didn't kill the man — but the cold fire in his eyes promised he would if there was a next time. Guards dragged the would-be kidnapper away.
Then the Duke knelt before me. "Elara," he said softly, "I will never let them take you."
That night, he didn't send me back to the nursery. My little bed was brought into his chamber. His large hand rested lightly over mine until I drifted into dreams — and even there, I felt safe.
Chapter 5 – Spices and Sparks
By the time I was seven, I had mapped every hallway of the ducal estate. I knew which stair creaked on the servants' side, which windowsills were wide enough to sit on, and which doors the maids never let me open.
One of those doors led to the kitchen.
In my old life, I'd grown up on the smells of mustard seeds popping in hot oil, the earthy scent of turmeric, and the sharp, sweet tang of tamarind. The food here was good — heavy loaves, roasted vegetables, creamy stews — but it was missing something. It didn't sing.
That morning, I slipped away from my lessons and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The head cook, a broad man named Jorvan, looked up from kneading dough and nearly dropped his bowl.
"Milady! This is no place for—"
"I want to cook," I said simply. "Something different."
He stared at me, at my golden hair spilling over my shoulders, my blue eyes sparkling with challenge. "You… cook?"
I smiled. "You'll see."
I found the spice chest — it wasn't quite what I was used to, but I improvised. Crushed cumin instead of jeera. A sweet-sour berry that tasted almost like tamarind. Creamy goat's milk for paneer.
The staff gathered as I worked. I diced vegetables small, sautéed them in ghee, and stirred in my makeshift spices until the air filled with a fragrance they had never smelled before.
When I served it, the Duke himself wandered in, drawn by the scent. "What is this?" he asked, leaning over the pot.
"It's called sabzi," I said, offering him a taste.
He tried it — and actually closed his eyes. "Elara," he murmured, "this… this is magic."
That was when the sparks started.
Not literal ones — at first. But as I cooked, I felt a faint hum in my fingertips. A warmth, a rhythm, like the thump of my own heart, but flowing outward. Jorvan noticed it before I did.
"Milady," he said quietly, "your hands… they're glowing."
I looked down. Fine threads of pale blue light were curling from my fingertips into the food. Mana.
By dinner, everyone in the estate had tasted the dish. They didn't just like it — they looked energized, as if they'd slept better, breathed deeper.
That night, the Duke called in Master Thalion, the court mage. "Teach her," my father ordered. "But remember — she is not just my daughter. She is… special."
And so my training began — in both mana and in the magic of spices.
I didn't know then that the same glowing hands that could heal and nourish… would one day be accused of poisoning.
Chapter 6 – The Hunt Without Blood
When Master Thalion announced the annual Spring Hunt, my heart sank.
Hunting here wasn't just for food — it was a noble pastime, a show of skill and status. But for me, the idea of taking a life, even an animal's, clashed with every part of my Jain upbringing.
Still, the Duke insisted I come along."You'll watch," he promised. "But you will learn how to protect yourself in the wild."
The morning of the hunt was cold enough that my breath misted in the air. I rode in front of the Duke on his great black warhorse, the sunlight catching on his golden hair like fire. Kael and Lucien rode ahead, their bows slung across their backs.
We entered the forest — tall, whispering pines, the ground soft with moss. Dogs barked in the distance, chasing the scent of deer.
A young nobleman I didn't know rode up beside us. His hair was dark as ravens' wings, his eyes a strange silver-gray. He was about sixteen, with a polite smile that seemed to flicker when he looked at me.
"You must be Lady Elara," he said. "Your father speaks of you often."
I felt my cheeks warm — partly from the compliment, partly from the way his gaze lingered just a little too long. "And you are?"
"Lord Aedric of House Veylan," he replied with a little bow from horseback. "Perhaps we will ride together someday."
Before I could answer, a stag burst through the undergrowth, its antlers like a crown. The dogs gave chase. Kael notched an arrow.
"No!" The word was out before I could stop it. Everyone turned to stare.
I slid down from the Duke's horse and knelt, pressing my palms to the damp earth. Mana surged through me — not the warm, cooking-magic hum, but something cooler, sharper. I willed the stag to stop.
It froze, not in fear, but in sudden calm, its breath slowing. The dogs, confused, stopped barking. I wove my mana like a net, guiding the stag toward a safe path away from the hunting party.
When it disappeared into the trees, I stood, swaying slightly.
Silence.
Then the Duke laughed — a deep, rich sound. "My daughter," he said, dismounting to take my hand, "hunts without blood. And still wins."
Lord Aedric's silver eyes were thoughtful. "Impressive," he murmured. "Magic with mercy."
I didn't know it yet, but that day in the forest marked the start of two things: a quiet friendship that would grow into something more… and whispers among the court about the Duke's daughter who defied the traditions of the hunt.
Chapter 7 – Sparks in the Training Hall
The training hall smelled faintly of polished wood and old magic — a metallic tang that tingled in my nose. Sunlight streamed through high arched windows, scattering golden dust motes that seemed to dance to their own rhythm.
Master Thalion stood at the far end, his long silver robes trailing over the stone floor. "Lady Elara," he said, "today we test your mana control. No more glowing by accident in kitchens."
A few apprentices, all older than me, had gathered to watch. They were polite enough not to speak, but I caught the sideways glances. My golden hair was tied back with a blue ribbon, my training tunic fitted neatly over my small frame.
"She looks like a storybook princess," one boy whispered to another, thinking I couldn't hear.
"She looks like trouble," another muttered, though his tone was almost… admiring.
I ignored them, stepping into the center of the room.
"Mana," Thalion said, "is like water in a dam. You must learn when to let it flow… and when to hold it back."
He set three objects before me: a candle, a cup of water, and a potted herb.
"Light the candle, chill the water, make the herb grow. But," he added, "you may only touch them once."
I closed my eyes. In my mind, mana was color — pale blue for cooling, warm gold for heat, deep green for life. I imagined the flows twisting through me like strands of silk, and then — let them unravel.
The candle flared to life. The cup formed a delicate frost along its rim. The herb stretched toward the light, its leaves unfurling as if it were midday in spring.
A murmur rippled through the apprentices.
"Well done," Thalion said. But there was a sharpness in his gaze, as if measuring something beyond just skill.
After training, I slipped into the kitchen. I'd been experimenting — not just with flavor, but with mana-infused food. The vegetable stew I prepared that day carried a faint blue glow, enough to refresh the tired servants who tasted it.
"Lady Elara," one maid said, "after eating this, my back pain is gone."
I smiled — but Thalion's words echoed in my mind. When to let it flow… and when to hold it back.
I didn't realize it then, but my little experiments — harmless as they seemed — would one day be twisted into something dark.
Chapter 8 – Whispers in Silk
The great hall shimmered with candlelight, every flame caught in the crystal drops of the chandeliers. Music from a string quartet drifted above the hum of conversation, and the air smelled of roses and polished silver.
It was my first court gathering — my official introduction to the noble houses of the kingdom.
The Duke had spared no effort. My dress was a pale blue satin, stitched with silver thread that shimmered when I moved. My hair had been brushed until it glowed like poured sunlight, and small sapphires pinned at my temples caught the light whenever I turned my head.
As we entered, conversations paused for the briefest moment. I felt their eyes — weighing, measuring, judging.
"Lady Elara of House Draeven," the herald announced.
The Duke's hand rested lightly on my shoulder, solid and reassuring. "Smile," he murmured, "but never too much. And always remember — some smiles here hide teeth."
Lord Aedric was among the first to greet us. He bowed, but his silver eyes lingered longer than court manners allowed. "Lady Elara. You've grown since the spring hunt… though I suspect you've been growing sharper, not just taller."
Before I could answer, a group of young noblewomen drifted over. They wore gowns that seemed to be stitched from ambition itself — bright, dazzling, expensive. One, with hair the color of copper coins, smiled too sweetly.
"What an… unusual beauty," she said, her gaze sliding over my golden hair and blue eyes. "Do they… come from your mother's side?"
I kept my voice calm. "From both," I said simply. "And yours?"
Her smile faltered just enough to be satisfying.
The evening passed in a blur of polite conversation, introductions, and the Duke keeping a watchful eye on me from across the hall. But under the music and laughter, I caught fragments of whispers.
"She cooks for the servants?"
"Mana in food… dangerous.""Too much attention from House Veylan."
By the time the night ended, I was tired — not from dancing, but from smiling through layers of invisible threads being woven around me.
And though I didn't know it yet, one of those threads would tighten into a noose in the years to come.
Chapter 9 – Shadows from the Cradle
The morning air in the riding field was cool and sharp, smelling faintly of dew-soaked grass. My mare, Lyria, shifted beneath me, eager to move. The Duke sat tall on his black warhorse, watching me guide Lyria in wide circles.
"You ride better every month," he said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "But a horse isn't just for elegance — it's for escape, should you need it."
I frowned. "Escape? From what?"
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the field. "Elara… do you remember the winter when you were very small? Two years old?"
I shook my head. "Not really. I remember warm blankets and someone singing, but that's all."
His jaw tightened. "That winter, someone tried to take you from this house. A masked man entered through the servants' wing. By the time we caught him, he had you wrapped in a cloak and was halfway to the stables."
The reins in my hands felt suddenly heavier. "Why?"
"That," he said, his voice low, "is the question I have spent years trying to answer. Some thought it was ransom. Others…" He glanced at me, as if weighing how much to tell. "…others feared you. Even then."
"Feared me? I was a baby."
"Not just a baby. A child born with golden hair in a family of dark-haired nobles, with mana flaring before you could even walk. Rumors spread fast in the court, Elara. And fear makes people foolish."
A chill prickled down my spine. "And you… stopped him?"
He looked at me then, really looked, with an intensity that made my throat tighten. "I did more than stop him. I made sure no one doubted that House Draeven protects its own. I carried you back to your chamber myself… and I swore that no one would touch you again."
For a moment, I could almost see it — the great hall in darkness, the Duke striding in with a tiny child in his arms, his expression carved from stone.
The Duke broke the moment by nudging his horse forward. "Now. Again. Faster this time."
I pushed Lyria into a gallop, the wind whipping past my face. But even as I rode, the words stayed with me. Someone had wanted me gone since before I could speak — and in the glittering halls of the palace, perhaps they still did.
To be Continued....