The fragrance of incense clung to her lungs, thick as velvet smoke. Anaya stirred from the drowning dark, her chest aching as if she had been dragged from the depths of a dream too heavy to surface. Her last memory was neon light, a slick street crossing, and the sudden screech of tires—then nothing. No hospital ceiling, no paramedics' voices, only silence.
When her eyes opened, a canopy of crimson silk stretched above her. Golden embroidery shimmered in lamplight that glowed soft and honeyed, spilling from lanterns shaped like lotus blossoms. Beneath her, the bed felt wide enough for three, layered with silks that pooled like rivers. It was far from sterile steel and plastic; this was another world altogether.
Her hands rose trembling into view. They were pale and slender, each finger capped with nails painted a glossy scarlet. Jade bangles chimed faintly as they slid along her wrists. Anaya froze. These were not her hands. This was not her body.
A chorus of voices rippled at once. "Your Majesty, you have awakened."
The title sliced into her like a cold blade. Your Majesty? She lurched upright, nearly toppling under the sudden pull of a headdress heavy with pearls and gold. Rows of servants knelt along the chamber's polished floor, their foreheads pressed low, their gazes fixed on the ground. Behind them, painted screens depicted phoenixes soaring through clouds. Every detail glowed with sacred precision, every breath of air carried the weight of ritual.
"This is a dream," she whispered. But the voice that spilled out was not hers—it was softer, lilting, regal. Panic thundered inside her chest. She turned toward a tall bronze mirror propped against the wall.
The woman reflected back was a stranger. Regal features shaped by high cheekbones, phoenix eyes lined with kohl, lips painted crimson. Her black hair rose in an elaborate crown pinned with jade combs and pearl chains. No trace of Anaya remained. Instead, a queen gazed back.
The chamber doors creaked open. An older maid hurried inside, bowing low. "Your Majesty fainted at last night's banquet. The court has been most anxious. Shall I summon the physician?"
Banquet. Court. Physician. The words rattled in her skull, foreign yet oddly familiar. A rush of memories not her own pressed at the edges of her mind—kneeling before ministers, raising a cup of spiced wine beneath the Emperor's gaze, smiling at the Empress Dowager. The images did not belong to her, but to the body she now inhabited. She gripped the sheets, gasping. If this was a hallucination, it was mercilessly sharp.
A sudden chill brushed her skin. Anaya turned. Shadows thickened in the corner, stretching into shapes that should not exist. Three figures emerged—pale, wavering, yet vivid enough to steal her breath.
One was a scholar, robes flowing, eyes sunken with grief. A brush rested in his sash, though his hand trembled as though still writing petitions never answered. Another was a young maid, her throat marked by a thin, terrible line, her gaze forever pleading. The third stood taller, armored though battered, helm cracked and chest dented, his face weathered by campaigns long past.
"Finally," the scholar whispered, his voice threading into her mind. "At last, someone who can hear us."
The porcelain bowl on her bedside table rattled as she recoiled, knocking it to the floor. Servants gasped but only rushed to tidy the mess. They saw nothing unusual.
Anaya clutched the blanket. "What are you?" she whispered.
"Do not fear," the maid said gently, though her words seemed to echo inside Anaya's skull rather than aloud. She reached for Anaya's robe, her hand passing through the fabric like mist. "We are bound to this palace. No one else hears us—only you."
The warrior's eyes smoldered like embers. "You wear the Queen Consort's robes, but you are not her. We see it. Perhaps fate has sent you instead."
Anaya's pulse raced. The Queen Consort? That explained the servants, the titles, the headdress. She had not simply dreamed—she had transmigrated into another life, one that came tethered to restless spirits.
The doors opened again, wider this time. A matron entered, robes embroidered with dragons whose scales shimmered in the lantern glow. Authority clung to her like armor. At her presence, every servant pressed their forehead to the floor.
"The Queen Consort is awake," she announced. Her eyes, sharp as daggers, swept over Anaya. "His Majesty will expect you at court. You must be presentable. Do not shame your family. Do not shame the throne."
Her words weighed heavier than the headdress on Anaya's skull. Family? Throne? Already expectations coiled around her like chains. The matron bowed once and swept out, her attendants trailing behind like shadows.
Only silence remained. And the three ghosts.
The scholar leaned closer, lowering his voice though no one else could hear. "This palace is a battlefield painted with silk. Every smile hides a blade. Trust with care, Consort."
The maid shivered, her eyes glassy with remembered terror. "The last Queen Consort trusted, and it cost her life."
The warrior folded his arms, voice hard as iron. "But you—perhaps you will endure. Perhaps even rule."
Anaya stared at her reflection once more. Regal. Beautiful. Untouchable. Yet within, panic clawed her ribs. She was a stranger in this labyrinth of jade and gold, a pawn among dangers she did not understand. But her fate had been written the moment she opened her eyes here.
She straightened her spine, forcing her breath steady. If this was her destiny, then she would face it head-on. For in this palace of shadows, survival would demand nothing less than becoming the Queen Consort she now appeared to be.