2
Alina.
My mother has never been a quiet woman. When she's angry, the whole house vibrates with it. But nothing, not Adrian's scraped knees, not the time I almost set the library on fire, not even my father's legendary temper, prepared any of us for the storm that followed Adrian's letter from Umbra Noctis.
For three days, the Elowen estate became a battlefield. Servants tiptoed, doors slammed, voices echoed down the marble halls. I kept mostly to my room, ears pressed to the walls, listening to the arguments volleying back and forth. Adrian hid somewhere deep in the west wing. My father barked orders, demanded impossible solutions, and swore he'd bribe, threaten, or petition any council that would hear him. My mother just kept saying "no" in a tone sharp enough to draw blood.
"No, he can't go. Not my son. Not the heir."
It didn't matter that the letter had the official seal. It didn't matter that the names had been drawn in front of half the court. It didn't even matter that declining meant risking our whole family's reputation. In the end, the only thing that mattered was fear. Real, animal fear. I'd never seen it in her before, not like this. It made her ugly and small and dangerous all at once.
They argued late into the night. I could hear the words through the cracks: "He's not strong enough. You know what happens to humans there. Do you want to bury your only son?"
Adrian didn't say much. He sat through it all, pale and stiff, his hands clenched in his lap, eyes darting to the windows like he might climb out at any second and run. I almost wished he would.
Maris found me on the third night, sitting cross-legged in the window seat, watching the storm build up in the sky. She set a tray down, tea and bread, and sat beside me without asking. We watched lightning flash far away, turning the gardens into something strange and dangerous.
"You know they'll do anything to keep him here," she said quietly, like she was afraid the walls might be listening.
"Even if it means—" I couldn't say it. I didn't want to name the thing that was creeping closer every hour.
She put a hand on my shoulder, gentle but firm. "You've always been braver than you think."
I almost laughed. "Is that why I spend all day hiding?"
She squeezed my shoulder. "Being invisible isn't the same as being afraid."
The next morning, my mother summoned me. Not to her parlor or the sunroom or any of the polite places she preferred to forget I existed, but to her own chambers, with their velvet curtains and crystal perfume bottles lined up in a row. She sat at her vanity, not looking at me, brushing her hair with long, angry strokes.
"Sit," she said.
I sat. I waited.
She watched me in the mirror, her eyes sharp and cold. "You know what they're asking."
I did. I said nothing.
She put down her brush and turned to face me. Her hands were steady, but her face was white and drawn. "Your brother can't go. He's not meant for that place. He'd die in a week." The words were blunt. Not even an apology or sugar-coating.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
"We have only one choice," she said, her voice like ice cracking. "You will take his place."
That was it. No discussion. No questions. No, "Are you sure you're willing?" Just an order, as if it had been obvious all along.
I stared at her, mouth dry. "They'll know. I'm not him."
She smiled, but it wasn't kind. "Not if we do this right."
She stood, crossing the room with a rustle of skirts, and opened a drawer. She pulled out a pair of shears, a bottle of black dye, and a long strip of cloth. I recognized the cloth. My old linen nightgown, torn into a single, harsh ribbon.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
It was not the first time my mother had undressed me, but it felt different this time. It was colder, more official, like she was prepping a body for burial. She combed through my hair, fingers rough, yanking knots until my scalp burned. "You have to look like him," she said. "No one can see the white." She soaked a cloth in cold water and rubbed at my scalp, the dye stinging my skin, the smell sharp and chemical.
I tried not to cry. I bit the inside of my cheek, counting backwards from a hundred, focusing on the pressure of her hands, the way the dye bled under her fingernails.
When my hair was black and dripping, she yanked it tight and hacked off the length with the shears. It fell in uneven chunks to the floor. I stared at the pile, at the pieces of myself I'd never see again. I didn't let myself grieve. There wasn't time.
"Arms up," she said, knotting the linen strip between her hands. I did as I was told, feeling her wrap and twist and pull until I could barely breathe. The binding was tight, tighter than I thought possible, pressing my chest flat and making every inhale a struggle.
"You can't walk like a girl," she said, voice clipped. "Don't swing your hips. Don't fidget. Keep your chin up and don't look down."
She shoved a mirror at me. I stared at the stranger reflected there; black hair, eyes too big, skin pale from years indoors. I looked like Adrian, but wrong. Haunted.
"Practice," she said. "If you mess this up, you'll get us all killed."
No pressure.
By the time she finished, my head was pounding, my scalp burning, and my chest felt like it might split open. She dressed me in Adrian's old clothes; a crisp shirt, stiff trousers, a coat that smelled faintly of ink and sweat. The shoes pinched. The collar scratched at my neck.
She stepped back and surveyed her work, expression unreadable. For a second, I thought she might say something kind. Instead, she turned away. "Go to your father."
Down the hall, the staff lined up, eyes averted. My father waited in his study, heavy with the scent of old books and whiskey. He looked at me, at the too-short hair, the trembling hands, and for a moment, I saw something like regret flicker across his face.
He cleared his throat. "This is the only way."
I nodded, because it was expected.
"You're not to speak unless spoken to. Keep your head down. Do what they say. Don't try to be clever."
He handed me a ring. Adrian's signet. Heavy gold, engraved with the Elowen crest. It slid onto my finger, too big, and nearly fell off. I caught it and clenched my fist.
"You're Adrian now," he said.
I swallowed. "Yes, sir."
He didn't hug me. He didn't even touch me. He just turned back to his desk and dismissed me with a wave.
The next hour was a blur. My mother barked orders at the staff, making sure my things were packed. Not my things, really; Adrian's books, Adrian's comb, Adrian's favorite scarf. I stood there as they stuffed my old life into a trunk and locked it tight.
Maris found me in the entryway, face flushed, eyes rimmed red. She pressed a small pouch into my hand; dried herbs, for luck. "Don't eat the food unless you have to," she whispered. "Don't trust anyone. Not even the other humans."
I nodded. My throat hurt too much to speak.
"Come back to me," she said, squeezing my fingers.
Then the carriage was waiting, horses stomping impatiently. My father kissed Adrian; my brother, the real one, on the forehead, then turned to me and nodded once sharply. My mother didn't look at me at all.
I climbed into the carriage, the trunk thumping behind me, the door slamming shut with a sound that felt far too loud for such a quiet morning.
The ride to the portal was short, but it felt like a lifetime. The world outside the window was gray and wet, fields shrouded in mist, trees bending under the weight of autumn rain. I pressed my forehead to the glass and tried to imagine what waited on the other side. Monsters, I supposed. Magic. A place where my name meant nothing and my face was just another mask.
I didn't realize I was crying until I tasted salt on my lips.
We stopped in front of an ancient stone archway, carved with symbols I couldn't read. The portal. The guards stood on either side, weapons sheathed but hands ready. My father climbed out first, then me. My mother stayed in the carriage, looking straight ahead.
The headmaster was waiting; a tall man in black, with a face that could have been carved from stone. He looked me over, eyes lingering on the too-short hair, the stiff clothes, the ring on my finger.
"Adrian Elowen," he said, voice as cold as the morning.
I nodded, unable to find my voice.
He handed me a slip of parchment. "Show this at the gate. Your escort will meet you on the other side."
I tried to remember what my mother said; don't fidget, chin up, don't look down, but my knees were shaking. I took a step forward, then another, until I was standing in front of the portal. The stone shimmered, light curling in the air like smoke.
I looked back, searching for Maris's face, for Adrian, for anything familiar. My father nodded once, almost proud. My mother stared through me.
"Go," the headmaster said.
I took a breath. The binding on my chest squeezed. The dye on my scalp itched. The ring on my finger felt impossibly heavy.
I stepped through the archway.
The world tilted, spun, and vanished.