The first thing Alina felt was the cold.
It wasn't a gentle, crisp cold like the morning air in the high towers of Emeraldia. It was a deep, seeping chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with absence. Gone was the warmth of Emeraldia's ever-present sun, the clean, magic-infused breeze on her skin, the low, constant hum of a kingdom that was vibrantly, breathtakingly alive. Instead, there was only the dull chill of her apartment, the scratchy, cheap fabric of her worn-out sheets, and the distant, mechanical hum of city life filtering through her window.
She stirred, her mind sluggish and heavy, clinging desperately to the shimmering fragments of a dream that had been far too vivid, too complete, to be anything but real. The taste of sun-warmed, stolen fruit was still a ghost on her tongue; the sound of Alfred's exasperated squawk still echoed in her ears.
Then her eyes fluttered open.
The cracked, water-stained ceiling of her apartment greeted her like a cruel, personal joke. The peeling wallpaper with its faded floral pattern sat in quiet mockery. The clutter of yesterday—a coffee mug, a discarded mail circular, her worn work shoes—was completely unchanged. There were no rivers of liquid light, no floating lanterns casting an amethyst glow, no sky that pulsed with living constellations. Just this. Just here.
Just reality.
Alina bolted upright, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as a cold, sharp panic began to creep into her chest.
No.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be back here.
She threw off her thin blanket, her hands scrambling for the ring on her finger. She gripped it tightly, the metal cool and inert against her skin, holding it like it was the only thing tethering her to the world she had just been ripped away from.
She twisted it. Pressed the emerald with her thumb. Tugged at it, trying to will it to life.
Nothing happened.
There was no warmth. No familiar, gravitational pull. No shimmer of magic weaving through her veins like a second pulse. She frantically slipped it off, the skin underneath pale and bare, then thrust it back on, waiting—begging—for something to happen.
Still, nothing. The emerald that had once pulsed with an inner light was now just a dull, green stone. It was a dead thing.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. Her gaze shot to the digital clock on her nightstand.
7:00 a.m.
She had left Emeraldia as its clocks struck midnight. What had felt like three full, vibrant days there had been compressed into a single, seven-hour night here. Her stomach twisted into a painful, nauseous knot at the realization.
It was just a dream. A beautiful, elaborate, heartbreakingly detailed dream.
No.
It couldn't have been. A desperate, internal scream fought against the crushing logic. It had been too real—the texture of the silver leaves, the sweet, complex taste of the fruit, the voices, the laughter, the profound sense of life she had felt in her bones. She hadn't imagined it. It had happened.
But now she was here. Back in the cage.
Alina clenched her jaw, swallowing the hard, painful lump rising in her throat. There was no point in screaming out loud. No point in throwing things against the wall. No point in wishing.
She had work to get to.
Reality, in all its gray, unforgiving monotony, had needs. And right now, hers were brutally simple—get dressed, go to work, get through the day.
She pulled on her slacks with stiff, mechanical movements, her mind still racing in frantic, useless circles. Her white blouse hung loosely over her frame, lifeless and devoid of colour. Her shoes, scuffed at the edges, felt like lead weights. Everything about her old life felt wrong—too stiff, too plain, too suffocatingly empty.
Emeraldia had been full. Overflowing with colour, with magic, with a sense of wonder that had filled every part of her she hadn't even known was empty. And now she was back in a world that had never wanted her, that had never even noticed she was there in the first place.
Still, she shoved her hair into a messy, careless bun, grabbed her bag, and stepped outside into the morning.
The air was sharp and acrid with the smell of exhaust fumes. City traffic filled the streets with a cacophony of blaring horns and rumbling engines. She walked without purpose, her body on autopilot, making her way to the office like a shadow drifting through the aggressive morning rush.
But her mind was elsewhere, lost in a place a thousand worlds away.
She thought of the silver-leafed trees swaying gently in the wind, whispering secrets only the stars could understand. She thought of the floating pastries that dodged fingertips with playful mischief, teasing hungry customers in Emeraldia's bustling, joyful marketplace. She thought of Alfred, huffing in exasperation at her antics, his golden feathers gleaming under the soft, clean daylight of a world that thrived in magic. She thought of rivers that glowed, roads paved in what looked like moonstone, and musicians whose melodies painted the very sky with colour.
And then she thought of the story Alfred had told her—of the first queen who came from another world, of the two daughters, of the one who had been lost before she was ever found. The whispers of a lineage that didn't belong here.
A deep shudder wracked her body.
Was that her? Was that who she was meant to be? A lost girl, a forgotten princess?
She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, forcing her feet to press forward on the cracked pavement. It didn't matter. It was over. A beautiful dream, a cruel joke—whatever it was, it was finished.
By the time she reached her office, the humming, soul-leaching glare of the fluorescent lighting was a painful contrast to the gentle, living glow of Emeraldia's rivers. The same tired faces surrounded her, ghosts in gray cubicles, filing papers, tapping on keyboards, muttering about deadlines and reports.
No magic. No wonder. No adventure.
Just routine. Just this.
She took her seat at her desk, staring blankly at the computer screen before her. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no words came. No thoughts came. There was a vast, hollow space inside her where her spirit used to be. The weight of this suffocating normalcy pressed down on her, and she felt like she couldn't breathe.
Logan Hayes walked by, pausing briefly at her desk to offer one of his easy, distracted smiles. "Morning, Alina."
She barely heard him. His voice, which once sent a thrill through her, was now just noise.
"Morning," she murmured, not even looking up from her screen.
It wasn't the same. His smile didn't make her heart race today. His presence didn't stir a flutter of excitement. Not after Emeraldia. Not after the man in the emerald robes. Not after what she had seen and felt. Logan Hayes was a black-and-white photograph in a world where she had just experienced glorious, vivid colour.
She barely made it through the day, functioning like a machine, a hollowed-out automaton. She responded when needed, typed when required, but her thoughts remained far, far away, tucked somewhere in the aching space between this reality and the world she had lost.
Was she ever going back? Would the ring ever work again? Did Emeraldia even want her? Did they know she was gone?
The questions burned inside her, a constant, silent torment with no answers.
And when she finally returned to her apartment that evening, the oppressive quiet closing in on her, she sat alone in her unimpressive room and stared at the ring on her finger. She held it up in the dim light, willing it, pleading with it, to show her a sign, a flicker of light, a pulse of warmth.
It didn't. It remained a cold, dead thing.
And for the first time in her life, Alina Gray didn't just dislike her reality. She truly, deeply, and passionately hated it.