She stumbled into the street, the cool night breeze brushing against her skin and whipping strands of hair across her face. Weak, hungry, and exhausted, she could barely stand. Her last few coins had gone into the café earlier that evening and it was just for a brief escape, a cup of coffee, and the comfort of her favorite novel which had unfortunately made her homeless.
She had some savings back in her room, but they were locked away in her room, and Miss Vanessa had refused to let her take a single thing. Now, all she had left in the world was her worn copy of Romance in the Five Empyrean States, that is the only piece of her life she could still call her own.
Eventually, she found a park and sank onto one of the long wooden benches. Pulling the novel close, she opened it at random page and her gaze landed instantly on Grant Castiglione's golden eyes. It was page thirteen, where his full-length sketch filled the paper: a tall man cloaked in black, his gaze is both fierce and glacial.
Her eyelids suddenly grew heavy as she stared at him. The night's silence deepened around her, wrapping her in its arms. Sleep crept in quietly, and she slumped softly against the bench, the book still clasped in her hands.
The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was Grant Castiglione's golden gaze and the faint curve of a smirk, a dialogue bubble over his head that said, "It's showtime."
It suddenly felt comfortable — her lying position, her back pressed against a soft layer, her head sinking into something smooth and warm.
This couldn't be the bench in the park, could it? she thought.
A gentle tap landed on her face, followed by a muffled voice.
"My Lady?"
The tapping persisted, the voice urgent. She slowly cracked her eyelids open, her gaze settling on the figure hovering over her.
The person was dressed in a uniform of white and grey, black hair tied neatly into a bun.
"Who are you?" Daphne asked weakly, frowning up at the figure.
The woman frowned back, small creases forming on her face — signs of approaching old age.
"My Lady, you are late," she whispered, her gaze fixed on Daphne.
Then it dawned on her. She wasn't in the park. She was in a bedroom.
Daphne jerked upright, chest heaving as her eyes darted around the room.
Where was she? What was this place?
The bedroom was at least five times the size of her small room at Miss Vanessa's. Everything was in shades of blue and white — the white bed with blue sheets, some blue pillows, and a white blanket; the walls painted a soft satin white with a corner accented in blue. Four tall pillars surrounded the queen-sized bed, each draped with blue-and-white curtains tied elegantly to the posts. A plush foot mat lay beneath her feet.
To the far left stood a large mirrored door, slightly ajar, revealing clothes within — a closet, most likely.
And to her right, a blue-and-white three-seater couch completed the grand decor.
She swallowed hard, confusion clawing at her chest.
Suddenly, the white-and-gold double doors before her burst open. Five women, all dressed in the same uniform as the first, entered with their heads bowed. One carried a bowl of water, another a white towel, a third a blue box, and the youngest carried a royal-blue dress draped over her arm.
"My Lady, we must hurry. It's almost sunset — we'll be late."
Late for what? Why were they calling her My Lady? Where was she?
"Uhm… I-I think this is a dream. Let me go back to sleep," Daphne murmured, beginning to lower her head back onto the pillow.
But before she could, the woman yanked her upright and pulled her toward a door in the corner — one she hadn't noticed before.
As they moved, Daphne caught sight of her reflection in a nearby mirror and froze.
She gaped.
She was wearing a white nightdress — but that wasn't what stunned her. It was her hair. Long, black, and glimmering softly behind her. She brushed her fingers through it in disbelief.
"W-what's my name?" Daphne asked quietly.
The woman blinked, confused. "My Lady? It's Daphne. Now, we really must go."
"Daphne what?"
The woman sighed impatiently. "Daphne Whitmore, daughter of the Fifth Empyrean King. Now, please — let's get you ready!"
Daphne froze. Her focus shifted from her reflection to the woman's face. "What did you just say?"
"I said we need to get you prepared—"
"No, not that." Daphne's voice trembled. "The one before."
"Daughter of the Fifth Empyrean King?"
"Yes. Exactly. Empyrean… as in The Five Empyrean Cities?"
"My Lady, are you drunk?"
"Just answer the question."
The woman hesitated, then nodded.
Daphne turned back to the mirror, chuckling weakly. "That's impossible."
"What is?" the woman asked.
A tight knot formed in Daphne's stomach. One more question — this would confirm everything.
"V-Varyn Nightbourne… is he—?"
"The son of the First Empyrean King? Yes, of course. Why?"
Her blood ran cold.
"Yiwa Locke?" she whispered.
"The Governor's cousin? Why are you asking about all these people? What's going on—?"
The Governor. Her greatest nightmare.
Here it goes…
"Who is the Governor?" Daphne asked, bracing herself.
"Grant, My Lady. Grant Castiglione — your soon-to-be husband."
Everything blurred.
That was all she saw.