Darkness swallowed her without warning.
There was no sensation of falling, no feeling of being pulled, no movement of her body. There was only… silence. A silence so dense it felt alive—creeping across her skin, seeping into her pores, whispering the most primal fear, the kind that didn't even have a name.
Liora did not immediately realize she was dreaming.
She only knew she couldn't feel her weight.
Couldn't feel the floor.
Couldn't feel pain.
Couldn't feel space.
As though the world had abandoned her.
The thought alone was enough to make her small heart tighten—if she still had a heart. She didn't know whether she was breathing. She didn't know whether she still had eyes. Everything was dark. Everything was still.
How long had she been there?
There was no time in this dream. No seconds. No minutes. No days.
Only a faint consciousness, like a fragile thread on the verge of snapping.
"...H-hello?"
Her own voice sounded strange—no echo, no resonance, just sinking straight into the void. She wasn't even sure whether she spoke with her mouth or simply imagined the words.
No answer.
Liora hugged herself in the directionless darkness. But even her own arms felt like mist. As if she wasn't entirely real. Fear crawled between the bones she wasn't sure she possessed.
"Don't… d-don't leave me…" she whispered, though she didn't know who she was pleading with.
But the darkness did not care.
Then—from somewhere far, far away—
something changed.
---
At first, there was only a faint sound, like distant stones collapsing.
Then the darkness began to shift—not like wind, but like thick fog parting slowly.
A dim red light seeped through the cracks of that blackness—glowing faintly, pulsing like the heartbeat of some colossal creature.
Liora froze.
A shape began to emerge.
Not a world, not a forest, not an empty room—
but a castle.
Or what remained of it.
The remnants of tall, blackened walls rose around her like the carcasses of stone giants that had died thousands of years ago. Massive pillars lay split and broken, fractured like snapped bones. The dark marble floor was cracked and ruined, as though torn apart by some ancient war.
Everything was dull, dusty, forgotten.
And from above, shards of red light drifted down like slow-moving rain.
Liora stood unmoving, unsure whether she should breathe—if she even could. Her heart tightened, even here in a place where she wasn't sure she had a body.
"Where… is this…?"
The castle was magnificent—even shattered—
so grand it made the little girl feel impossibly small.
Like a speck lost in the ruins of gods.
But before she could gather her thoughts, a voice spoke.
Deep.
So deep it seemed to rise from the belly of the earth.
Yet soft.
Dangerous and beautiful.
Flowing into her ears like night wind brushing against her skin.
"At last…"
The voice felt close—too close—and eerily familiar, like something that had whispered her name centuries ago.
Liora turned—
or perhaps her mind turned—toward the sound.
And she saw him.
A silhouette at the far end of the hall.
Tall.
Taller than any human man.
Wrapped in a cloak of black that rippled like liquid smoke. Red light shimmered faintly across the folds of his garment. But his face—
Was not visible.
A pool of shadow obscured where his features should have been, like a veil of impenetrable fog that refused to let light exist near him. She saw only the outline of a broad-shouldered figure, standing with unnerving stillness, an aura so cold that even the surrounding darkness seemed to bow beneath his presence.
Liora swallowed, whether physically or in thought she did not know.
Her legs trembled.
This was not human.
Not something she should ever meet.
"Don't be afraid," the voice said.
And somehow, that was more terrifying than if he had shouted.
The man stepped forward.
Each step felt like the floor shivered—not physically, but perceptually. As though the air realigned itself to let him pass. Darkness flowed with him, stretching behind him like the tail of a dragon.
Liora tried to step back.
But she couldn't move.
Her legs didn't respond.
Or perhaps the darkness held her still.
He stopped directly in front of her.
Close.
Too close.
Liora stared up at him, trembling violently.
Then the voice unfurled again:
"It has been a very long time…"
His tone was not angry.
Not harsh.
Not commanding.
Just… acknowledging.
Liora's voice cracked as she stammered:
"W-who… who are you…?"
A cold breeze brushed her cheek—
or perhaps it was the breath of his shadow.
Then he spoke, voice low and gentle, yet heavy with something that felt like destiny:
"You've finally returned… my sorceress…
my light…"
Her breath broke.
Two words she did not understand.
"S-sorceress?" she whispered. "No… no, I'm nothing… I'm nobody…"
The shadowed man seemed to smile—she couldn't see it, but she could feel it.
"You've forgotten," he murmured. "That's all right. You will remember… slowly. And when everything returns to you… the world will kneel again."
Liora's heart pounded violently against her ribs.
Something about those words struck something deep inside her—something ancient and aching to awaken.
"W-why am I here…?" she whispered.
He leaned closer—not touching her, but allowing his darkness to brush the air around her face.
"Because you fell," he said.
"Because your small body is fragile. Because the world treats you like filth."
His voice sharpened.
"Because your blood is despised by foolish humans who don't understand its value."
Liora shivered.
"You… you know about me…?"
"I know everything about you."
The words flowed like honeyed poison—warm, dangerous, irresistible.
"Even the things you cannot yet remember."
She didn't get to ask more.
For suddenly, the dream-world trembled.
The entire shadowed castle began to crack apart.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
Pillars split with thunderous roars.
The man did not move.
He only watched her.
"We will meet again," he whispered.
"When your time comes."
The darkness tore the world apart.
Liora screamed as the ground crumbled beneath her feet.
She fell—
and everything vanished.
---
Awakening in a Room That Isn't Hers
Something pressed against her chest.
Not hands, not stone—
but air.
Warm. Soft. Alive.
Liora stirred faintly. Her small body felt heavy, as though every bone inside her had turned to cold iron. Her eyelids fluttered, reluctant to open. Her own breath sounded foreign in her ears—as if she had returned from a place where breathing was optional.
"She… she's moving."
A voice.
A woman's voice.
Soft, nervous—nothing like the harsh tones of the usual servants.
Liora forced her eyes open.
Light.
Blinding light from a large window flooded her vision. She blinked rapidly, her eyes stinging after too long in darkness.
Then she realized—
This was not her damp broom closet.
Nor the filthy corridor where she had collapsed.
She was lying in a room that—
… could not possibly belong to her.
Tall windows draped with soft white curtains.
Polished marble floors.
A small table, vases of fresh flowers, a plush carpet, even a grand mirror on the wall.
But what froze her completely was—
The bed.
Soft. Warm. Covered with clean white blankets. The pillow smelled faintly of lavender. No mold. No dust. No biting cold.
This…
This was the bedroom of a noble's daughter.
But Liora was no daughter.
She was the cursed servant's child, the household's stain—
the child who wasn't even allowed to eat with the other servants.
"W… where am I…?" she whispered, voice hoarse.
The young maid—a girl Liora had never seen before—startled, then rushed to the door.
"I—I'll call the Young Master! He said to inform him the moment you woke!"
Young Master.
Which meant one of her half-brothers.
Liora's stomach twisted painfully.
Kael?
Lucien?
If it was Kael, he'd mock her, insult her, maybe slap her.
If it was Lucien…
… Kael would almost be kinder.
Kael's cruelty was loud.
Lucien's cruelty was quiet—
and far sharper.
Liora tried to sit up, but her body refused. Her limbs were limp as wet fabric. Her chest ached, her throat burned, and her head swam.
Why…
Why am I here?
Am I dead?
Is this another dream?
Was I dragged here for a reason she didn't understand?
Before she could think further, the door opened.
Light footsteps. Calm. Unhurried.
Lucien.
The seventeen-year-old young master stepped inside with his usual composed, icy expression. His black hair was neat, his clothes pristine, and his pale grey eyes—always cold—looked at Liora without a flicker of emotion.
Behind him, two senior servants bowed deeply.
Liora trembled.
Instinct told her to roll off the bed, kneel on the floor, and apologize.
But her body stayed still.
Lucien approached, steps silent on the thick carpet. He stopped beside the bed, staring down at her as if assessing whether the creature before him was worth keeping alive.
"So," he said quietly,
"You're finally awake."
His voice held no warmth.
No relief.
Liora opened her lips, but only a broken whisper came out:
"I-I'm sorry…"
Lucien raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Sorry for what?"
Liora lowered her head, pink hair cascading messily.
"I… I don't know… but… I must've done something wrong…"
Lucien exhaled faintly through his nose, the way one does when realizing they're wasting their time.
"You were unconscious for four days," he said coldly. "You nearly died."
Four days.
Liora's eyes widened.
"I… four… days…?"
"Yes."
Lucien's tone did not soften.
"You were found in the back corridor with no food, no water, your body cold as a corpse."
Liora swallowed. She remembered—
the punishment.
The darkness.
The hunger.
The fear.
And then… the dream.
The man in the ruined castle.
His voice.
His words.
Lucien noticed her reaction, but didn't ask. He didn't care. He only cared about one thing:
"Someone like you cannot die without permission."
He leaned slightly closer.
"Your death would make Father appear incapable of managing his own household."
Someone like you.
He said it like stating the weight of a stone.
Liora lowered her head even more.
"I'm sorry…"
"There is no need to apologize," Lucien said sharply. "Just do not repeat something so foolish as nearly dying."
From anyone else, it might've sounded like concern.
From Lucien, it was a threat.
"I… I don't understand…" Liora whispered. "Why… am I here? This room…"
Lucien glanced around, unimpressed.
"Don't misunderstand."
His eyes sharpened.
"You weren't moved here because you deserve it. You were moved because Father doesn't want visitors seeing the wretched state of the lowest member of this household."
The words pierced her like a dull blade—
slow, painful, bruising.
"You're being hidden," Lucien continued.
"Not honored."
Suddenly the room felt small.
The luxurious blankets became chains.
The soft bed became a gilded cage.
Nothing had changed.
No miracle.
No kindness.
Just a different cell, cleaner than the last.
Lucien turned to leave, but paused at the door.
"Oh—one more thing."
He looked over his shoulder.
"Do not create trouble. You just woke up, but do not expect pity. You're still lowborn."
The door shut.
Liora lay motionless in the room far too elegant for someone like her.
The only sound was her heartbeat—
soft, fragile, trembling.
And then, quietly, a tear fell.
Not because of the room.
Not because of Lucien.
But because of the dream.
The man in shadow.
The collapsing castle.
The voice calling her my light.
Why…
Why did the dream world
feel warmer
than the real one?