Before the beginning...
Annie Vor used to believe life was a straight road. Study hard. Get into medical school. Become the pride of her mother — the woman who raised her alone, bruised by sacrifices no one ever praised.
But somewhere along that straight road, Annie had gotten lost.
Another rejection email flashed on her phone screen that morning. The final one. Her hands trembled around the device as the words We regret to inform you… blurred. It felt like the world had printed her failure in bold letters.
Maybe I wasn't made for anything at all.
She sat on her bed, back pressed against the cold wall, her breath shallow. The silence of the tiny apartment felt heavier than any crying child or scolding parent she had ever heard.
Then—like a flicker of light in a suffocating room—a memory surfaced:
The dusty scent of books. Her tiny feet pattering across the old city library. The warmth of stories wrapping around her like an invisible hug. Pages that made her forget reality and believe in magic.
Writing had always been her secret heartbeat. She hid it beneath textbooks and expectations. She gave up stories to become the story her mother wanted.
But now?
Now she could barely breathe.
That evening, Annie gathered the pieces of her courage like fragile glass and faced her mother.
"I… I want to write," she whispered, voice trembling but determined. "Not medicine. Writing is what makes me feel alive."
Her mother's eyes widened — disbelief first, then anger scorching through.
"You want to throw away everything? All I've worked for?"
Argument turned into shouts. Shouts into slammed doors.
For the first time, Annie didn't back down.
She locked herself in her room. Seconds later, her mother locked the door from outside too — a barrier of fury between them — and stormed out into the night.
Silence again.
But this time, it cut deeper.
Annie sat on the floor with her laptop open, tears slipping down her cheeks. If only I had spoken sooner… if only she understood. Her chest ached with the weight of every if only.
Then—the entire building shuddered.
A distant scream pierced the air. The smell of smoke slithered into her room, thick and suffocating. Flames crackled outside the window, reflections dancing like cruel spirits on the glass.
Her heartbeat thundered.
She ran to the door — locked.
She heaved her shoulder against it — no use.
She turned to the window — hot, blistering — impossible to break with her bare hands.
The fire was rising.
The smoke was claiming her breath.
Her hands shook violently as she returned to her laptop. If this was her end, she refused to leave without her voice being heard — at least once.
Words spilled. Her first chapter — raw and imperfect — uploaded into the world seconds before the flames stormed into her room.
Heat bit into her skin. The roar of fire was louder than her heartbeat now.
Maybe this is my fate…
A story unfinished.
Her vision blurred. She welcomed the darkness like a final page closing.
If I ever live again… I want to be brave.
The explosion came like a final punctuation mark.
Everything went black.
The world went black. Heat, smoke, pain — it all vanished in an instant.
When Annie Vor opened her eyes again, it wasn't her room. It wasn't the fire. It wasn't even her life.
She was lying on soft velvet sheets, the scent of lavender and old wood filling her senses. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, casting golden patterns on the polished floors. She blinked, confused. Her hands — delicate, small, and unfamiliar — rested on the covers.
A reflection in the ornate mirror across the room made her gasp.
The face staring back wasn't Annie Vor. Dark hair tumbled over pale shoulders, eyes wide and alert, framed by high cheekbones she didn't recognize. Her lips parted, but no words came.
And then, a realization struck her — not with shock, but with an odd, quiet certainty.
This… this is the world of my story. I'm… her.
She was Zaria Miravale.
Her parents were gone, long dead, victims of a tragedy she hadn't known. Yet she had survived — not alone, but in the care of her uncle and aunt, a couple who had no children of their own and had poured every ounce of love they had into raising her. They doted on her, protected her, and gave her a life filled with comfort… and rules.
But even as she soaked in the warmth of this family, a small, insistent voice whispered in her mind:
Not everything is as it seems.
The smiles were warm, the words kind, but something in the air — subtle, almost invisible — told her there were secrets hidden beneath the surface. Shadows lingered in the corners of the grand estate. Whispers floated through the hallways at night. The laughter, though genuine, had an edge she couldn't place.
Her heart raced. She was no longer a girl defined by fear and missed opportunities. She was a girl with a chance to rewrite her life — a protagonist in a story she alone would live. Every action, every choice, would shape her destiny.
I am Zaria Miravale, she repeated silently. And this time… I will not wait for courage to find me. I will create it.
A soft knock came at the door, and a warm voice called:
"Zaria, breakfast is ready, dear."
She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and prepared to step into her new life. Outside, the world awaited — a world that would test her, challenge her, and force her to become the heroine she was always meant to be.
But for the first time in her existence, she felt it — a thrill, a spark, a fire.
This is my story now. I will write it with my own hands..