The metal carriage wailed like a dying dragon.
Su-yin lay strapped to a narrow cot, the world rushing by in a blur of blinding lights. Two men in strange blue uniforms hovered over her, pressing cold discs to her chest and shouting numbers at each other.
She did not scream. She did not struggle.
In the Flower House, the first rule of survival was simple: When in the presence of unknown power, silence is the strongest shield.
If you speak, you reveal your ignorance. If you remain silent, they project their own fears and assumptions onto you. So, Su-yin locked her jaw and widened her eyes just enough to look terrified—which wasn't difficult. She was terrified. But she was also calculating.
St. Jude's Private Hospital. Room 402.
The room was brighter than high noon, yet there was no sun. The light poured from long tubes in the ceiling. The air was unnaturally cool, dry, and smelled of sharp spirits.
A man in a white coat—a physician, presumably, though he looked far too young and clean shaven to be a master of medicine—shined a light into her eyes.
"Elena? Can you hear me?" The Doctor asked, his voice brisk. "Blink once for yes."
Su-yin blinked. She understood the words. The language was different from her native tongue, yet this body—Elena's body—translated them instantly. It was like reading a book where the ink was already dry in her mind.
"Good," the Doctor said. "Do you know where you are?"
Su-yin remained silent. She stared at his necktie.
"Do you know what year it is?"
Silence.
"Elena, you suffered a minor heart attack," the Doctor explained, slowing his words down. "Likely caused by stress and an acute panic attack. There was a period of hypoxia—lack of oxygen to the brain. That's why you might be feeling confused."
Su-yin's brow furrowed slightly.
Heart attack? She knew the heart could break from grief, but could it attack itself? And Oxygen? Was that a spirit? A humor of the blood?
She filed these words away to analyze later. For now, she needed to assess her condition. Her limbs felt heavy, like lead. Her stomach was a hollow pit, gnawing at her spine. This body was frail. It had been starved, likely by the grief that killed the previous owner.
"Elena?" The Doctor pressed, looking concerned by her blank stare.
Su-yin parted her lips. Her throat was dry. She needed strength to fight this battle.
"I..." Her voice was a raspy croak.
Julian, who had been standing in the corner wringing his hands, rushed forward. "She's speaking! What is it, El? What do you need?"
Su-yin looked at him, then at the Doctor. She spoke the only truth that mattered right now.
"I... hunger."
Twenty minutes later, a nurse placed a tray on the rolling table in front of her.
It was a humble meal, or so they seemed to think. A triangular stack of bread filled with meat and greens, and a plastic cup filled with an orange liquid.
Su-yin sat up, the bed humming as it mechanically adjusted her posture. Magic, she thought. Lazy, wonderful magic.
She picked up the sandwich. The bread was impossibly white and soft, like a cloud held in her hand. There was no grit of the millstone. She took a bite.
Her eyes widened.
Flavor exploded on her tongue. The meat was tender, salty, and savory. The yellow paste (mayonnaise) was rich as cream. But it was the bread that shocked her—it was so refined, so pure. In Aethelgard, white bread this soft was reserved for the High Table on feast days.
She chewed slowly, savoring every texture. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye.
"Is it... is it okay?" Julian asked, his voice trembling. "I can get you something else if you don't like the turkey."
Su-yin ignored him. She reached for the cup. She took a sip of the orange liquid.
She nearly dropped the cup.
It was ice cold.
Ice. In the middle of summer. In a cup made of material she didn't recognize. And the taste—sweet, tart, vibrant. It was like drinking liquid sunshine.
The Queen... Su-yin thought, suppressing a dark chuckle. That wretched woman thought she was a god because she had snow brought down from the mountains for her wine once a year. She never tasted anything like this.
Su-yin ate with the grace of a woman who had dined with Kings, but with the intensity of a starving wolf. She wiped the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin—paper so soft it felt like silk—and placed the crustless remnants back on the plate.
The Doctor, watching from the foot of the bed, let out a long breath. He turned to Julian, lowering his voice.
"Well, her appetite is intact. That's a very good sign physically."
"But why won't she answer any questions?" Julian whispered, glancing back at Su-yin. "She's just staring at the wall. She looks... regal, almost. But distant."
"Trauma response," the Doctor said confidently. "Dissociation. She's overwhelmed. Her body is here, but her mind has retreated to a 'safe place' to cope with the stress of the scandal and the medical event. Don't push her. Let her rest. The memory and personality will reintegrate slowly."
Su-yin, who had finished the last drop of the miraculous cold juice, closed her eyes.
Trauma response, she thought, testing the phrase. Dissociation.
She didn't know what those words meant exactly, but she understood the intent. They thought she was broken. They thought she was hiding inside herself because she was weak.
Perfect.
Let them think she was broken. A broken sword is ignored until the moment it is reforged and driven through the enemy's heart.
"I am tired," Su-yin announced, her voice gaining a fraction of strength from the meal.
"Rest, Elena," Julian said softly, pulling the blanket up over her feet. "I'll handle the press. I'll handle everything."
Su-yin nestled into the pillows—pillows softer than goose down—and allowed herself to drift off. She had a new world to conquer, but first, she would sleep.