Chapter 1 — The Girl Who Should Have Died
Death was quieter than Avelyn had imagined.
There was no tunnel of light, no divine judgment, no voice asking her to repent or rejoice. Just silence—thick, endless, and strangely gentle. For a fleeting moment, she thought perhaps this was mercy. Oblivion without pain.
Then came the ache.
It crept into her awareness slowly, like cold seeping into bone. Her chest felt heavy, as if something pressed down on her ribs. Her head throbbed, not sharply, but with a dull persistence that refused to be ignored. Breathing was difficult. Each inhale burned her lungs.
A hospital, she thought vaguely. Did I survive?
Her last memory was fragmented—rain against asphalt, the sound of brakes screaming too late, the sickening weightlessness before impact. She remembered thinking, with detached irony, that trusting someone again had been her final mistake.
Avelyn tried to open her eyes.
Light stabbed into her vision.
She gasped, her body jerking violently as air rushed into her lungs. The sudden movement sent a wave of pain through her limbs—too intense, too real to be the afterlife. She coughed, the sound weak and unfamiliar to her own ears.
Voices erupted around her.
"She's awake!"
"Quickly—call the physician!"
"Your Highness, please remain still!"
Your… Highness?
Confusion drowned out the pain. Avelyn blinked rapidly, tears forming as her vision adjusted. The ceiling above her was not the sterile white she expected, but carved stone, adorned with gold filigree and symbols she did not recognize. Heavy curtains of deep crimson framed tall windows, through which sunlight poured in—warm, real, alive.
This was not a hospital.
Panic surged, but her body refused to obey. She tried to move her arms and found them trembling, weak, draped in fabric far too soft to be cheap. Silk. No—something even finer.
A woman leaned into her field of vision. She wore a long dress of muted blue, her hair pulled back tightly, her face pale with alarm.
"Princess Avelyn," the woman said, her voice shaking. "Thank the gods—you've awakened."
Princess.
The word echoed in Avelyn's mind, hollow and impossible.
She tried to speak, to ask where she was, who they were, what had happened—but only a hoarse whisper escaped her lips. The effort sent another spike of pain through her skull, and darkness crowded the edges of her vision.
"Easy," another voice commanded, firm and male. "She's still weak."
Strong hands pressed her gently back against the pillows. The touch was careful, controlled—someone accustomed to restraint. Avelyn caught a glimpse of armor at the edge of her sight, polished steel catching the light.
A knight?
Her thoughts fractured.
Before she could process anything further, the world slipped away again.
---
When consciousness returned, it did so with clarity—and memories that were not hers.
They crashed into her mind like a flood: corridors of stone, whispered insults, cold meals eaten alone, the weight of constant insignificance. A young girl standing behind her elder sister, always outshone, always overlooked. A father's indifferent gaze. A court that barely remembered her name.
Princess Avelyn Caelistra.
Second daughter of the King of Arkhavel.
Weak. Sickly. Disposable.
Avelyn lay still as understanding settled into her bones. This was no dream. No hallucination born of trauma. The memories were too complete, too detailed, woven seamlessly with her own.
She had died.
And been reborn.
Her lips curved into a faint, humorless smile.
Of course.
If there was one thing she had learned in her previous life, it was that the universe had a twisted sense of irony. She, who had spent years trying to disappear quietly, had been reborn into a body that could never escape notice—yet was deemed worthless all the same.
Slowly, carefully, Avelyn opened her eyes again.
This time, she did not panic.
The room was quieter now. Sunlight filtered in at a gentler angle, suggesting hours had passed. A single figure remained seated near the bed—the knight she had glimpsed earlier.
He rose immediately when he noticed her stirring.
"Princess," he said, placing a fist over his chest in a formal salute. "Sir Kael Ardyn. Crown Knight. I am tasked with your protection."
His voice was even, devoid of warmth or disdain. Professional. His expression matched—handsome in a sharp, disciplined way, dark hair pulled back, eyes the color of tempered steel.
Avelyn studied him silently.
In the memories she now possessed, Sir Kael Ardyn was known as a loyal blade of the crown, feared for his efficiency and admired for his incorruptibility. He had little patience for court politics—and even less for fragile royals.
That explained the distance in his gaze.
"I apologize," he continued. "You collapsed earlier today during the council procession. The physicians feared the worst."
They expected me to die, Avelyn corrected internally.
Aloud, she forced her throat to work. "How… long?"
"Several hours," Kael replied. "You were unconscious, but stable."
Avelyn nodded faintly, playing the part expected of her. Weak. Soft-spoken. Unthreatening.
Yet inside, her mind raced.
If the memories were accurate—and she had no reason to doubt them—then her collapse had not been accidental. The original Avelyn's body was frail, but the timing had been suspicious. Stress. Pressure. Neglect.
Or something more deliberate.
"Your Highness," Kael said after a pause, his tone measured. "The court is… unsettled by your condition."
She almost laughed.
"Am I required," she asked quietly, "to reassure them?"
Kael blinked, just once. It was subtle, but she caught it.
"That would not be necessary," he said carefully. "Your presence alone would suffice."
Liar, she thought. My presence has never sufficed for anything.
But she smiled softly and lowered her gaze, allowing silence to stretch. Kael did not press further. He seemed relieved when a maid entered shortly after with fresh linens and herbs.
As they fussed over her, Avelyn listened.
The palace had not changed. Her sister remained the jewel of Arkhavel. Her father remained distant. And she remained—by all accounts—expendable.
Good.
No one would notice the difference when she changed.
---
That night, when the palace slept, Avelyn sat alone by the window of her chamber, wrapped in a thick robe. The city stretched beyond the walls, lanterns glowing faintly like fallen stars. Somewhere in the distance, bells rang to mark the hour.
She pressed a hand against her chest, feeling a steady heartbeat.
I'm alive.
The realization did not bring joy. Only resolve.
In her previous life, she had trusted openly—and paid the price. Here, she would do the opposite. She would observe. Learn. Survive.
Footsteps echoed softly behind her.
"You should be resting."
Avelyn did not turn. She recognized the voice instantly—low, melodic, carrying an undercurrent that made the air feel heavier.
"I find it difficult to sleep," she replied.
Silence followed, thick with curiosity.
When she finally faced him, the man stood just inside the shadows of her chamber. His silver hair caught the moonlight, his eyes glowing faintly with an unnatural hue.
"Princess Avelyn Caelistra," he said calmly. "Or rather… the soul who now inhabits her."
Her breath stilled.
"You see," he continued, stepping closer without permission, "souls do not always belong where they awaken. And yours—yours is very far from home."
Fear brushed against her heart—but did not take hold.
"Who are you?" she asked.
The man smiled.
"Elior Lunaris," he said. "And your existence has just rewritten fate."
Avelyn met his gaze without flinching.
Then, for the first time since her rebirth, she felt it—
Not fear.
Not weakness.
But power waiting to be claimed.
And somewhere deep within the palace, something ancient stirred… as if a crown had begun to take notice.