Marcella sat up abruptly, the weight of the heavy quilt falling away from her. She blinked, her mind reeling as she took in her surroundings. The grand bed, the polished wooden furniture, — it was all exactly as she remembered it from her youth.
She swung her legs off the bed and rushed to the mirror. The sensation of the floor beneath her felt real. Too real.
"No," Marcela whispered, her voice trembling. "This isn't possible."
She was staring into the mirror, her reflection showing the face of a girl. Not the hardened, bloodstained queen she remembered, but a younger version of herself—a girl who had once been full of naive dreams, of endless possibilities.
Her fingers trembled as they hovered near the edge of the polished glass, almost as if she were afraid to touch it.
Taking a deep breath, Marcella forced herself to look. Her eyes desperately searching for any sign of the woman she had become.
But, the girl in the mirror was a stranger.
Marcela reached up, touching her cheek as if to confirm the reflection was hers.
Her face was soft, smooth and unblemished, with a youthful glow that she had long since lost. Her cheeks were fuller, her lips naturally rosy, unpainted by the heavy rouge she had once worn as a queen.
Her silver hair—once pulled back into elaborate braids and crowned with jewels—flowed freely over her shoulders in soft curls. Even her purple eyes—once sharp, calculating, and guarded—now seemed wide and innocent, framed by long lashes.
She took a step closer, her breath catching as she studied the girl in the mirror.
It was a different reflection than she had ever known—so soft, so unburdened by the weight of the crown, of the betrayals she had committed.
This was her—Marcella Valemont. But this wasn't the queen who had worn fine silks and brocade, who had ruled with manipulation and deceit.
Tears stung her eyes as she took in the reflection. She was younger, yes, but she was also softer.
This isn't right, she thought. I'm not supposed to be here.
Suddenly, her stomach churned as the memory of her final moments surged to her mind—the throne room, the blood, the anguished cries of the dying. And then him. Duke Berith, with his cold obsidian eyes, his strong arms wrapped around her as he plunged the dagger into her stomach.
Marcella squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the edge of the mirror as if it might shatter. The phantom sensation of the blade burned across her stomach, so vivid and sharp that it made her gasp aloud. Her knees buckled, and she fought to keep herself standing.
The faint sound of a bell rang through her mind, cutting through the chaos of her thoughts. It was the church bell, its familiar chime marking the morning prayers.
Marcella turned toward the window, the sound of the bell grounding her, centering her in the present. She hesitated, her mind still racing, before she crossed the room and pushed aside the heavy curtains. The cool breeze kissed her skin as she gazed out at the world below.
It was alive.
The sprawling gardens of her father's estate stretched out before her, the vibrant greenery seeming almost surreal. The cobblestone paths were lined with roses in full bloom, their petals glistening with dew in the soft light of the morning sun. Servants moved about with purpose, their laughter drifting up to her window, blending with the birdsong in the distance.
Marcella pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her chest tightening. The sight, the sounds—they should have comforted her, but instead, they crushed her with the weight of their familiarity. This can't be real. This can't be happening.
She swallowed hard, her mind racing to make sense of what was unfolding. The thought was almost too much to bear. "How? How could something so ridiculous, so impossible, happen in this world?"
A sudden surge of panic overtook her, and she needed to be sure. She needed to know if this world, this reality, was real—or if it was some cruel trick of her mind. Without thinking, she spun around and bolted for the door.
Her bare feet struck the cold marble floor as she descended the stairs in a flurry of silk. Her nightdress trailing behind her. The polished wood of the banister blurred as she gripped it tightly.
"Milady! Wait!" a voice called from behind, but Marcella didn't stop.
The heavy oak doors creaked loudly as she flung them open, the cool morning air rushing to meet her. Her feet hit the cobblestones with a frantic rhythm as she sprinted toward the gates of the estate.
The guards stood at attention, confused as she passed by them without a word. "Milady?" one of them called, but she ignored him, her gaze fixed on the world ahead—the city, the life she once knew, yet could no longer be a part of.
The bustling streets of the capital greeted her as though nothing had changed. Vendors arranged their wares in the market square, carriages rattled through the streets, and townsfolk moved about with their daily business, their laughter and chatter ringing in her ears.
This was it. This was the capital—the vibrant, thriving city of her youth. But this wasn't the city she had left behind. This wasn't the war-torn, blood-soaked city that had witnessed her fall from grace.
Marcella stumbled to a halt in the middle of the square, her mind reeling as tears pricked at her eyes. She had to stop, had to steady herself. This was too much.
"It's real," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the noise of the crowd. "It's all real."
"Milady!"
Marcella turned sharply to see Verona, her maid, pushing through the crowd toward her. The old woman's face was flushed, her eyes wide with concern. "Milady, what are you doing out here like this?" Verona gasped; her face flushed from exertion. "You're in your nightdress! This is highly inappropriate—especially for someone of your status!"
Marcella barely heard her. She gripped Verona's arm, her fingers tightening with desperation. "Tell me the year, right now.?" she demanded, her voice urgent, unsteady.
Verona blinked, startled by the question. "Milady?"
"What year is it?" Marcella repeated, her voice almost a plea. Her grip on Verona's arm tightened painfully.
The maid answered, her brows furrowing in concern. "Milady… are you feeling well? It's 1712."
Marcella felt the ground beneath her shift. 1712. That was the year she had turned eighteen—the year Berith had arrived in the capital, the year everything had begun to unravel.
Her knees buckled, and Verona's arm was the only thing holding her upright. Her head felt as though it might split in two, the memories of her first life colliding with the reality of her second.
"Milady," Verona called again, softer this time. She glanced around, noticing the curious stares of the townsfolk who had gathered to watch.
"What is she doing out here like that?"
"Isn't that the High Priest's youngest daughter?"
"Running through the streets in her nightdress… How scandalous!"
"Milady, we must return to the manor," Verona urged, her voice low but firm. "People are watching, and this is no place for you to be dressed like this. Please… we must return to the manor."
Marcella struggled to calm herself. Slowly, she nodded, as the maid guided her back toward the estate.
The whispers followed them as they made their way back, but Marcella barely heard them. Her thoughts were consumed by a single, unshakable truth: She was back, really back.
And with that realization, a thousand questions filled her mind, but one stood above the rest: How could she rewrite the fate that had already been written?