The Tides That Storm Us

𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

Anya could no longer feel her legs. Her feet were paralysed to the ground in a single stance, and even as the sweat crowned her forehead and the heat overhead made it unbearable as it seared against her exposed skin, her hands were gripped around the sword's hilt, and she swung it as much as she could.

It was a futile attempt, really. To learn the way of the swordsman she needed a teacher.

𝘈𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳, her mind raced with the thought. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘺𝘳.

Finding a teacher was easy; the Zenlyns' housed half the number of the Royal Knights and a few of the best swordsmen in the Kingdom of Laselhia. 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘒𝘢𝘦𝘢, 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢. 𝘠𝘷𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦, 𝘗𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘳𝘰, 𝘏𝘢𝘯𝘴. They were swordmasters rewarded by the King himself, one of the greatest out there.

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵.

But it wasn't enough.

If she wished to survive the harsher future that awaited her, Anya had to get stronger than ever. Stronger than the thorns that lay beneath the chains that shackled her, and the seal that tightened like a cord around her neck.

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

The fear that gripped her skin that day, the hands of death that smothered her into silence and the rotten scent that ransacked her brain and numbed her tremors was a sensation that she could still feel in her bones.

𝘐𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢, she thought to herself, suddenly pausing. 𝘐𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢.

It ached to think about someone who wasn't her but was herself all the same. The pretend game that she had latched onto belonged to someone who was just a mere pawn in the novel's initial chapters. It had been a week since her death, a week since she first inhabited this frail body, that once held its own owner. In the beginning, everything was confusing; like a dream, really. But then, a thin streak of lightning had erupted in her brain, overwhelming her with all the memory of this life.

The day the Eloise of her world died, was coincidentally the day the real Anya died in her sleep. The day when she first came into a world that was no longer earth, she instead stumbled into the world inside a novella.

A day that would lay like a scar buried within.

"Young Miss Seraphina, you are exhausting yourself."

It took Anya a few seconds to realize that the maid was talking to her. She was still not used to that name. 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘢, she thought incredulously. It wasn't her name. It was the name that was etched onto her forehead since she was four. A name that belonged to someone who wasn't the real Anya or herself. A name that she had to wear as a mask to cover up someone's absence.

A name she hated so much that she wanted to disappear.

And disappear, she did.

Anya looked up, sweat dripping off her tanned neck. The maid gave her a funny look; a look that she wouldn't give to anyone else in the House. A look that was specifically reserved for her. In a way, Anya couldn't blame her either. She knew it herself; how unladylike she seemed. Her eyes were sunken, with the darkness that lay like a crescent blanket beneath it. Inky curls even more dismantled than the day before, and with a face that always held a stiff, ashen expression appeared weathered in agreement to her lips that once held a cherry tone. She resembled more dead than alive.

𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘐𝘴𝘺𝘳, Anya could guess the kind of thoughts that were running through the maid's head. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨.

"It's okay, Senna," she mumbled lightly, going back to swinging her sword. "This much is okay, really."

"But---"

"You heard me."

"Um...yes? I mean, yes, of course," the maid said, absent-mindedly. Anya felt grateful that she understood the situation. If it was a week before, Senna would have owned the original owner of this body and continued to intimidate her relentlessly. It had become a routine for the maids to ignore and threaten the real young miss, owing to the fact that the 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘢 they knew, was someone they could use to the fullest.

But not anymore. Ever since she made an appearance, Anya made sure none of that happened. She didn't mind the occasional glares and the looks they gave her, as long they realized that the young miss of the Zenlyn house had changed. The way they eyed her when she first awoke in this body, and the way they looked at her now was different.

Though Senna still seemed to mind her appearance, it could not be helped. If it wasn't for the fact that Sierra Hyn, the mansion that was gifted to her -- more like, a mansion that was meant to throw her presence away -- was tucked away in the barren northern lands, with even fewer maids than what a Baron's house held, the rumour of one tragedy of a noble like her would have reached the ears of many.

But then again, it wasn't like any half-assed rumour would reach beyond the Zenlyn walls.

Sighing, Anya went back to swinging her sword. How long has it been since she had started swinging? An hour, or two? Or has it been half a day, already? Maybe it's more than that. The early crisp of the morning had long gone by, leaving behind a dawn-tinted background. The 𝘈𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘴 soared below the clouds above, their wings in perfect alignment with each other. Their chirps were carried by the wind, as the 𝘋𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘺𝘦𝘴 that sat atop the 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘻𝘰𝘯 𝘛𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘴 sang a melody. It was a beautiful sight; a sight that reminded her that she wasn't dreaming, and was living a reality. A sight that gave her an ounce of hope for a better tomorrow.

Anya breathed in the air, that scented nothing like the view of the skies above. A few hours later, when the darkness of the night licks in, the 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘛𝘺𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢 would turn into a graveyard, and the scent of wet mosses and lichens would be engulfing the entire land. This was the only time of the day she could feel the warmth that the evening emitted, a sense of serenity that lasted until the seventh hour of the Bella before an endless horde of rain fell like a curse.

Sighing again, Anya slowed down as she felt the heaviness of the pain that once numbed her, course through her veins, taking away her life one at a time. First the knees, then the feet, and finally something exploded in her arms which made her almost lose her grip around the sword's hilt, and staggered her forward until---

"Young Miss-!"

Anya slipped, dropping down on her knees. Plunging the sword down the heated ground, she panted, taking time to collect herself. Supporting her petite frame, which now felt like a burden she had to bear, she slowly pulled herself up, an arm around the hilt.

"Young miss! Are you alright?!"

Though Anya didn't turn to look at the kind of face Senna made, she could guess it was genuine. Panic laced her voice, ready to unleash like venom. The concern was real; after all, her head was on the line.

Anya pressed her thumb onto her knee, which surged another wave of pain to clash over her weak body.

𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵.

She wanted to yell it out. She wanted to scream all the broken feelings she had burrowed. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 hurt. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 feeling of insane vulnerability. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 feeling of losing control. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 feeling of not being able to unleash her full potential.

𝘐𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘢. She would have soared across the skies, her sword slicing through the air as if it was meant for that. Like an array of infinity, the moon would have followed her movements, unfurling her elegant swordsmanship.

𝘐𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺...

"The Lord requests for an audience."

Anya's head snapped to the side instantly, her breath stuck in her throat. She released it once she recognized the owner of the voice.

The Head Butler, Welys, bowed gracefully, his left palm facing his chest, and the other arm behind his back. "Heratildz Welys greets the Flower of Zenlyn."

The title was so cringing that Anya pressed down a painful sigh. It wasn't every day she was greeted so formally. The maids had already given up on those formalities, and the butler, the one person who single-handedly supervised the mansion and respected the House, wasn't always around. Sometimes like these, he visited to convey a piece of news here, and a word of advice there.

And today was not an exception.

"The Lord wishes to hold a dinner," he began, his demeanour and posture like that of a noble. "He demands the presence of the Familia at the ninth hour of the Prima."

𝘋𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘩𝘶𝘩.

"The Lord?" Anya tilted her head, showing indifference. If it were the original Anya, she would have reacted otherwise. 𝘊𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. "Oh, you mean 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢."

The butler flinched, a light streak of terror washing over his fine attitude. But maybe thanks to his profession, he quickly regained his composure the next instant, almost as if nothing had occurred.

A small smile tugged her lips, but Anya held back the urge to widen it any longer. "Yes, please let him know that I'll be there."

"As you say, Young Miss," Welys bowed again, following the greeting as usual. "If you may excuse me."

Anya grinned to herself, slightly satisfied. The fatigue that held her head in a lock felt preferably distant now. Sheathing her sword back, she turned to her maid, who seemed rather dazed. Anya could guess it was because of the 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢 she spoke of. There wasn't anyone who referred to the Head of Zenlyn House as 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢. Be it the King, be it the children.

"Senna, prepare a bath," she said, ignoring her expression. Tucking back a loose strand of her hair that lay like a rampart behind her ears, she added, "Oh, and one moon-tea. With extra sugar please."

Shaking her head, almost as if to ward off the thoughts, Senna nodded and gave a deep bow, before leaving Anya amidst the heart of the 𝘓𝘢𝘺𝘯𝘳𝘢 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵.

The northern lands were barren, but everything including the Forest and the mansion was built using Magic. Anya studied the barrier, a hexagonal array made in a dome encompassed the entire place. It was faint, but she could sense the magic. A thin wisp that shrouded like mist.

The first thing Anya realized after she awoke in this body was the presence of magic. A factor, a charm, a beauty--- a little touch that meant everything in this world. From birth to rebirth, on the brink of death and back; the people who were blessed with their innate powers held themselves above, at the prime of their everything. They constructed, they conquered, they healed, they 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘥.

Magic ran through the blood of the awakened, the ones that in turn ignited the continent as a whole.

Anya hadn't awakened her innate powers yet. It was a wistful dream. The real Anya had done it, but it was something that she was always born to do. It didn't mean the same to the present her who lives in this body. But once she does, she had promised herself she would run away. It was what the original Anya wished for as well. To be able to escape this rotten place that was given to her to wither away, a place that still haunted her even after she had left this place.

A place that fueled the fire in the darkest depths of her heart.

And the first step towards saving herself was reconciliation. A forgotten achievement that the real Anya had once locked away.

And for that to happen, she definitely needed to make her presence at the dinner. A once in a lifetime opportunity.

𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢, Anya grinned to herself, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦.