Place: The Ruined Palace
Date: Late winter, Year 768
The palace burned.
What once stood tall in white stone and gold banners now crumbled in smoke and ruin. Screams had long faded. Blood dried too fast in the winter wind. The flag of Eltharion lay trampled in the mud, and beneath it all, Vireya stood alone.
Her armor was cracked. Her blade, gone. She had killed and bled and shielded—and still, they lost.
And yet she stood.
On shattered marble steps, her father—the king—watched the last member of his kingdom flicker in the girl before him. He had not fled. He had not begged. But he had not answered her warnings, either.
"Do you see it now?" Vireya whispered. Her voice was hoarse from ash and war. "He used us. Everything I said… everything you ignored—"
Silence.
He didn't argue. He never had to. He was the king. She was the weapon.
She took one step closer. Blood leaked from the cut at her ribs. The world spun.
"I've fought every battle for you. Spilled every drop they asked." Her voice softened. "And I came back each time hoping—just hoping—you'd see me."
Still nothing.
The wind picked up, bitter and sharp. Her fingers trembled as they reached for her chest plate. She couldn't breathe. She wasn't sure she wanted to anymore.
"If I were born again," she said, eyes dull, "would you ever… love me?"
He met her gaze, just once.
But no answer came.
No apology. No denial. Only the quiet shame of a man who realized too late what he had broken.
Vireya' s lips trembled with a hollow smile. "That's what I thought."
Her sword slipped from her hand.
"I hope I'm never your daughter again."
And then—her knees gave out. The world tilted. Darkness swelled around the corners of her vision.
But just before the fall, she felt arms catch her. Solid, trembling.
Too late.
She closed her eyes.
Place: The Garden of Eltharion
Date: Early spring, Year 756
The air was too still.
Leaves rustled overhead, casting dappled shadows across her face. The scent of pine and soft earth clung to her skin—but beneath it, the sharp sting of memory.
Vireya's eyes opened slowly.
The sky above was too blue. The silence is too clean. No fire. No blood.
Her throat ached—dry, parched, and burning like she'd swallowed smoke. She coughed weakly, and her hand flew to her side—
But there was no wound.
Only the phantom pain of where a blade had once pierced her. The memory of steel sang louder than the wind.
She pushed herself upright, limbs trembling. Her body was smaller. Softer. Younger.
"No..."
The word caught in her throat. Her voice was barely a whisper.
The last thing she remembered was dying—falling in her father's arms after giving up the hope of being loved.
And now… this?
Footsteps.
She flinched instinctively, body coiled for defense. But it was only a girl—barefoot, with soft steps and a plain brown dress.
Her maid.
Lune.
Mute. Loyal. Eyes like dusk, always watching but never judging.
Without a word, Lune knelt beside her and gently offered a glass of water.
Vireya stared at it for a long moment.
In her old life, Lune had been the only one who never asked anything of her. Never spoke behind her back. Never looked away from her.
Her fingers shook as she took the cup.
The water touched her lips. Cold. Real.
"Thank you," she rasped. Her voice cracked. "You're still here."
Lune only bowed her head, then reached out to brush a leaf from Vireya's tangled hair. A quiet gesture. Familiar.
And just like that, tears pricked behind Vireya's eyes—but didn't fall.
She drank. Slowly. The water didn't ease the ache in her chest.