The East Wing of Elentaire Keep was cold, quiet, and utterly devoid of life.
Elena stepped through the arched entry, flanked by two guards who didn't speak or look at her. The corridor inside stretched long and empty, lined with dark stone walls and heavy doors. No servants. No tapestries. No warmth.
Just shadows.
A maid waited silently inside the room at the far end. Middle-aged, plain-faced, with tightly pinned hair and a stiff posture.
"You may call me Mira," she said without emotion. "His Majesty ordered you be given clean clothes and a place to rest. This wing is reserved for… special guests. Meals will be brought. You are not permitted to leave without escort."
Elena gave a curt nod, too tired to speak. Mira didn't offer comfort or kindness—just folded a simple dress across the bed and left without another word.
The door shut behind her with a solid click. Locked.
Elena exhaled.
So this was to be her cage.
She turned slowly in place, scanning the chamber. It was spacious enough—larger than the cell she'd once died in, at least. There was a bed, a small table, and a hearth cold with ash. A single window overlooked the mist-covered cliffs, giving her a view of endless gray sky.
And yet, it felt more like a prison than anywhere she'd ever lived.
She approached the window, placing her hands on the chilled sill. Her reflection flickered faintly in the glass.
The face staring back wasn't hers.
Not the one she remembered, anyway.
The jawline was slightly sharper, the eyes a shade darker, the skin tanned by more sun than her old sheltered life ever saw. But the emotions behind those eyes… those were still hers. Grief. Confusion. And beneath it all, a burning need to understand why fate had dragged her back.
And why him?
Lucien Valerius.
She leaned her forehead against the glass.
He hadn't changed much from the stories—sharp eyes, hard voice, colder than winter steel. But being near him, hearing his voice, made her feel something she hadn't expected.
Not fear. Not yet.
It was tension. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if the wind would push you off or hold you up.
And she wasn't sure which she wanted more.
She turned away from the window and spotted the sword lying on the table across the room. The sword. The one Lucien said had once belonged to his brother.
She walked to it slowly.
It was an unusual weapon—simple in shape, but elegant. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, worn smooth with use. The blade had a faint, bluish sheen, and there was a symbol etched near the guard: two intertwined snakes.
She didn't recognize it. Not from her own world, not from any tale she'd ever heard.
And yet, when she touched it, her fingers tingled.
She closed her eyes, letting herself remember.
A battlefield. Flames in the distance. A woman's scream. Her own hands, stained with blood—not hers.
The image faded as quickly as it came, leaving behind only a shiver.
She drew her hand back from the sword and sat down on the bed.
Who was this body?
Who had she become?
And why did Lucien look at her like she was a ghost he couldn't place?
Elena wrapped her arms around her knees, letting the silence fill the room.
She wouldn't tell anyone what had happened—not again. Not that she had died. Not that she had been someone else. Not even when suspicion pressed against her ribs like a second skin.
She had learned from that mistake once.
People didn't believe in second lives. And those who did… often wanted to burn them at the stake.
So she would play the part. For now.
But she would find out who this girl had been, and why fate had tossed her into the cold hands of the Sword King.
And when she did, she would decide if this life was meant to be lived… or avenged.