The woman in the doorway didn't resemble the cold, polished nobles Elara had encountered in either of her lives. Her hands showed no signs of rough labor, but there was a quiet wear to them—proof of years spent in constant, quiet work. Her dress, though once elegant, had been mended with care. Her face, lined with age and fatigue, carried something unexpected.
Genuine concern.
"My lady?" the woman asked gently, stepping forward. "Are you alright?"
Her voice had a soft, almost noble cadence dulled by years of domestic use. It was unfamiliar but not unpleasant—like a tune heard long ago and half-forgotten.
Lyra.
That was the name of this body.
The name surfaced in Elara's thoughts, followed by fleeting images. A young girl who always tried to smile. A child often overlooked. Elara remained still, her eyes fixed on the woman. Her instincts warned her not to trust easily. Kindness, in her experience, often had a cost.
The woman stepped closer, her movements cautious. "You've been unconscious for nearly a whole day. We were all worried."
Elara didn't speak. Her throat felt tight. She glanced around the room—tall windows with drawn curtains, soft cushions, and smooth marble floors. Nothing dusty or broken. Not the palace of a fading house, but a quiet room tucked within a larger, thriving world. It was grand in its own way—just hushed.
The woman knelt beside the bed and gently pressed her fingers to Elara's forehead. Her touch was warm, careful. Elara flinched, the reflex beyond her control.
The woman froze briefly.
"Still feverish," she murmured to herself. Her voice softened further. "I'll bring some broth. Just stay put, my lady."
She stood and left, skirts rustling as she disappeared through the door with a faint creak.
Elara let out a slow breath. The name pulsed again in her thoughts—Lyra. Twelve years old. A daughter of nobility. Not unloved, but forgotten in the noise of a busy household. Her mind filled with fragments: a father whose attention rarely fell her way, siblings wrapped up in their own affairs. A girl surrounded by people, yet left alone.
Different world. Familiar pattern.
She pushed the blanket aside and stood. Her legs trembled slightly, not used to her. She had the body of a child again, smaller and lighter—but beneath it was something else: a quiet strength that hadn't been erased.
The polished marble floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she crossed to the window. She drew aside the curtain. Outside, twilight spread across unfamiliar skies. Two moons shone—one silver, one green—casting twin glows across the land.
Elara gripped the windowsill.
This was real.
A new world. A new beginning.
But the same hollow ache.
Footsteps approached again. The door opened, and the woman returned with a bowl in hand.
"Here," she said, placing it gently on the side table. "It's still hot. Take your time."
Elara accepted it. The broth was light, flavored with herbs and root vegetables. She drank slowly, silently.
The woman lingered. "Do you remember what happened, my lady? You took quite a fall—in the library. And I found you just before sunset."
Elara blinked. Marta. That name stirred recognition.
"You're… Marta," she said slowly. Her voice sounded strange—smaller, higher. Still foreign to her own ears.
"I am, my lady," the woman replied with a small smile, a tired sort of warmth. "I've been with you since you were a baby. You scared me terribly. What were you doing up there alone?"
Elara paused. She could pretend she didn't remember. That might invite fewer questions.
"I don't know," she said quietly.
Marta nodded with understanding. "That's alright. Sometimes memory takes time. You should rest. Things have been…" She hesitated. "Busy lately. Let your body recover first, my lady."
Elara looked at her. "What about Father?"
Marta's face shifted. "His Grace has been attending to his duties."
"What duties?"
"Affairs of the household," she replied, her voice steady but careful. "Your brother's training. Meetings with guests. The usual, and also attending school."
So, nothing that involved his daughter.
Elara lowered the bowl slightly. "What about my brothers and sister?"
Marta folded the edge of the blanket. Her posture grew stiffer. "No one else came by. They didn't know how serious it was."
Elara said nothing. But inside, the truth landed with quiet weight.
No one came.
Lyra's heart ached, but Elara's mind began to close off—building its familiar walls. Good. Let them keep their distance.
Marta stood up, smoothing her dress. "You get some sleep now. We'll talk more in the morning, my lady."
Elara looked at her, and a faint smile—barely there—touched her lips. It was small, but it was real.
"Thank you, Marta."
The older woman blinked, surprised, then nodded gently. She left the room with a final glance, closing the door softly behind her.
Elara turned back toward the window, the light of the twin moons spilling over her face.
Twelve years old. Reborn in a world where love was quiet, and attention hard-earned. But this time, she would not wait for anyone to choose her.
She would learn what power this world offered—and claim it.
Not for revenge. Not for recognition.
But for freedom.
And the next time someone turned their back on her, they would think twice.
Elara—no, Lyra—tightened her grip on the window frame. The twin moons cast her reflection in silver light, softening the gauntness of her young face. She barely recognized the girl staring back. But behind those too-wide eyes and trembling lips… something stirred. Something that refused to be broken.
A name.
A memory.
A throne.
Crestwood.
The name alone had once been enough to silence armies.
The Crestwood Dynasty had ruled for centuries not through diplomacy, but through domination. A line of emperor and empresses, all crowned not only with gold but with steel. Swordmasters—every last one. The founders of the empire carved their legend into the bones of history with blades so sharp they split stone. Their bloodline was a hymn of conquest, their legacy one of martial supremacy. Nobles bent the knee not out of loyalty, but fear. It was a name that stood alone at the summit.
To be born of Crestwood was to be born of unshakable legacy.
But Lyra had none of it.
From the beginning, the sword rejected her. While her siblings moved with grace and fire, her strikes were offbeat, her form unbalanced. No amount of drilling could shape her limbs into something worthy of her lineage. The more she failed, the more distant her tutors became—until eventually, they stopped correcting her altogether.
"She lacks the gift," they said behind her back. "It's the servant's blood. She's Crestwood in name only."
And they didn't just mean her lack of sword talent.
Her mother… was no noblewoman. No foreign princess. Not even a courtesan of standing.
Her mother had been a servant in the inner palace. A quiet woman, kind-eyed and easily forgotten. No one ever spoke of how the emperor came to lie with her. Some said it was a moment of weakness. Others called it a scandal buried beneath bribes. But whatever the truth was, her mother was dismissed quietly after Lyra was born—stripped of her post and exiled to the cold fringes of the southern wing.
No recognition.
No title.
Not even a name spoken aloud at court.
Just a servant who bore the emperor a child.
And so, Lyra entered the world as a blemish—imperial by blood but not by worth.
Among the nobles, she was a stain to be overlooked. Among the royals, an inconvenient reminder. And among the servants, a living threat—neither one of them, nor wholly above.
A half-blood princess. Swordless. And shamefully born.
She remembered the way the palace staff would glance at her—too long, too cold. How she was made to stand in line with the lesser pages, how her meals were delayed, how her bedchamber was just slightly colder than the others. She remembered one of the noble daughters once slapped her across the face in front of the temple steps for speaking out of turn.
No one reprimanded her.
No one spoke for Lyra.
She had stood there, stunned, cheek burning, eyes wide…
…then forced herself to smile.
Even then—she had smiled.
As if pretending nothing happened might make it so.
She had tried to earn their favor. Over and over again. Memorized palace rituals. Polished her greetings until they were flawless. Offered her gifts—simple, handmade things—to the emperor and his court, hoping someone would see her.
But they never did.
Or worse… they did, and simply looked away.
"You can't fix your blood," a passing knight had once sneered. "No matter how hard you try."
And she had believed that.
For a long time, she believed there was something broken in her. That no matter how many forms she memorized, how deeply she bowed, how hard she trained—she would always be wrong.
But now…
Now she remembered Elara.
Now she remembered the fire that burned in her bones. The ache for freedom. The rejection. The hunger. The fight.
She was not like the others.
And maybe that was her strength.
Because they thought she would bend forever.
They thought she would break.
But Lyra Crestwood was still here.
Not their sword master.
Not their pride.
Not their chosen heir.
But theirs nonetheless.
And one day, they would remember her not as the half-blood mistake—but as the girl they should never have ignored.
Her fingers clenched at her side as she stared into the waning light. The great Empire of Crestwood had always stood at the top—its sovereigns wielding blades that shaped history, its nobles bound by ambition and fragile alliances. Glory was inherited. Blood was everything.
But Lyra had no sword. And no one to stand behind her.
So she would become something they couldn't control.
Not a warrior. Not a daughter. Not a pawn.
Something else.
Someone they couldn't silence, forget, or cast aside.