The last thing I remembered was fire.
Not the gentle warmth of a hearth, but a monstrous, living thing that devoured everything I had ever known. The battlefield outside Solmira's palace had become a pyre of bodies and steel. Tapestries that once told the story of my kingdom's pride curled and burned to ash. Smoke ripped through my lungs like knives. Blood slicked the floor beneath me—mine, and everyone else's.
My fingers, numb and shaking, clutched the broken shaft of a Kaerethian arrow. The enemy had breached the gates. My guards—brave, loyal—were gone. My people… scattered. Slaughtered.
And I... I was dying.
Pain throbbed in my side like a war drum. I collapsed behind a ruined barricade, not far from the statue of Ethela—our Goddess of Light and War—its head shattered by cannon fire. Flames danced across the wreckage like hungry vines. I whispered my final prayer to her, to the fire, to anything that would listen.
Let me come back. Let me make them pay. Let me burn them as they burned us.
Then—nothing.
Just cold. A void without shape or end.
When I opened my eyes again, I didn't find silence or darkness. I didn't find death.
Instead, I found silk sheets scented with lavender.
Sunlight filtered through ivory curtains. A soft breeze touched my cheek, carrying birdsong and distant court music. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.
But dreams don't come with the weight of a body that doesn't feel like yours.
I sat up fast—and regretted it instantly. My head pounded. My limbs felt light, too light. My hands—pale, elegant, unfamiliar—were not mine.
Across the room, a gold-framed mirror caught the morning light. I stumbled toward it, dread rising in my throat.
What I saw in the reflection wasn't me.
Dark auburn hair. Violet eyes. A face I'd only seen once, years ago.
Lyara Kaereth.
My enemy.
"No…" I whispered. "No, no, no—"
The door slammed open.
"Princess Lyara! You shouldn't be out of bed!"
Two maids rushed in, wide-eyed, nearly dropping their basins of herbs. One gently guided me back into bed, her hands soft and careful.
"Her fever's broken," one whispered. "That's a miracle in itself."
Princess Lyara. Daughter of General Dren Kaereth—the man who razed my city, the monster who ordered my death.
I saw her once during a prisoner exchange. She stood next to her father, draped in crimson silk, her chin lifted like royalty born of bloodshed. I hated her. I hated everything she represented.
And now… I was her?
"What happened to me?" I rasped. The voice that came out was not mine. Softer. Higher.
"You've been ill, Princess," one maid said gently. "A fever for three days. We feared the worst."
Three days.
Was that how long my soul wandered, waiting for a body? Or had I slipped into hers the moment I fell on that battlefield?
"Where is my father?" I asked. The words felt wrong on my tongue.
"General Dren is with the Royal Council," the other maid replied softly.
Of course he was. Still commanding. Still alive.
I pressed my palms to my face. No scar under my brow. No calluses from sword training.
Just her. Lyara.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Perfume hung heavy in the air. The sheets were too soft. The silence too loud.
My body, my voice, my face—none of them were mine anymore.
Was my body left to rot on the battlefield? Did anyone survive the flames? What about Ronan—Kaereth's cold prince? Did he live?
What if this wasn't a gift? What if it was a punishment?
A cruel joke by the gods. Or maybe… something worse.
What if it was magic?
I remembered the old stories. Forbidden relics. Bloodlines tied to ancient curses. My tutor said they were myths, but maybe myths had teeth.
Maybe someone in Kaereth awakened something best left buried.
I tried to remember what I knew of Lyara. She'd always been hidden away. Some said she was sickly, others said she was cursed.
Was this why? Was her body made to be a vessel?
And if I was here… where was she?
Did her soul vanish? Or was she trapped—watching, screaming from the shadows of her own mind?
A memory crept in...
—I was ten years old, sweating under the noon sun in Solmira's training yard. My sword was too big, my arms too thin. Ser Gavric paced beside me, tapping my wrists with his blade whenever I lost focus.
"Again," he said. "Hold your stance like your kingdom depends on it. One day, it will."
Above the yard, my mother watched from the terrace. Queen Evelyne, regal and composed. Her golden braid caught the sunlight. She rarely smiled—but that day, she did.
"Her form is too rigid," she murmured to my father. "She's trying too hard to be a warrior before being a daughter."
I pretended not to hear, but the words sank deep.
That night, as I wrapped my bruised wrist behind the stables, she found me.
Without a word, she knelt and took my hand, wrapping it with practiced care.
"You can be both," she said quietly. "A daughter and a warrior. A girl and a leader. Don't let this world tell you otherwise."
She died a year later.
And now, here I was—trapped in the body of my enemy. Wearing silks instead of armor. Perfume instead of sweat and blood.
What would she think of me now? Would she even recognize me?
The door creaked open again.
Slow. Intentional.
I shut my eyes, pretending sleep. My heart pounded as boots stepped across the floor—measured, heavy.
A soldier.
Then came the voice.
"I know you're awake."
It was deep. Rough. Familiar.
I opened my eyes slowly.
He stood beside the bed, broad-shouldered and tall. The moonlight caught his bronze armor. But it was his eyes that held me still.
Storm blue.
Prince Ronan.
The man who had held me as I bled out on the battlefield.
The man who may have once cared for me.
The man who may have killed me.
He looked at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
"What trick is this?" he asked. "You wear her face, but you move like a warrior. You speak like someone else."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
He stepped closer. His hand hovered near his dagger.
I held his gaze. Said nothing.
And all I could think was:
If I speak… I might lose everything.
But if I stay silent… he might kill me anyway.
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