Place: Vireya's Chambers and the Palace Halls
Date: Early spring, Year 756
The study was quiet.
Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, catching the edges of parchment, ink pots, and scrolls she no longer needed. At thirteen, Vireya sat at her desk like always—back straight, hair neatly combed, quill aligned beside her hand.
There was nothing left to study.
She knew these lessons already—dates, treaties, languages, military maneuvers. They sat in her bones now, memories from a life her tutors hadn't yet taught her.
Her fingers curled against the wood grain of the table.
Why?
Why would I be born again?
To do it all over? To die again for a man who never called me his daughter?
She stared at the ink bottle, eyes unfocused. It wasn't the rage she felt. Just... hollowness. As though the soul inside her had come back wrong. She existed—but without purpose. Not yet.
Her thoughts spiraled deeper—
"Vireya."
The voice was firm and crisp, cutting through her haze like a blade. She turned abruptly.
At the door stood Nanny Orla, her late mother's handmaid. Stern. Loyal. Dutiful. She never raised a hand to Vireya, never spoke cruelly—but never with warmth either. Always distant, as if keeping Vireya at arm's length spared them both.
"It's time for you to give His Majesty your daily report," Orla said. "You're rarely late. Why must the king summon you?"
Vireya blinked.
"I... I'm coming."
Her eyes lingered on the Elandra a moment longer than usual. Not out of fear. Just recognition. Even now, even after everything had collapsed once before, some people were still the same.
She stood, dusted off her sleeves, before she followed her nanny to the hall out of her chambers. She looked back at her note book.
>This time, nobody dear to me faces the ruinned future.
She wrote it like she is writing the future. Because why else would the mighty creator want her to come to her past.
The corridors felt longer than they used to. Or maybe it was just her thoughts trailing behind her—quiet and heavy.
As her slippers padded across polished stone, her mind pulled her back.
To that day.
She had been smaller, quieter. Hiding behind a wall, clutching a stick twice her size, watching the man everyone called the king—her father.
He had stood in the training courtyard, speaking to his generals with measured authority. Every movement, every stance, was precise. Commanding. Untouchable.
She had admired him once.
With the stick in hand, she'd copied his posture, the way he stepped, the sharp motion of his arm.
She remembered stepping into the garden, thinking no one was watching.
She practiced for hours, swinging the stick until her palms ached. Imagining she was strong enough to stand beside him—not behind him.
And then—
He had seen her.
Just passing by. A glance. And yet he had walked toward her. Said nothing to her directly, but turned to his assistant and said—
"Assign someone to train her."
No praise. No warmth.
But he had seen her.
Now, years later—reborn, broken, wiser—she wondered:
Was that moment a beginning, or the first lie she told herself?
Her steps slowed as she neared the audience chamber.
The door loomed ahead, the same one she had once stepped through so many times—head held high, hoping to be seen.
This time, she wasn't sure what she hoped for.
She raised her hand.
And knocked.
A voice from inside answered flatly, "Enter."
She didn't move.
The permission had come—but her feet stayed planted. Her hand remained curled around the knob. She could hear them.
Laughter.
A child's squeal. A soft chuckle. Then the deeper, rarer sound—his laugh. Her father's. Warm. Relaxed. Familiar.
Vireya lowered her hand.
I was never enough to make him sound like that.
She waited. Five seconds. Ten. Long enough to think maybe they'd forgotten she was expected.
Eventually, she pushed the door open.
The sun had flooded the sitting chamber, warming the pale walls and gilded shelves. Her father sat on the cushioned divan, legs crossed, arms gently around Serelis and Aureon—her younger half-siblings. They were perched on either side of him, giggling, trying to stuff a sugared fig into their mouth.
He laughed again, pretending to surrender to the chaos.
Vireya stood still in the doorway.
The report in her hands felt heavier than swords.
No one noticed her.
Not right away.
When her father finally looked up, his smile faltered—but only for a breath. He didn't stand. Didn't greet her. Just adjusted Aureon on his lap and gave her a brief nod.
"You're late."
Vireya's hands tightened around the scroll.
"Apologies, Your Majesty."
She stepped forward, heels quiet against the polished floor. She didn't look at the children—they had never done anything to her, but the ache in her chest deepened at their laughter.
Aureon leaned closer to his father, whispering something. Vireya noticed something behind his back—a flower. A crooked little bloom.
He slipped off the sofa and padded toward her, holding it out awkwardly. His cheeks were flushed with effort.
He was going to give it to me.
Her hand almost lifted to take it.
But before Aureon could reach her, a figure swept into the room—Lady Lysandra, their mother.
Elegantly dressed. Beautiful. Sharp-eyed.
She took one glance at the flower, at Aureon's direction—then reached down and snatched it from his hand with a disapproving frown.
"Aureon, that's filthy," she said briskly. "Don't give trash to people."
She tossed the flower into a tray by the window as if it were nothing.
Not trash, Vireya wanted to say.
It was the first thing anyone had given me in this life.
But she said nothing.
Aureon blinked, confused and ashamed, and retreated back to the sofa. The king said nothing.
Vireya bowed once more, lower this time.
And walked out.
The corridors were silent again.
She didn't remember getting back to her room. Only her hands trembled once she shut the door behind her.
She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her palms.
As if the flower's ghost still rested there.
[End of Chapter 1]