Switched Fate：Luna With a Face Swap

Chapter 4: Lily learns about her new face

Lily’s POV.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I find myself caught in a dream-like state. Stephanie’s voice echoes through my mind, her chilling words lingering in my vision. “What a beautiful face, it is soon going to be mine.” I see myself drowning, the water closing in around me, dark and suffocating.

I try to calm myself, my mind grasping for something familiar, something comforting. Stephanie’s question from the lake floats back to me: “Have you not someone had who you love?”

“Someone I love?” I wonder, feeling a pang in my chest. A face comes to mind, a young man who once saved me. His charm, his behavior, his attitude—everything about him was unforgettable. He was a true gentleman. But who is he? His identity remains a mystery, but I know I would recognize him anywhere.

In my vision, I see myself with this man, feeling his warmth, his presence. We are close, intimate, and my heart aches with longing. Just as I am lost in this dream, a voice cuts through the fog. “Miss, wake up!”

The voice grows sharper, more insistent. “Miss, wake up!”

I slowly open my eyes, feeling as though I am emerging from a deep sleep. The light is blinding at first, and I squint, trying to make sense of my surroundings. A girl, who looks like a servant, stands by my side, her expression one of relief.

“Finally, you woke up, miss,” she says, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and impatience.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice weak and raspy.

“I am a servant of the Blaze Pack,” she replies. Her name, I learn, is Clara.

“Blaze Pack?” I repeat, confusion washing over me. “Where is this?”

“Blaze Pack, the place where we are at currently,” Clara confirms. “Today is your wedding day with Alaric, but you have been unconscious. The people of Dark Rising Pack had to bring you here.”

I sit up, my mind reeling. “Impossible,” I say, shaking my head. “I am not Stephanie.”

Clara looks at me with a puzzled expression. “Miss, I don’t understand. You are supposed to marry Alaric today.”

“Stephanie,” I think, panic rising. “What did you do to me?” I glance around, trying to piece together what has happened. My face... has she changed my face to look like hers?

“Clara,” I say urgently. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“A few days, miss,” Clara answers. “We were all so worried.”

“Days…” I think, feeling a wave of despair. “What has she done in that time?”

“Clara, please,” I say, my voice trembling. “Is there a mirror?”

Clara hesitates for a moment, then nods and retrieves a small hand mirror from a nearby table. She hands it to me, and I brace myself for what I might see.

Taking a deep breath, I lift the mirror and look at my reflection. My heart stops. The face staring back at me is not mine. It’s Stephanie’s.

“No,” I whisper, the mirror slipping from my hand. “This can’t be happening.”

“Miss, are you alright?” Clara asks, her voice filled with concern.

I can’t respond. My mind is racing, trying to comprehend the enormity of what has happened. “Stephanie has taken everything from me,” I think, tears welling up in my eyes. “My face, my identity... my life.”

I struggle to get out of bed, every muscle in my body aching. As I stumble towards the window, the light streaming in feels harsh, almost accusatory. I lift the mirror again, and the face that stares back at me—Stephanie’s face—makes my stomach churn.

“No, no, no,” I whisper, touching my cheeks, my nose, my lips. It’s not my face. Tears spill down my cheeks as the reality sets in. “Stephanie, you witch,” I mutter, my voice shaking with rage. “You did this to me.”

I feel a surge of anger so intense that it momentarily drowns out the despair. I pick up the mirror, ready to hurl it out the window, when something catches my eye. Outside, the grounds are bustling with activity. Servants are decorating everything with flowers and ribbons.

“A wedding,” I realize. Clara’s words echo in my mind: “Today is your pre-wedding function with Alaric.”

“This can’t be happening,” I think, my heart pounding. “I need to get out of here.” I storm out of the room, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. Every face I pass is unfamiliar, every corridor alien. “Where am I?” I wonder, panic rising.

The halls are lavishly decorated with ornate tapestries and glimmering chandeliers. Servants hustle around, arranging flowers and setting up tables. The grandeur of the place only heightens my disorientation. “Is this a palace?” I think, feeling increasingly lost.

“Miss Stephanie, are you alright?” a servant calls, but I ignore him, running faster as the walls seem to close in. “I need to escape,” I think desperately.

I pass by open doors revealing more luxury—lavish sitting rooms, grand dining halls. The opulence overwhelms me, contrasting starkly with my simple life before. The servants look bewildered, likely thinking I’ve gone mad, but I push past them, my mind a blur of fear and anger. “Why did this happen to me?”

I nearly collide with a tall, imposing man but don’t stop. “I can’t deal with anyone right now,” I think, focused only on finding a way out. I spot a unique, intricately carved door ahead. “There,” I think, drawn to it.

The servants shout, “Miss, don’t go in there!” But I can’t stop. I need refuge, a place to gather my thoughts. I burst into the room, slamming the door behind me. The noise outside fades into eerie silence. Panting, I lock the door and lean against it, trying to steady my breath. “Finally, some space,” I think, my heart still racing. I turn to face the room, feeling a mix of dread and the need to understand my situation.

The room is unsettling, with a large wooden desk cluttered with papers, maps, and strange devices. “An investigator’s workspace?” I wonder, stepping closer. The desk is covered in documents, some with intricate drawings, others filled with scribbled notes. A magnifying glass lies atop a stack of books, next to a quill and an inkwell.

I move further into the room, noting the shelves lining the walls, filled with books on various subjects. “This person is definitely a strategist,” I think, seeing titles on warfare, psychology, and even obscure sciences. There’s a small table in one corner with chairs around it, likely used for small meetings. The setup is meticulous, yet chaotic.

The walls are adorned with maps, some marked with pins and threads connecting various points. “What kind of investigations are done here?” I wonder, feeling a chill run down my spine. Then I see it—something that makes my blood run cold.

On a side table, there’s a human skeleton, perfectly assembled, its empty eye sockets staring back at me. “What kind of person keeps a skeleton in their room?” I think, horror creeping in. Next to the skeleton is an anatomical chart of the human body, detailing muscles and organs with unnerving precision.

My eyes dart around, taking in more disturbing items. There are artifacts and relics, some of which look brutal and ancient. “What are these?” I wonder, my heart pounding again. A ceremonial dagger with dried blood stains, a set of handcuffs, and an old, rusted iron mask. Each item seems to tell a story of past horrors.

I feel a surge of fear and revulsion. “This room is a nightmare,” I think, backing away from the table. “Who lived here? What did they do?” My mind races with questions as I try to make sense of it all.

A strange relic catches my eye, sitting on a pedestal under a glass dome. It’s a grotesque, twisted statue, something that looks like it belongs in a horror movie. “What kind of investigations need this?” I ask myself, my fear turning into a desperate need to escape.

I step back, almost tripping over a pile of books on the floor. One of them opens to a page with detailed illustrations of torture devices. “I can’t stay here,” I think, panic rising. The room is suffocating, filled with reminders of brutality and death.

I look back at the door, considering my options. “I need to get out,” I think, but the fear of what might be outside holds me back. I feel trapped, both by the room and my circumstances. “Stephanie did this to me,” I remind myself, my anger simmering beneath the surface. “She put me in this impossible situation.”

My breath quickens as I hear faint voices outside the door. “They’re coming,” I realize, dread pooling in my stomach. “I have to hide.” I scan the room for a hiding place, my mind racing. “Think, Lily. Think.”

As the voices grow louder, I find a large wardrobe in the corner, its doors slightly ajar. “There,” I decide, moving quickly and quietly.

Alaric’s POV.

In the dimly lit room, the atmosphere is thick with tension. I sit with Adien, my Beta, discussing the latest developments in our investigation. The desk between us is strewn with maps, reports, and evidence, the clutter of our relentless pursuit of justice.

“Jonathon’s death changes everything,” I say, my voice low but firm. “The Alpha King’s sons were always in fierce competition, but Jonathon was the front-runner.”

Adien nods, his expression serious. “It’s chaos now. Sam isn’t strong enough to claim the throne, which leaves Rik. And Rik...” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Rik has always been ruthless. He’s the most likely suspect.”

I lean back in my chair, considering the implications. “Rik has always been ambitious, but to murder his own brother? It’s a dangerous move, even for him.”

Adien’s eyes narrow. “And there’s more. The Dark Rising Pack is involved. Stephanie, the Alpha’s daughter, has been seen with Rik. They have a connection.”

I clench my fists, frustration boiling beneath the surface. “Stephanie,” I mutter. “What game is she playing?”

Adien continues, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts. “We have to tread carefully. If Rik and Stephanie are behind this, they’re smart and dangerous. We need solid evidence.”

I nod, the weight of the task ahead pressing down on me. “We’ll get it. We have to. Jonathon’s death can’t go unpunished.”

Adien places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “We’ll find the truth, Alaric. We always do.”

Before I could respond, a shrill cry pierces the silence, echoing through the hidden corridors of our sanctuary. “What was that?” I ask, immediately on high alert.

Adien’s eyes widen. “It came from the investigation room.”

We both spring to our feet, rushing towards the source of the scream. My heart pounds as we near the room. “Please, let it not be what I think it is,” I thought, dread pooling in my stomach.

Bursting into the room, I see her—Stephanie, or so I thought—near the wardrobe. She looks pale, her eyes wide with terror. “What happened?” I demand, moving closer. But as I approach, she crumples to the floor, fainting before I could catch her.

“Stephanie!” I shout, kneeling beside her. Adien joins me, concern etched on his face. “Is she alright?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, my mind racing. “This isn’t like her. Something’s wrong.”

As I lift her into my arms, the pieces begin to fall into place. My eyes catch the gross organ replicas from my previous missions scattered around the room. “She must have fainted from seeing these,” I realize. The sight would be enough to unsettle anyone, let alone someone unfamiliar with this place.