The Forsaken Princess: I'm Not A Wolf!

Sylvie’s POV: Sometimes, all it takes is five minutes. Just five. Five minutes, and someone’s life can be completely and irreversibly turned upside down. The shift doesn’t always happen in an explosion, a flash, or a scream. Sometimes it’s silent. Internal. Undetectable to the world. Some wounds don’t bleed. But they carve just as deep. Take my maid, for example. She looks perfectly ordinary—dutiful, quiet, eyes lowered when spoken to. But inside? There’s a storm that never passed. Her father, the one who gave her life, took her childhood at the age of nine. She ran. She ran until her feet bled, until her lungs caved. And somehow, she ended up here, reduced from a baron’s daughter, to a servant under the pretense of safety. Or the stable boy. He doesn’t speak. Can’t. Not since a nobleman’s fury left him mute. One bad day. One strike too hard. One moment of cruelty. His voice was ripped away—stolen. There are countless stories like these. Quiet tragedies with no names and no justice. I could go on. I could fill pages. I could list every broken soul I’ve ever known. But we’re not here for them, are we? This story is mine. Mine to tell. Mine to relive. Mine to survive. And my five minutes? They didn’t just twist my fate—they buried it. Set fire to everything I loved. Burned my world to ash and bone. Five minutes was all it took for me to lose everything. My home. My toys. My soft-spoken grandmother. The pet I used to sing lullabies to. My childhood crush with dark brown hair and pretty green eyes. He didn’t live long enough for me to even understand what I felt towards him. My parents. Gone. My brother. Gone. My entire bloodline. Gone. But memories? They don’t die. They just bury themselves. Waiting. Clawing. Until they claw back up. And now they return, unbidden—always in the same form. A dream. A curse. A doorway I never shut. It always starts the same way. It was my seventh birthday. The hall was draped in crimson banners that fluttered against the curved stone of our great ancestral home. Rose-gold sunlight filtered through the dragonbone glass windows, casting gleams of molten light over the polished floors. I remember the scent—lilies, mingled with spicewood incense and the sweet tinge of sugared fruit. The valley air was crisp. Laughter echoed through the corridors, soft music playing, and a feast laid out so vast it felt like we were feeding the gods themselves. And I was happy. Just a girl with fire in her hair and wonder in her eyes. Then it happened. My father stood at the head of the banquet table, his voice cutting through the symphony of joy. “Today, I name my son, Sebastian, heir of the Dragon Throne.” Applause rang out like thunder. I clapped too. I was proud. I loved Bastian. He was brave, honorable, and everything a leader should be. Then, as if summoned by the gods of death themselves—the sky opened up. Not with rain. But fire. Explosions. Screams. Smoke so thick it turned day into dusk. The fireworks above were a decoy, masking the cavalry charge as they descended like wolves onto prey. Steel shone in the sun. Soldiers swarmed into Dragon Valley, their breastplates emblazoned with the royal wolf emblem, already soaked in blood. I remember Sebastian throwing me behind a pillar. My mother’s hand gripping mine, shoving me into a hidden wall crevice as I cried out her name. She said nothing—only mouthed live—as she shut the secret door and turned back. Through a crack, I saw everything. My uncle. My mother's brother. The one who lifted me on his shoulders. The one who told me bedtime stories of flying beasts and whispered jokes in the garden. He stood in the throne hall, clothed in ceremonial robes and armor. In his hand was a sword with a bone-white hilt wrapped in red leather. Shaped like dragon wings curled inward. I thought our swords were meant for protecting. That’s what my father had taught me. But that day, it wasn't protecting. It was killing. With the sword in hand, he slaughtered my father and Sebastian. My mother, screaming as she tried to shield Bastian’s body, was stabbed through the back. Her blood painted the stone floor. And still I watched. And then—him. The commander of the allied army. His face hidden behind a wolf-helm, a sword in hand. He strode across the hall, dragging a trail of blood behind him. He stopped at my hiding place. As though he could hear the sound of a creature breathing he turned and pulled out of the crevice where I hid. His blade lifted. I didn't breathe. I couldn’t. Then—he paused. His body stiffened. His sword lowered. “Her eyes…” I heard him whisper. He tilted his head slightly. “Take this child back. Tell them… she’s my illegitimate daughter.” The words splintered my fate like glass. Then I stood in the ruins of my hometown. The Dragon Valley. Or what’s left of it. Once a cradle of life and pride, now a tombstone for memory. Charred beams stuck out like broken ribs from the earth. The Lily of the Valley flowers—my favorite—no longer bright. Trampled or cut off. Blood soaked the soil beneath my boots. Bits of bone and blackened flesh lay in scattered heaps. And in the middle of it all—him. My uncle. The man I once adored. The man who taught me how to hold a blade with confidence. Who laughed at my ridiculous jokes. Who pulled my pigtails and promised he’d never let anyone hurt me. He stood tall. His golden hair, the same as my mother’s, gleamed in the firelight. In his hand, a staff pulsing with strange magic. He was praying. Lips moving in a language I could no longer understand. And then… it began. Magic circled me. My body froze. I couldn't cry, couldn’t scream. A glow enveloped my skin. My hair—it began to shift. My vision blurred. My heart thundered as something twisted deep inside. I didn’t know it then. Didn’t understand. He was changing me. He was erasing me. Wiping away the last traces of Scarlett Basilisk. Of who I truly was. My hair turned golden. My eyes—once molten gold—dulled to the color of brick. My voice shrank inside me. My mind became fog. For years, I couldn’t remember. Couldn’t feel. Couldn’t dream. Until I did. I woke up gasping, air dragging through my throat like knives. My chest rose and fell like I’d surfaced from drowning. My nightgown clung to my body, damp with sweat. The early daylight painted pale streaks across my room. My hands… I looked at them, trembling. Callused. Scarred. Sword scars. I’d trained obsessively. My muscles knew how to strike, how to parry. Every cut I took was a mark of pride. I’d heard women sneer at the roughness of my fingers. “So unladylike,” they’d whisper. Let them whisper. These hands were strong. They could kill. I stood and moved toward the mirror, bare feet touching the chilled marble floor. Blonde hair. Smooth, shiny. Like spun sunlight. Nothing like the raging red that once framed my face like fire. My brown eyes stared back, hollow. It had been a year since the dreams began. A year since the dam broke and the memories clawed their way back. At first, I thought I was going mad. A curse, maybe. A prank. But it was real. I knew it was real. My soul remembered. My bones remembered. And eventually—I had to admit it. My name… wasn’t Sylvianne Argent. It was Scarlett. A knock snapped me from my thoughts. I startled, dragging my gaze from the mirror. My nightgown clung to my legs, thin and slightly wrinkled, but I didn’t bother fixing it. It would be the maids. “Come in,” I called out. But the moment I turned—I froze. Royal blue eyes met mine. Ashborne. He stood at the door like he’d run through a storm. His golden hair— always so precise—was tousled. His breathing uneven. His face pale. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Ash?” I whispered.