Chapter 3
979 Words
ALEX
The Queen's throne room smelled of rosewater and power.
I curtsied low, the way Jeremy had drilled into me that morning, my borrowed skirts pooling around me like spilled ink. "Your Majesty," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I humbly request permission to visit my parents in the city."
Queen Isolde's gaze was a physical weight. Up close, she was younger than I expected—mid-forties, with sharp cheekbones and silver threaded through her dark braid. But her eyes... they held centuries of calculation.
"How curious," she mused, tapping one polished nail against the armrest of her throne. "The Alexandria I know hasn't visited her parents in two years."
Shit.
I forced a smile. "Perhaps I've grown sentimental."
A beat of silence. Then—
"Go." She waved a hand. "But take double the guard. The streets are restless these days."
The carriage ride was t*****e.
Every cobblestone jolt reminded me how out of place I was. Jeremy sat across from me, her expression unreadable as the city unfolded outside—narrow alleys crammed with colorful stalls, the scent of roasting meat and sewage thick in the air.
Then the carriage lurched to a stop.
"What's happening?" I leaned out the window—and saw him.
A beggar.
Gaunt, hollow-checked, kneeling in the filth of the streets with hands outstretched. The crowd flowed around him like water around a stone, eyes averted.
Something twisted in my chest.
Before I could think, I pushed the door open.
"My lady!" Jeremy hissed, but I was already stepping onto the street.
The whispers began instantly.
"That's the Duke's daughter—"
"Since when does she care about beggars?"
"Last month she had a man whipped for looking at her—"
The beggar recoiled as I approached, his arms coming up to shield his face. "M-mercy, milady—"
I froze. What the hell has 'other me' been doing?
"I'm not going to hurt you," I said softly, crouching to his level. Up close, he was younger than I thought—maybe sixteen, with fever-bright eyes. "What's your name?"
The boy swallowed. "T-Tobin, miladay."
"What do you need, Tobin?"
His voice cracked. "My mother—she's sick. The physicians won't come..."
I stood, turning to my aids. "Who among you knows medicine?"
"I do." Jeremy stepped forward, her jaw set. "My father was an apothecary."
The guards exchanged panicked looks. One dared to speak: "My lady, your reputuation—"
"Can survive one act of kindness." I fixed him with a look I hoped matched the 'ruthlessness' of Alex's intensity. "Lead the way, Tobin."
The shack stank of sickness and despair.
Tobin's mother lay shivering on a pallet, her skin waxy. Jeremy moved with surprising gentleness, pressing a hand to the woman's forehead before barking orders for clean water and herbs.
I hovered near the door, useless, as whispers slithered through the cracks in the walls.
"The Ice Princess showing mercy?"
"Must want something..."
The boy—Tobin—clutched my hand as Jeremy finished wrapping his mothre's feverish body in clean linens. His fingers trembled, rough with calluses far too old for his years.
"Thank you, Milady," he whispered, eyes glistening. "No one's ever—"
"Don't mention it." I squeezed back, acutely aware of the crowd still murmuring outside the shack.
Jeremy brushed her hands on her apron. "She'll live. But she needs rest."
I nodded, suddenly exhausted. The weight of their gratitude, the stares, the wrongness of this world where kindness was met with suspicion—it pressed down on me like a physical thing.
The Duke's estate was nothing like I expected.
No grim fortress or gilded prison, but a sprawling villa nestled among cherry trees, their petals drifting like pink snow. The moment my carriage rolled through the gates, the double doors burst open.
"Alex!"
My mother—not my mother, but hers—sprinted down the steps in a flurry of emerald silk. She crushed me against her chest before I could react, her perfume flooding my senses—jasmine and ink, so familiar it stole my breath.
Then my father's arms wrapped around us both, his laughter vibrating through me. "Our little stormcloud returns."
I froze.
Because this wasn't just some parallel-world pantomime.
They loved her.
They loved me.
And for a heartbeat, I let myself pretend—
"Enough smothering the girl."
The voice hit me like a blade between the ribs.
An old man stood framed in doorway, leaning on a cane carved with wolves. Silver hair, sharp cheekbones, and those eyes—the same warm brown as the grandfather who'd taught me to fish before the cancer took him.
Grandfather. Alive.
My knees buckled.
Strong hands caught me—my father's on my shoulders, my mother's at my back—but all I could see was him. The way he smiled, the way he breathed, the way his knuckles were still scarred from that fishing accident I remembered so clearly.
"Well?" Granpa arched a brow. "Aren't you going to greet your favorite ols man?"
I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Because this wasn't fair.
This world had dragons and magic and him, alive and whole, while somewhere beyond, my real grandfather's grave sat quiet under sun—
"Alex?" My mother's fingers brushed my cheek. "Darling, you're crying."
Later, over tea that tasted of home, I told them about the Academy.
My father nearly spilled his cup. "You're serious?"
"Deadly."
Mother pressed and to her chest. "Thank the stars."
It was grandpa who saw through me. "What changed?"
Everything. Nothing. I'm not her. I miss you.
I shrugged. "Maybe I'm tired of being the 'Ice Princess'."
His cane thumped against the floor. "Good."
Just that. Just good. But the way he said it—like he'd been waiting years to bear those words—made something fragile c***k open in my chest.
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