Chapter 1
730 Words
ALEX
Three taps on the screen.
I knew it was pathetic. The blue glow of my phone was the only light in my dorm room, Alden's i********: profile glaring back at me like some kind of digital shrine. @alden.vaflor—mathematics major, chronic sunset poster, the reason I'd developed an embarrassing automatic response to the smell of coffee.
His latest story was a blurry shot of the library steps, captioned: "Late-night grind. Who's bringing coffee?"
My thumb hovered over the heart icon.
Tap.
Untap.
Tap.
God, Alex. Pick a lane.
The phone buzzed violently in my hand, making me jump. Mira Candornia flashed across the screen—my roommate, my only friend in this godforsaken program, and the unfortunate witness to my year-long Alden-induced spiral.
I answered on the last ring. "If this is about the milk I borrowed—"
"You're still cyberstalking him?" Mira's voice was all judgment and popcorn-crunching amusement.
I flopped onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow. "It's search."
"On whether his freckles form constellations? Because I already checked. They don't."
"I hate you."
She laughed. "Senior study group tomorrow at Hartman Hall. Liam's presenting. And before you ask—" I could hear her smirk, "—yes, he specifically asked if you'd be there."
My stomach did something traitorous and warm.
Mira hung up on my silence.
The next morning, three things happened in quick succession: The shrieking wasn't my alarm. The shrieking came from a stranger in a lace-trimmed maid's uniform. I wasn't in my room.
"Lady Alex!" The woman— in her early twenties, round cheeks—clutched a silver breakfast tray like a shield. "You're—you're awake!"
I bolted upright. The dorm room was gone. Instead, I was in bed that looked like it belonged in a museum, surrounded by velvet drapes and oil paintings of grim-looking people in ruffles. My hands flew to my chest—no ratty sleepshirt, just some elaborate linen nightgown—then to my face. Same nose. Same stubborn chin.
But when the maid dragged me to a gilded mirror, the reflection was wrong.
My usual messy bun had been replaced with waves of artfully arranged hair. The dark circles under my eyes from late-night studying were gone. And on my left hand—
A ring. Heavy. Crested.
"His Highness's betrothal gift," she whispered, like the words might summon him.
My blood turned to ice.
Because I knew that crest.
I'd seen it last night, embroidered on a jacket in Alden's stupid sunset post.
The door burst open before I could process the crest on my ring.
"Aria! Oh, thank the gods!" A woman in an emerald-green gown rushed toward me, her face streaked with tears. Behind her, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard followed, his expression tight with worry.
My breath hitched.
Because they were them—my parents. Or at least, this world's twisted version of them.
"Darling, do you recognize us?" the woman—Mother—grasped my face, her fingers trembling. "The physician said the fever might have stolen your memories."
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. What was I supposed to say? Hey, Mom, funny story—I think I'm from another dimension?
The man—Father—placed a hand on her shoulder. "Let her breathe, Eleanor. She's awake. That's what matters."
They fussed over me for what felt like hours, plying me with tea, adjusting the pillows behind my back, murmuring about how "the prince" had been worried. The prince. The words sent a shiver down my spine.
Eventually, they left, promising to send the physician back for another examination. The moment the door clicked shut, I threw off the covers and stumbled to the window.
The garden below was a sprawling maze of roses and hedges, bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. And there, standing perfectly beside a marble fountain, was a man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black from head to toe.
My pulse spiked.
Even from the distance, I knew him.
Alden.
But the way he held himself—rigid, commanding, like a blade sheathed in shadows—was nothing like the boy who tripped over his own words when asking me to borrow a pencil.
He turned, as if sensing my stare, and looked up.
Our eyes locked.
Then—
Darkness.
- Writer
