The Missing Enchantress (English Version)

Chapter 2: A Three-Day Coma and the Prince Who Read Too Much

The morning light didn't just wake Keira; it assaulted her.

Screwing her eyes shut against the aggressive golden glare, she groaned and shifted, expecting the lumpy, comforting familiar spring of her apartment mattress. Instead, she sank into silk so ridiculously plush it felt like being swallowed by a cloud.

“Where on earth am I now?”

She forced her eyelids open and sat up. The room was massive—vast enough to house her entire apartment three times over. Intricately carved white crown molding bordered a ceiling painted with cherubs, and the floor was polished to a mirror shine.

Keira swung her bare feet out of bed and padded over to the towering arched window. When she looked down, her breath caught.

A meticulously manicured labyrinth of emerald hedges, exploding rose bushes, and marble fountains stretched as far as the eye could see. In the distance, a pair of wrought-iron gates stood like silent titans.

"You're finally awake, Keira."

The voice was smooth, deep, and entirely too close.

Keira whipped around, her heart leaping into her throat. Standing near the heavy mahogany doors was a young man. He possessed the kind of devastating, high-bridge facial structure and piercing eyes that usually belonged to top-tier idols or male leads in high-budget historical dramas.

"W-Who... who are you?" she stammered, gripping the silk drapery. "How do you know my name?"

The man let out a low, melodious chuckle.

“What's so funny? Is my trauma amusing to you? Keira thought, glare intensifying.”

"My apologies," he said, tilting his head with an enigmatic smile. "I didn't mean to laugh at your expense."

Keira froze. “Wait. Did he just respond to my internal monologue? Can he read minds?! Holy—”

"And thank you for the compliment," he added, his smile widening.

“He really can read minds! Creepy!” Keira took a sharp step back, her internal alarms blaring.

The man laughed out loud this time, a rich, genuine sound.

"Hey! Don't you know that's incredibly rude?" Keira snapped, her fear instantly morphing into defensive irritation. "That is a total violation of my privacy!"

"Haha, sorry, sorry," he said, raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "Alright, I'll stop. I won't read your mind anymore."

Keira blinked, catching a specific word. "Wait. You speak English?"

"Of course," he said, leaning elegantly against a marble pillar. "We are fluent in almost every major language across the continent."

"Woah," Keira muttered under her breath, crossing her arms.

A heavy, tense silence settled over the opulent room. Keira stared at him, trying to keep her thoughts entirely blank—which was remarkably difficult when dealing with a literal mind-reader. Realizing she wasn't going to get answers by staring, she broke the silence.

"Let’s get back to the main point. You're deflecting. How do you know my name?"

"Because you told me."

"I told you? When?"

"Right before you fainted in the middle of the capital market," he said smoothly.

Keira opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. A hazy memory surfaced through the panic—the feeling of the cobblestones rising to meet her, the crowd screaming, and her own voice crying out her name like a plea for survival.

“Damn it. My own big mouth betrayed me.”

The man’s lips twitched upward.

"Hey! You're doing it again!" Keira accused, pointing a finger at him.

"I am truly sorry," he said, though he didn't look remorseful at all. "It's just... your mind is incredibly loud. Your guard is completely down."

"Just block me out or something! No mind-reading!"

"Even if I suppress the active telepathy, your inner self practically shouts," he countered playfully. "But fair enough. I shall respect your boundaries."

"Good," Keira huffed, adjusting her emerald silk dress. "Now, who exactly are you?"

"Me? I am..." He paused, offering a dramatic, sweeping bow that looked entirely natural. "...Sigurd."

"Sigurd?"

He nodded.

"And what am I doing here?" Keira asked, looking around the room with renewed suspicion.

Sigurd raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement passing through his eyes before he let out a soft sigh.

“Did she really just call me a creep in her head?” he wondered, though he kept his promise and didn't voice it.

"Hey, I saw that face! Block me out!" Keira commanded.

"Okay, okay," Sigurd laughed.

“Ugly. Troll. Monster.” Keira thought, staring intensely at him to test his reaction. Sigurd remained perfectly composed, waiting for her to continue. “Excellent.” He actually blocked it.

"So, you didn't hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Nothing! Perfect. Keep it that way. Now, why am I here?"

"You genuinely don't know?" Sigurd asked, crossing his arms.

"Would I be asking if I knew? It’s a bit hard to play a guessing game when I literally dropped out of the sky into this place."

"Sarcastic, aren't we?"

"Yeah, whatever," Keira muttered, rolling her eyes.

Sigurd merely shook his head, looking more entertained than insulted by her absolute lack of manners. "Let us go down. It is time for breakfast."

"Breakfast? Why breakfast?" Keira frowned. When she had blacked out, it was late afternoon. "What time is it?"

"You've been asleep for three days."

"WHAT?! THREE DAYS?!" Keira’s voice echoed off the high ceilings.

Sigurd gave a calm, reassuring nod.

“Three days? I didn't wake up in my apartment? I'm still here?” A knot of genuine dread tightened in Keira's stomach. “Think, Keira. You're talking to a guy who can read minds and speaks fluent English in a medieval fantasy setting. Nothing about this is normal.”

"We should get some food into you before you faint again," Sigurd said, his tone shifting from playful to a quiet, unyielding command. "Come."

Keira wanted to demand more answers, but the authoritative weight behind his voice made her nod instinctively. She looked down, realizing she was still barefoot. Spotting her high leather boots neatly placed by the bedside, she quickly slid them on and followed Sigurd out of the chamber.

The hallway was breathtaking. Gold-leaf frames enclosed massive portraits, and crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings. Keira felt an absurd, fleeting sensation of being a princess in a fairy-tale castle.

But wait, none of this is real, she reminded herself, aggressively shaking her head.

“Erase, erase, erase. It's just a crazy, hyperrealistic coma dream.”

They arrived in the dining hall—or rather, a banquet room that could comfortably seat a hundred nobles. A massive mahogany table stretched down the center of the room. Sigurd took his place at the head of the table, gesturing for Keira to sit to his immediate right.

Uniformed maids immediately began filling the table with an engrandized spread: silver platters of roasted meats, fresh fruits, delicate pastries, crystal decanters of water, and fine wine.

“Breakfast with wine? Talk about high society,” Keira thought.

However, as the servants moved around them, she noticed Sigurd's posture stiffening. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat as if battling an urge to stand up and dismiss everyone.

"Are you alright, Sigurd?" she asked, leaning in.

"Huh? Ah... yes, of course," he replied, offering a quick, practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Keira studied with him. His clothing was impeccable—embroidered velvet, fine linen, and a beautifully crafted sword sheathed at his hip. A thought struck her.

"Is this your house?"

"Eh? Ah... yes. It’s mine," he said, coughing slightly into his hand.

"What kind of job do you have to afford a place like this?"

Before Sigurd could answer, an older servant stepped forward, pouring tea into Sigurd's cup.

"Your Royal Highness, please enjoy your breakfast before it grows cold."

Keira froze. The silver fork in her hand clattered against the porcelain plate.

"Your... Royal... Highness?" She stood up so fast, her chair screeched against the marble floor. "You're a prince?!"

Sigurd winced at the volume, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish look that felt entirely un-princely.

"This is ridiculous!" Keira gasped, backing away from the table. "This isn't real. None of this is real!"

Turning on her heel, she bolted out of the dining hall.

"Keira, wait!" Sigurd called out, but she was already gone.

Keira ran blind. She sprinted down one hallway, turned a corner, took a massive staircase, and ended up in another identical corridor. The sheer scale of the palace worked against her. Within minutes, she was utterly, hopelessly lost.

"Damn it," she breathed, stopping to catch her breath against a gilded wall.

"Is something amiss, young lady?"

Keira startled, turning to see an elderly man standing a few paces away. He wore a flawless, immaculate formal suit, his posture perfectly rigid and professional. He immediately offered a graceful, practiced bow.

Caught off guard by the intense etiquette, Keira clumsily bowed back. "Uh... hello."

"May I ask what a distinguished guest of the palace is doing in this wing?" the man asked politely.

"I... well, I’m lost," Keira admitted, pressing a hand to her burning cheeks. "Could you please show me the way to the exit? I need to leave."

"I see. Please follow me, Miss. I shall escort you."

Keira nodded gratefully, falling into step behind him. As they walked, she couldn't help but marvel at the museum-quality artifacts and massive oil paintings lining the walls. Every detail screamed ancient, absolute wealth.

They reached a pair of towering double doors, and the older man turned, bowing once more.

"We have arrived, Miss Keira."

"Huh?" Keira looked up, blinking. "Thank you... um, Sir."

The man straightened, a gentle smile appearing on his weathered face.

"There is no need to call me sir, young lady. I am merely a servant of this estate. The head butler of the House of Arcas."

Keira's eyes widened slightly. “Arcas. The founding ducal and royal bloodline of Ornothopia.”

"What is your name?"

The butler looked momentarily surprised by her question—evidently, guests of the palace rarely asked for a servant's name—but he quickly recovered his composure.

"I am Romulos."

"Thank you, Mr. Romulos," Keira said, offering a genuine, warm smile.

Romulos’s eyes softened, and he gave a respectful nod. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Keira."

Keira pushed the heavy doors open and stepped outside. The moment the fresh air hit her face, her jaw dropped again. The courtyard garden was even more massive from the ground level. The perimeter walls looked like fortress ramparts, and the front gates loomed in the distance.

She began the long trek toward the gates, her leather boots clicking against the cobblestones. When she was halfway across the courtyard, she stopped and turned back to look at the palace in its entirety.

White stone towers stretched into the clouds, draped in crimson and gold banners. Sigurd wasn't lying. He wasn't a hallucination. He was a literal prince, and this was a literal royal palace.

“So... does this world actually exist? No, no, no! It's a dream! They aren't real!”

Frustrated and overwhelmed, Keira turned back toward the gates, stomping her feet with every step.

"Are you truly planning to leave just like that, Miss Keira, without even properly thanking the one who saved your life?"

The sharp, arrogant voice echoed from behind her. Keira stopped dead in her tracks. Annoyed, she whipped around to confront whoever was speaking—but it was a terrible tactical move.

“Ouch!”

She slammed face-first into what felt like a solid brick wall. Stepping back, she clutched her throbbing forehead, groaning as she rubbed the sore spot.

“Why is there a pillar in the middle of the path?!”

But when she looked up, it wasn't a pillar.

Standing over her was another incredibly handsome young man. He had sharp, emerald-green eyes, dark hair that fell perfectly across his brow, and an expression that oozed pure, unadulterated arrogance.

“Great. Another one. Do they breed them in a lab here?” Keira thought, scowling.

"Do you know how disrespectful that is, Keira?" the man asked, crossing his arms and looking down his nose at her.

Keira's eyebrows knitted together. “Excuse me?”

"Just pass along my thanks to Sigurd," she muttered coldly, turning to leave.

"Tsk. That is hardly proper etiquette for a guest," the man replied, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Look, who even are you?!" Keira snapped, completely losing her patience.

"I am Theron," he said coldly.

Keira didn't care if he was the King of the world. She turned her back on him and took a step toward the gate. But before she could make any progress, a firm, heavy grip clamped around her upper arm, pulling her back.

She whipped her head around, her eyes blazing.

"You demand respect when your own privacy is breached," Theron said, his green eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity, "yet here you are, acting entirely devoid of manners toward the royal house."

Keira gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Her fists clenched at her sides.

“I hate this guy. I absolutely, completely hate him.”

With a sharp, violent jerk, she wrenched her arm out of his grasp. She didn't march toward the gates. Instead, fueled by pure, spiteful rage, she turned right back toward the palace, her boots heavy against the stones.

Spitting mad, she burst back through the main doors.

Romulos was sitting in the grand foyer, holding a newspaper. Hearing the heavy doors slam, he looked up, surprised to see her back so soon.

"Mr. Romulos," Keira said, marching straight up to him, trying to keep her breathing steady. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Not at all, Miss Keira," the butler replied, folding his newspaper and standing up immediately. "How can I assist you?"

"Could you... could you please take me back to Sigurd? I mean... Prince Sigurd."

A knowing, subtle smile played on Romulos’s lips. "Right away, Miss Keira. Please follow me."

She followed the butler back up the grand staircase, down a labyrinth of hallways, until they stopped before a pair of towering frosted-glass doors. Romulos knocked politely.

"Prince Sigurd, Miss Keira wishes to speak with you."

"Let her in."

Romulos opened the door for her, stepping aside with a respectful nod. Keira stepped through, and the heavy doors clicked shut behind her.

The room was a massive, two-story private study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, packed with thousands of ancient, leather-bound texts. Sigurd sat behind a sprawling mahogany desk strewn with parchment maps and wax-sealed documents.

Keira marched up to the desk, took a deep, stabilizing breath, and forced herself to bow.

"Prince Sigurd... please accept my apologies for my behavior earlier. I was out of line."

Sigurd looked up from his paperwork, a soft, genuinely warm smile breaking across his handsome features.

"There is no need for such formality, Miss Keira. You were disoriented and shocked. It is entirely understandable."

"Thank you. And... thank you for the food."

"You are most welcome."

Keira shifted her weight, clearing her throat. "And... um, could you please just call me Keira? The 'Miss' thing is making me incredibly uncomfortable."

"Only if you promise to just call me Sigurd," he countered, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Keira blinked, surprised, then managed a small smile and a nod. "Deal, Sigurd."

Taking another deep breath, she braced herself for the real reason she had returned. "Sigurd... I need your help. I just want to go home."

Sigurd’s smile faded. His emerald-green eyes locked onto hers, heavy with a profound, unreadable solemnity. He let out a long, quiet sigh that echoed in the vast study.

"But Keira," Sigurd said softly, gesturing to the world outside the grand windows. "You are already home."

"What...?"