Her Highness, By Mistake

Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Adjustment and Pretense

Pain echoed faintly in Eira’s skull, like the trailing ring of a bell long after its toll. She woke slowly, unwilling to open her eyes, not because she feared what she’d see—but because she feared what she wouldn't. That strange stone ceiling again? The scent of lavender and old books? The creak of tapestries shifting in the draft?

She wasn’t dreaming.

She peeled her eyes open.

The room was too beautiful to belong to her. White-gold curtains framed high arched windows, spilling amber morning light across an expanse of polished floors and thick, fur-lined rugs. A fire crackled lazily in the hearth, and above it hung a portrait of a noblewoman, her expression stern, her eyes cold. Eira had stared at that painting yesterday for nearly an hour, trying to decipher whether the woman might be Elyanora Valenhart herself.

Was she supposed to look like that? Regal and ruthless?

A gentle knock tapped on the chamber door. Before Eira could respond, the door cracked open and Mira entered, carrying a silver tray and a worried look.

“Good morning, my lady,” Mira said, her voice soft but tired. “You’ve missed the first bell. Marion sent me up to check on you.”

Eira sat up slowly, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Thank you, Mira. I… didn’t sleep well.”

Mira gave a faint smile. “Understandably. You took quite the tumble yesterday. Are you still feeling unwell?”

Tumble. That was what they were calling it.

“No, just… disoriented.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie.

Mira approached, placing the tray on a side table—porridge, toasted bread, and a steaming cup of something floral. “I can help you dress, if you’d like. Lady Marion said there’s a meeting with the steward before luncheon.”

Right. More strangers. More lies.

Eira nodded stiffly. “Give me a moment.”

Mira dipped her head respectfully and moved to the wardrobe. As she laid out the day’s gown—a deep green velvet with pearl trim—Eira rose and approached the mirror.

The face that looked back at her was both hers and not hers. Eira Vaughn was twenty, with short, spunky hair she’d dyed twice in college, a nose slightly crooked from soccer, and dark brown eyes that leaned almost gold in certain light.

But Elyanora Valenhart’s reflection stared back with long waves of ash-blonde hair, a high noble forehead, and sea-glass blue eyes that carried both boredom and accusation. A faint mark lingered at the base of her neck—like a faint rune etched beneath the skin. It hadn’t been there before.

She touched it and felt the faintest spark.

“You are not her,” Eira whispered to herself. “You’re just borrowing her bones.”

But when she dressed—corset bound tightly around her ribs, sleeves laced, boots buttoned—she looked like a lady. When Mira pinned up her hair, she looked like someone who belonged.

And that was the most terrifying part.

The steward, a wiry older man named Lord Calden, stood stiffly in the solar chamber, surrounded by papers and maps. Marion and Eira sat opposite him at the long table, while Mira hovered discreetly nearby.

“Your Grace,” Calden said with a quick bow, “we’re behind schedule with the autumn levy. The border villages have delayed their grain tithes again. Bandits are one cause, but—”

“They always are,” Marion muttered, rubbing her temple.

Eira tried to appear attentive. Her thoughts, however, were swimming through unfamiliar titles and strange references: Silverhold, Duresh Pass, Tithing Day. She kept her mouth shut, nodding when Marion did and scrawling notes with a quill she barely knew how to grip.

It was painfully clear: she was expected to know all of this.

“How do you wish to proceed?” Calden asked, turning to her.

Eira blinked. “Pardon?”

“The grain levies, my lady. Shall I send another envoy, or enforce a fine?”

She stalled, heart thudding. Say something a noble would say.

“I trust your judgment, Lord Calden. Send another envoy. A fine may provoke unrest.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, Calden nodded.

Marion arched a brow at her but said nothing. When the meeting ended, Calden left with a bow. Mira began gathering the notes.

Eira turned to Marion. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Marion said, slowly. “You said exactly what our father might have. It was... surprising.”

It was the closest thing to a compliment Marion had ever given her.

Eira gave a tight smile and stood, her legs aching from the hours of perfect posture. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like some air.”

She wandered the western gardens alone, trailing her fingers along hedges that had been clipped into the shapes of griffins and roses.

The air smelled like pine and winter moss. Distant bells rang out over the rooftops of the castle town below. She could see everything from here—rooftops, ramparts, the silver line of a river winding into the distant woodlands.

“Lady Elyanora.”

The voice behind her was smooth, vaguely amused.

Eira turned to see a man leaning against a stone column, arms crossed. Tall, sharp-boned, with hair like jet silk and eyes like frozen lakes.

It was Prince Alric.

She stiffened, heart jolting. “Your Highness.”

He stepped forward, hands behind his back. “I wanted to see how you fared after your… accident.”

“Better,” she said. “The headaches are fading.”

He studied her face. “You speak differently than before.”

Eira froze.

“Your voice is unchanged, but your manner... unfamiliar. You used to be sharp, biting. Now you seem—” He tilted his head.

“Cautious. Gentler. Are you playing a game?”

She swallowed. “People change.”

He didn’t smile. “Do they? In the span of a single day?”

Eira fought to keep her breathing steady. “Perhaps when they almost die.”

That, at least, seemed to quiet him. He stepped beside her and looked out over the gardens.

“There’s a rumor spreading,” he said quietly. “That you’ve awoken a different person. That your fall was more than an accident. That fate has placed a new soul in your skin.”

Eira’s blood ran cold. “Do you believe that?”

“I believe in what I see.” His eyes flicked to her. “And I see someone who does not belong.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her pulse thundered behind her ribs.

Then he turned away, and for the briefest moment, she saw uncertainty flicker across his face. Not hostility. Confusion.

Perhaps even recognition.

“You wear her face well,” he said, almost to himself. “But I wonder what face hides beneath it.”

And then he left, boots silent on the garden stones.

That night, Eira sat before her writing desk, staring down at parchment. She had tried journaling, but the words rang hollow. Instead, she sketched. Doodles mostly—branches, faces, runes. Her fingers seemed to remember shapes they shouldn’t know.

When she touched her throat again, the mark pulsed faintly. Like a thread tied between her and something vast, unseen.

There was something inside her. Not evil. Not wrong. But watching.

“Selis,” she whispered, naming the voice that had echoed in her thoughts since the first night.

But there was no reply. Just silence. A silence that felt like waiting.

Mira knocked lightly before entering with tea. “You have a visitor,” she said hesitantly.

Eira blinked. “This late?”

“It’s the Oracle. She says she must speak with you. Alone.”

The Oracle of Velandria looked like a collection of shadows. She wore layers of gauze and dark silk, her face obscured beneath a veil embroidered with golden suns and stars. Her voice rasped like turning pages.

“You are not the one they think you are,” the Oracle said without preamble.

Eira tensed. “Then who do they think I am?”

“A girl with a fate not her own. A vessel marked by flame. But you are foreign, and fate does not like strangers.”

The air around the Oracle shimmered, like mist rising from a boiling pool.

“You carry the curse of souls. One burned. One borrowed. One broken.”

Eira stepped back. “What does that mean?”

The Oracle’s veiled face tilted. “Fire remembers what flesh forgets. The prince knows. The seal weakens. The true one sleeps beneath the skin.”

Before Eira could demand more, the Oracle reached out and pressed a finger to her brow. A blaze of images flashed through Eira’s mind—fire consuming a hall of mirrors, a figure in chains, a boy with silver eyes screaming into a storm.

Then it was gone. The Oracle withdrew.

“When the moon turns red, you must choose: return or remain. And if you remain—” her voice turned to a whisper, “the fire will claim more than your name.”

And she vanished, like smoke on wind.

Eira stood motionless in the quiet afterward, heart racing, throat dry. Not because she feared the Oracle’s warning, but because some part of her—deep and buried—had understood every word.

And worse still, that part had felt like home.