Chapter 1
1292 Words
Chapter One: The Fall Between Worlds
The world ended not with a crash or a bang—but with a breath.
It was raining when Eira Vaughn died.
She remembered the flickering red light of the crosswalk, her phone buzzing with a reminder about laundry detergent, and the way her fingers had clenched reflexively around the plastic bag of groceries. There had been no screech of tires, only the distant sound of thunder and the glint of steel just before impact. Then nothing.
Or maybe not quite nothing.
In that strange in-between place—where pain was an echo and thought came unbidden—Eira felt herself unraveling. Her name, her memories, her body, all drifting like ash in the wind. Somewhere, a voice whispered, “Not yet.”
Then the world tilted.
Eira awoke gasping, air catching in her throat like thorns. The scent of rosewater and burning sage stung her nose. She blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling—arched, vaulted, and gilded with silver leaf. Drapes of navy velvet swayed in the breeze from tall windows.
She sat up with a start, and the sudden weight of the gown on her body nearly knocked her back down.
A mirror stood across the room.
She stumbled toward it, heart racing, feet bare on cold marble. The reflection that met her wasn’t her own.
This girl had flaxen hair curled like spun sugar, porcelain-pale skin, and high cheekbones framed by soft, noble features. Her eyes—Eira’s eyes—were now a stormy blue instead of brown, rimmed with gold like eclipses.
"No," she breathed. "This isn’t—"
But the face in the mirror mirrored her terror.
The door burst open, and a woman swept in with hurried footsteps. She wore a stiff gown of midnight blue embroidered with gold filigree. Her greying hair was pinned in a tight coil.
“Lady Elyanora, thank the stars—you’re awake,” the woman said, exhaling as if she’d been holding her breath for days.
“Who—?” Eira’s voice cracked. “Who are you?”
The woman’s expression tightened. “I am Dame Harla, your lady-in-waiting. You’ve been unconscious for three days. The fall from the terrace—you struck your head. Don’t you remember?”
Lady Elyanora? Eira’s thoughts scrambled like spilled marbles.
“No,” she whispered. “I—I don’t understand.”
“Your father, Duke Valenhart, has been informed. He returns to the capital today. You must rest. The bridal selection is only a fortnight away.”
“Bridal—what?”
Harla frowned. “You must remember that much. You were summoned to the Summer Court by royal decree. Prince Alric is to choose his bride at the Midsummer Moon. Twelve highborn ladies have been called. You are among them.”
Bridal selection. Royal decree. This wasn’t just a different body. This was an entirely different world.
Eira stumbled back onto the chaise, breath shallow. Her heart thudded erratically in her chest, as if trying to reject this strange new vessel.
Had she died and reincarnated? Was this the afterlife? A punishment? A dream?
But dreams didn’t ache like this. Dreams didn’t press the cold weight of fate against your ribs.
The days that followed blurred together.
Every mirror reminded her of a lie.
Every gesture was borrowed—Eira mimicking the grace and bearing expected of Lady Elyanora Valenhart, daughter of one of the most powerful dukes in the Kingdom of Velandria. She learned to speak in measured tones, to nod at the right moments, to smile without showing teeth. Her body moved like it remembered things she did not. Her hands knew the chords of a harp she had never touched.
But at night, when the candles were out and the moonlight streamed silver through the balcony doors, Eira sat curled in a chair by the window, whispering her own name like a charm against madness.
“I’m Eira Vaughn. I had a cat named Miso. I lived in Chicago. I hated coffee. I died in the rain.”
The words grounded her—but only barely.
She clung to them like a thread in the dark.
The palace was a labyrinth of marble and memory.
Servants curtsied when she passed, calling her My Lady. Nobles whispered behind fans. The echoes of Elyanora’s life clung to every corridor—ghosts in silk gloves.
And then there was the prince.
Eira first saw him at a courtly luncheon in the eastern garden—a gathering meant to welcome the bridal candidates. He stood like something carved from the old stories: tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of dusk and eyes like frost-glassed steel. His posture was effortless nobility, but his gaze—
His gaze landed on her like a sword.
For a moment, his expression flickered. Confusion? Recognition? Then it was gone, replaced with a smile polite enough to make her skin crawl.
He greeted the other ladies with elegant charm, but when he reached her, he bowed stiffly.
“Lady Valenhart,” he said, voice low. “I trust your recovery has been complete.”
Eira’s tongue felt thick. She nodded, unsure how Elyanora would have responded.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
His brows lifted almost imperceptibly at the cadence of her voice, as if something about her struck him as wrong.
The moment passed.
But Eira noticed the way his eyes lingered on her longer than on the others. As if searching for something behind her borrowed face.
That night, she dreamed of fire.
A field of stars burned overhead, and she stood barefoot in a ring of obsidian. A woman cloaked in shadow whispered in an ancient tongue, holding out a mirror that reflected not her face—but flickering images of both Eira and Elyanora. Their features shifted, blurring together, then tearing apart.
When she reached out, the mirror shattered.
She woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like a war drum.
The dream clung to her skin.
It wasn’t just a dream. It felt like a warning.
Three days later, the Oracle arrived.
The palace trembled with her presence. Bells tolled. Courtiers whispered of omens and celestial signs.
Eira was summoned to the Temple of the Flame within the palace grounds, a sanctum only high nobility and royalty could enter. As she passed beneath the arched gate carved with runes, the air grew heavy with magic—charged and ancient.
The Oracle was not what she expected.
She was a young girl with silver-threaded braids and milky eyes, sitting cross-legged before a burning brazier. Smoke curled around her like serpents.
Eira knelt as instructed.
The girl tilted her head. “Two threads in one tapestry,” she said in a voice that echoed unnaturally. “One soul borrowed. One fate stolen.”
Eira’s stomach turned to ice.
“What does that mean?”
The Oracle smiled faintly. “The stars burn differently now. Fire remembers. So does blood.”
Then she leaned forward and whispered:
“Beware the prince who sees with someone else’s eyes.
Beware the crown dipped in ash.
Your heart is not your own—and neither is his.”
Before Eira could ask more, the girl collapsed, and the attendants rushed forward to carry her out.
Eira walked back to her chamber in a daze, heart clattering against her ribs. The world tilted again—like the moment before the car hit her.
She wasn’t just in someone else’s life.
She had stolen it.
But if that was true… then who had stolen hers?
And what did it mean that the prince—Prince Alric—kept looking at her like he remembered something he shouldn’t?
- Writer
