The castle gates opened at dusk.
A low groan echoed through the stone walls as iron met movement, the sound carrying across the courtyard like a warning whispered too late.
Rain from earlier that afternoon still clung to the ground, leaving the gravel slick and dark beneath the fading light.
A single carriage rolled in.
Its wheels crunched softly, deliberate and unhurried—as though it had all the time in the world.
Guards straightened instantly.
Servants froze mid-step.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The carriage came to a stop.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—The door opened.
And she stepped out.
Anastasia.
At least… that was what it looked like.
The same cascade of blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the last light of evening.
The same pale, almost ethereal grace shaped every movement she made.
Even the air around her felt untouched, distant—like something not entirely of this world.
And the markings—
The intricate silver lines curled across her wrists and traced the delicate slope of her collarbone.
They shimmered faintly, alive in a way ink could never imitate.
Sacred. Unforgeable. Proof.
Hannah froze where she stood.
She had been pacing the courtyard for hours, her shoes damp, her hands clasped so tightly they had begun to ache.
Hope had long since turned to dread—but now— Now—
"My lady…" she whispered.
The girl turned. The world seemed to tilt.
Her face— It wasn't similar. It wasn't close. It was identical.
"Good evening, Hannah," she said softly.
Even her voice was perfect.
Hannah broke.
A sob escaped her before she could stop it, and she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around the girl as though afraid she might vanish again.
"My lady! We've searched everywhere!" she cried.
"His Majesty has torn the castle apart looking for you!"
For a fraction of a second— The girl stiffened.
So slight it could have been imagined.
Then, slowly, she relaxed.
"I… needed air," she replied gently. "I went further than I intended."
Hannah pulled back, tears streaming down her face, relief overwhelming every other thought.
Behind them, whispers stirred.
From the upper balcony, Charles watched.
His breath left him slowly, controlled—but not steady.
She looks the same. Too much the same.
He turned and descended the stairs, each step measured, his gaze never leaving her.
"Guinevere," he called.
She turned to him at once, offering a small, composed smile.
"Your Highness."
He stopped a few steps away.
Close enough to see everything.
Not close enough to understand it.
"Where were you?" he asked quietly.
"In the eastern woods," she replied. "I lost track of time."
"You vanished for an entire night."
Her gaze did not waver.
"I apologize."
Charles' eyes dropped to her wrists.
The silver markings glowed faintly under the torchlight—perfectly aligned, exactly as he remembered them.
Flawless. And yet—
Something in his chest tightened.
"Last night," he said carefully, "you told me something strange."
Her lashes fluttered once.
"Did I?"
"You asked if something had died."
For the briefest instant—Something moved behind her eyes.
Gone before it could be named.
"I must have imagined a smell," she said smoothly. "The woods carry odd scents."
Charles studied her.
The voice was right.
The posture. The tilt of her chin.
Everything was right.
And yet everything was wrong.
Guinevere had never been calm.
She was fire—sharp words, quick temper, emotions worn openly like armor.
This version… Was quiet. Measured. Controlled.
"Woods?" Charles muttered. "We weren't in the woods last night. What are you talking about?"
She looks at Charles in the eyes but says nothing.
"You seem different," he said before he could stop himself.
She smiled. Perfectly.
"Perhaps I simply needed time to think."
Behind him, Hannah laughed softly, relief making her lightheaded.
"She's just tired, that's all. Come, my lady. You must rest."
The girl nodded.
As she turned toward the castle doors, her gaze lifted—just for a moment—
To the highest balcony. As though searching. For someone.
Two Days Later
Luke returned at noon.
Dust clung to his cloak, his boots, even his hair—evidence of long roads and longer thoughts.
His horse barely slowed before he dismounted, tossing the reins aside with practiced ease.
He had been gone for weeks.
Sent south to settle trade disputes he never cared about.
He had not seen her disappear. Had not witnessed the panic.
He arrived to something worse. Silence.
The castle was too quiet.
Charles met him in the courtyard, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"You picked an interesting time to return," Charles muttered.
Luke frowned. "What happened?"
"Guinevere vanished. Then returned."
Luke stilled. "Vanished?"
"For a night," Charles said. Then, after a pause, "Perhaps longer than we realized."
Luke's jaw tightened. "Where is she?"
"In her room."
That was all he needed.
He turned and walked away without another word. He knew her rhythms.
The way she paced when troubled.
The way she hummed absentmindedly when reading.
The way her temper flared—wild and unrestrained—when provoked.
He reached her door. Knocked once.
"Enter."
He stepped inside.
She stood by the window, sunlight spilling across her skin, catching the silver lines that marked her as something more than ordinary.
She turned.
"Can I help you, Luke?" she asked.
His name. The tone. The warmth. Perfect. And yet—
He crossed the room slowly.
"You disappeared," he said.
"I needed solitude."
"You hate solitude."
A pause. Small. Precise.
"People change."
Luke's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Do they?"
She moved past him, fingers grazing the edge of a table.
Graceful. Controlled.
Anastasia had never been controlled.
She fidgeted. Tapped. Shifted. Lived in restless motion.
This one moved like she had rehearsed every step.
Something else struck him.
There was no scent of lavender.
Hannah insisted on it—every day, every time.
Now— Nothing.
"You didn't send word," Luke said.
"I did not think it necessary."
"It was necessary to us."
She turned, her expression softening. But her eyes— Her eyes remained cold.
"I apologize."
Luke's gaze dropped to her collarbone.
The silver markings shimmered faintly.
"They look brighter," he murmured.
She touched them instinctively.
"Do they?"
"They used to dim when you were upset."
A faint smile curved her lips.
"Perhaps I am not upset anymore."
That was when he felt it. Not a difference.
An absence. A hollow space where familiarity should have lived.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"What did you see that night?"
Her gaze sharpened.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You were afraid."
"I was mistaken."
"You don't frighten easily." Silence fell between them.
And for just a moment—Her composure slipped.
Not fear. Calculation. Cold. Precise. Dangerous.
Then it was gone.
"I am tired, Luke," she said gently. "We can speak later."
He didn't move. Instead—He reached out and grabbed her wrist.
Her reaction was instant. Too instant.
She twisted sharply, efficiently, breaking his grip with practiced precision.
No panic. No struggle. Skill.
Anastasia had never known how to do that.
They froze. Staring at each other.
Slowly, she lowered her hand.
"I suppose time away teaches many things," she said quietly.
Luke stepped back. Forced a smile.
"Of course."
But as he turned and walked away, something settled deep in his chest—
Heavy. Unshakable.
She looks like Anastasia. She sounds like Anastasia. She carries the marks of Anastasia.
But she is not her. Far from the castle—
Deep beneath stone and silence— Chains bit into fragile skin.
Darkness swallowed the air whole.
And the real Anastasia—Was running out of time.