Morning arrived without warmth.
Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the east wing, gilding the marble floors and silk drapes in gold—but the air remained cold, untouched by comfort.
Guinevere stood before the mirror.
Still. Perfect.
Her reflection stared back at her with flawless precision—every strand of dark hair in place, every line of her posture measured and deliberate.
The silver markings along her skin shimmered faintly in the light. She lifted her hand.
The reflection followed. Exact. Unquestionable.
And yet— Something was off.
"What happened in the woods?"
The question echoed again in her mind.
Unwanted. Persistent.
Her fingers curled slightly. She had asked it twice.
That was a mistake. Curiosity was inefficiency.
Inefficiency led to error.
And error— Was unacceptable.
A soft knock came at the door.
"My lady?" Hannah's voice filtered through gently. "May I come in?"
Guinevere didn't turn.
"Yes."
The door creaked open, and Hannah stepped inside, carrying a tray of tea and fresh linens.
Her movements were lighter now—relief had restored some of the warmth to her expression.
"You should eat something," Hannah said softly, setting the tray down.
"You've hardly touched anything since you returned."
"I am not hungry."
Hannah hesitated. That wasn't unusual but something about the way she said it—
Flat. Detached. Still, Hannah forced a small smile.
"At least try," she insisted gently. "You always say that, but then you end up stealing half the pastries."
Silence. Guinevere didn't respond.
Hannah's smile faltered slightly.
"You used to," she added, quieter now.
Guinevere turned then. Slowly.
"I said I am not hungry."
The words weren't sharp but they landed harder than anger ever could.
Hannah lowered her gaze.
"Of course, my lady."
A pause.
Then—
"Would you like me to prepare your lavender oil?" she asked carefully. "It might help you rest."
For a fraction of a second—
Guinevere stilled. Lavender.
"I no longer require it," she said. Hannah blinked.
"Oh… alright."
Another small fracture.
Another detail out of place.
Hannah gathered the untouched tray, her movements quieter now.
"His Highness requested your presence later," she added before leaving. "And Lord Luke as well."
Guinevere inclined her head.
"I will attend."
The door closed behind Hannah with a soft click.
Silence returned. But it was no longer empty. It pressed. Demanded. Insisted.
Guinevere turned back to the mirror. And this time—
She leaned closer. Studying. Searching.
"What happened in the woods?" she whispered to her reflection.
The reflection did not answer. But something in her chest—
Shifted. Elsewhere in the Castle. Luke didn't sit.
He stood by the window in Charles' chamber, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the training grounds below.
Soldiers moved in routine patterns.
Predictable. Disciplined. Controlled.
Unlike the storm brewing in his mind.
"She's not her," Luke said flatly.
Charles exhaled slowly from where he stood near the desk.
"You're certain."
Luke let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"You're not?"
Charles didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he walked to the window, stopping beside him.
"I want to be wrong," be waiting to your admitted.
Luke glanced at him.
"But you're not," Charles continued. "You felt it too."
Luke's jaw tightened.
"She broke my grip," he said. "Not by instinct. By training."
Charles' eyes darkened.
"And Anastasia never trained like that."
"No."
Silence settled between them.
Heavy. Then—
"The markings," Charles said quietly. "They're identical."
Luke nodded once.
"I saw them."
"And yet—"
"They don't feel right," Luke finished.
Charles turned slightly, his voice lowering.
"If someone can replicate the sacred lines—"
"They can't," Luke cut in sharply.
Charles looked at him.
Luke shook his head.
"They're not paint. Not magic you can just copy. They're tied to blood. To something deeper."
Charles' gaze sharpened.
"Then what are we dealing with?"
Luke didn't answer immediately.
Because for the first time—He didn't know.
The Summoning.
Guinevere entered the chamber without hesitation.
Graceful. Composed. Perfect.
Charles stood near the center of the room.
Luke remained by the window, though his gaze shifted the moment she stepped inside.
"Your Highness," she greeted softly.
"Guinevere," Charles replied.
A pause.
Then—
"Sit."
She did. Every movement precise.
Measured. Luke watched her closely. Too closely.
"You requested my presence," she said.
Charles exchanged a brief glance with Luke.
Then he spoke.
"There have been… concerns."
Her gaze remained steady.
"Concerns?"
"Your disappearance," Charles clarified. "And your return."
"I have already explained—"
"Yes," Luke interrupted.
She turned to him. Slowly.
"You went to the woods," he continued. "Lost track of time. Came back."
"That is correct."
Luke pushed himself off the window.
Walked toward her. Unhurried.
"But you forgot something," he said.
Her expression didn't change.
"What would that be?"
Luke stopped in front of her.
Close enough to test the illusion.
"Yourself."
Silence. Sharp. Cutting.
Charles didn't move. Didn't interfere.
Guinevere's gaze held Luke's. Unflinching.
"I don't understand."
"No," Luke said quietly. "You don't."
A flicker. Gone instantly.
"You speak in riddles," she replied.
Luke leaned slightly closer.
"Then answer plainly."
A beat.
"What did you see that night?"
There it was again. The question. The crack.
Guinevere's fingers tightened slightly in her lap.
"What do you believe I saw?" she countered.
Luke smiled faintly.
"Deflection."
Charles stepped in then, his voice calmer—but no less sharp.
"Guinevere," he said, "look at me."
She did. Immediately. Obedient. Too obedient.
Charles' chest tightened.
"When you returned," he continued, "you asked no questions."
A pause.
"You didn't ask what happened while you were gone. Who searched for you. What we feared."
Her gaze faltered. Just slightly. That was new.
"You accepted everything," Charles finished.
"And that," Luke added softly, "is not like you."
Silence stretched. Longer this time. Heavier.
Guinevere rose slowly to her feet.
"You are both mistaken," she said.
Her voice was calm. Steady. Controlled.
But beneath it—Something else stirred.
Something sharper.
"You question me without cause," she continued. "I returned. I apologized. Yet you treat me as though I am a stranger."
Luke's eyes darkened.
"That's because you are."
The words landed.
Hard.
For the first time—
Her composure cracked.
Not fully. Not obviously. But enough.
Enough for them to see. Enough for them to know. Guinevere straightened.
Her chin lifted slightly.
Defensive. Calculated. Dangerous.
"If you doubt me," she said quietly, "then perhaps you should ask yourselves why."
Charles' breath caught.
Because that—
That sounded like her.
Sharp. Deflective. Cutting. But it came too late.
Like a line remembered. Not felt.
Luke saw it too and it only confirmed the truth.
"Leave us," Charles said suddenly.
Guinevere didn't hesitate.
She turned. Walked toward the door.
But just before she stepped out—
She paused.
Only for a second. Then she looked back.
Not at Charles. Not at Luke. But past them.
Toward the far wall. As if listening. To something only she could hear.
Then she left. The door closed. The room exhaled.
Luke turned to Charles slowly.
"She's breaking," he said. Charles nodded.
"Not enough."
Luke's gaze hardened.
"Then we push harder."
Charles didn't argue. Because somewhere, deep beneath the certainty and fear—
They both knew.
If they were right—
Then the real Anastasia wasn't gone. She was waiting.