Miralen woke up.
She was in a room with white walls adorned with delicate golden embroidery. The silence was broken only by the faint ticking of a clock.
"So... this is where I came," she murmured, slightly excited.
The bed beneath her was wide and impeccably made, crafted from dark polished wood carved with floral designs.
Heavy muted— green velvet curtains hung from a tall canopy, pulled halfway back to allow the morning light to spill softly onto the white sheets. The mattress was too soft— luxuriously so. The air carried a faint scent of jasmine.
To her left stood a narrow bedside table. Its surface was bare except for a brass candle stand and a small empty porcelain dish meant for jewelry. The candle had been trimmed neatly, as if someone had done it only moments ago.
Across from the bed, tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framed in dark polished wood. Daylight filtered through lace curtains beneath heavier drapes, casting patterned shadows across the smooth wooden floor.
The floorboards were warm— toned and immaculate, softened by a woven rug in muted blue and cream. Its patterns were intricate, yet restrained.
Near the window stood a writing desk— slender, elegant, and unused. A closed inkwell rested in one corner, beside a neatly aligned stack of papers. The chair was elegant, fully pushed in.
A tall wardrobe occupied the far wall. Its doors were closed, the polished surface reflecting Miralen faintly.
She sat up slowly, the sheets whispering beneath her touch.
Everything in the room was meant for a noble daughter. For someone who belonged here. And yet— nothing in it spoke her name.
Miralen rose and walked toward the tall window, resting one hand against the cold glass.
The first thing she noticed was how close the palace was.
It wasn't looming.
It was present.
Its pale walls stood just beyond the wrought— iron gates across the road— close enough for her to see the carvings along its arches and the guards passing occasionally along the balconies.
The palace didn't feel distant.
It felt watchful.
As if it had always known the house facing it.
Below her window, the city curved toward the palace entrance. The road was wide, paved with pale stone that was unusually clean. Carriages passed now and then-dark wood, polished wheels, horses moving in disciplined silence.
No shouting.
No rush.
Even the sound of hooves felt muted.
To the left stood tall iron lampposts, unlit beneath the daylight— decorative rather than necessary. Beyond them were trimmed hedges and carefully shaped trees surrounding the outer palace grounds.
A narrow path wound through them, used by guards on rotation, their uniforms darker than the palace stone.
To the right, noble houses lined the street, each standing apart from the next. Iron gates, stone walls, and carefully maintained gardens separated them.
No shops.
No open doors.
Only quiet residences with drawn curtains and balconies facing the palace rather than the city.
Miralen leaned closer to the glass.
She couldn't see the city itself. No fountains, no crowds, no market noise. That part of life felt deliberately removed-as if this section of the city had been carved out and placed near power, while everything else had been pushed safely away.
A flag flew atop the palace towers, though she couldn't see its markings clearly from this angle.
She wasn't in the city.
But she wasn't in the palace either.
She lived on the thin line between the two.
Her reflection stared back faintly from the glass— dressed in a white nightgown, standing in a room that wasn't hers, yet insisted that it was.
As her gaze returned to the palace gates, a quiet unease settled deep in her chest.
Silence didn't break.
It thinned.
Soft footsteps approached from beyond the door. Then came a knock— gentle, measured, practiced.
Miralen stiffened and turned slowly. "Come in," she said.
The door opened just enough for a girl to slip inside. She was younger.
Her dark hair was neatly braided and tied with a pale ribbon that matched the modest elegance of her dress. The fabric was light, refined— suited to a noble household, though simpler than Miralen had expected from a residence so close to the palace.
Her brown eyes were sharp and observant, lifting the moment she entered and immediately finding Miralen.
For a moment, the two girls stared at each other.
Then the girl smiled. "Sister," she said softly as she closed the door behind her. "You're awake."
The word struck deeper than it should have.
Miralen's chest tightened— not with surprise, but with something stranger.
A familiarity without memory.
The girl crossed the room, her steps light against the polished floor. She stopped a few paces from Miralen, studying her face with quiet concern.
"You didn't come downstairs for breakfast," she continued. "Mother sent a servant, but I said I'd check instead."
Mother.
The word settled uneasily in Miralen's mind.
"I'm fine," she replied after a brief pause, her voice steadier than before.
The girl tilted her head slightly. "You always say that. Ever since you returned."
Returned.
Miralen said nothing.
Without hesitation, the girl reached out and adjusted Miralen's nightgown sleeve, smoothing the fabric. It was a simple gesture— casual, practiced, familiar.
"You should change," she said gently. "Father will leave soon for the palace. He'll want to see you before he goes."
Miralen's gaze flickered toward the window— toward the palace beyond.
"Does he?" she asked quietly.
"He always does," the girl replied.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the girl glanced around the room— the untouched desk, the half— drawn curtains.
"You don't like this room, do you?" she asked softly.
"No," Miralen answered truthfully. "I don't."
The girl nodded, as if the answer confirmed something she had always known.
"Come on," she said, her voice gentle. "You shouldn't keep them waiting."
Suddenly, there was another knock at the door— disciplined, yet polite.
Both girls turned.
"Come in," Miralen said.
The door opened slowly, revealing a man dressed in a black frock coat, white shirt, fitted black trousers, and polished leather boots. His hair was neatly tied into a short ponytail at the back, his expression calm and restrained.
"Miss Delayna. Miss Verbena," he said evenly. "Lady Evander requests your presence downstairs immediately."
With a respectful nod, he closed the door behind him. The room fell silent once more.
Verbena turned to Miralen. "Sister," she said gently, taking Miralen's hands in her own. "If you feel strange again... tell me. Even if you don't know why."
She released her hands and moved toward the door. Pausing once, she glanced back with a soft smile.
Then she left, the door remaining slightly open behind her.
As Verbena disappeared, the silence returned— heavier this time. The room felt colder.
Miralen stood frozen for a moment before looking down at her hands. She could still feel the warmth of Verbena's touch.
So... she is Verbena Evander, Miralen thought. And I am her elder sister. My name here is Delayna.
Her breath slowed.
But what did she mean by returned? What happened before this?
She exhaled softly, steadying herself.
But for the first time since waking up, one truth became painfully clear-— Verbena didn't see her as a stranger. She saw her as someone she was afraid of losing again.
(The end of chapter 12)