The day had finally arrived.
Five days. That's how long I've lived in this world—five fleeting days as Lily Hartwell.
This morning, they formally declared Julian the Duke of Hartwell. The title now sits heavily on his shoulders, yet he carries it with the same quiet strength I've come to expect from him.
But I can't go with him. Not yet. The law—some arcane rule wrapped in nobility and bloodlines—bars me from stepping into that final role by his side. A strange ache coils in my chest every time I think of it.
In five days, I've walked the marble halls of the palace, breathed in its secrets, and wandered through each lavish room like a ghost trying to remember who she once was. Every chamber has opened its doors to me… except one.
The room of the head of the family.
Now, there is only Julian's room.
Though the palace walls hum with grandeur and the air itself seems steeped in centuries of power, it's that one unopened door that haunts me. It calls to me in quiet moments—soft as a breath, familiar as a dream I've never had. I pass it sometimes, lingering just a moment too long, wondering what lies beyond.
With nothing else to occupy my time, I found myself drawn to the palace library. A quiet sanctuary filled with dust and forgotten pages, it has become my escape. Shelves stretch high toward vaulted ceilings, each crammed with the voices of a thousand authors, long dead or far away.
I spend my days among them now, wandering the maze of stories, losing myself in ink and parchment.
The maids must have noticed. They've begun leaving small trays of sweets and tea by the reading alcove I frequent most. Little things—shortbread, candied fruit, a steaming cup of something floral. As if they've accepted that the library is where I belong.
And for now… perhaps it is.
It had been months since Julian was officially named Duke of Hartwell—and I hadn't seen him since.
He must be too occupied now, wrapped in affairs of state, duties, and expectations. I told myself I understood. Still, a quiet ache lingered.
I was buried in a thick volume on the politics and laws of the Kingdom of Lysoria—dense, meticulous, and strangely fascinating—when the silence of the library fractured.
The great double doors, nearly twelve feet tall and carved with golden filigree, creaked open on their ancient hinges. I looked up just in time to see someone step through.
A boy—no, not quite. A young man.
He moved with quiet purpose, dressed in lavish garments stitched with silver thread that caught the light like moonfire. His hair was black as midnight, and his eyes—deep, unreadable, and dark as obsidian-were swept across the room.
Then, they found me.
Across the sea of shelves and candlelight, our eyes locked, and for a breathless moment, the world seemed to still.
There was something in his gaze. Recognition, perhaps. Or fate.
He smiled—warm, casual, as if we were old friends.
"Hey there," he said, his voice smooth and unhurried.
It wasn't just his confidence that caught me—it was the gleam of gold stitched into his clothing. A crest, unmistakable in its detail: two serpents coiled around a sword. The emblem of the Kingdom of Lysoria. A symbol worn only by those of royal blood.
The crown prince.
I rose to my feet at once and bowed my head, masking my surprise behind a well-practiced expression.
"Welcome, Your Highness," I said with a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "What can I do for you?"
He tilted his head slightly, studying me, but whether he noticed the insincerity in my voice or simply enjoyed the moment, I couldn't tell.
As I straightened, one thought echoed in my mind, sharp and clear:
I thought Lily and Alistair were supposed to meet in the palace gardens… So why is he here, in the library?
Something about this meeting felt… wrong. Or perhaps, exactly right—but not in the way I expected.
Is this the fate pulling me closer to him? Does it mean to be? No. I refuse.
Is this fate pulling me toward him? Some invisible thread drawing our paths together before they're meant to cross?
No.
I refuse.
"Hey, raise your head," he said gently, curiosity flickering in his voice. "Can you tell me your name?"
I hesitated. Every part of me wanted to remain unnamed, unknown. But there was no polite way to avoid it—not here, not now.
"My name is Lily Evangeline Hartwell, Your Majesty," I replied with a practiced smile.
Recognition lit his face. "You're Julian's little sister, right?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
This isn't how it's supposed to go, I thought. They weren't meant to meet yet—not like this, not here. The garden… it was supposed to be the garden.
"You know," he continued, a grin tugging at his lips as he walked toward me, "Julian talks about you every chance he gets."
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat, completely at ease.
"And you know," he added with a lopsided smile, "you're pretty—pretty like an angel who dropped to earth just to leave us all breathless."
I blinked.
He said it so smoothly, without hesitation, as if it were simply a fact of the world.
Flattery, or fate?
I didn't know. But I felt the ground shift ever so slightly beneath me.
I smiled, soft and sweet. "Aw, Your Majesty, you flatter me," I said lightly. "You know my big brother—he's always too kind."
Alistair chuckled, leaning back just enough to appear both charming and confident. "You're too pretty to be hidden away in this quiet chamber," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Why don't we step outside for a bit? Get some fresh air."
I wanted to say no.
I wanted to stay here, buried in the safety of my book, far from his gaze and whatever strange pull came with it. I'd rather be alone with this dry old volume than walk with you, you arrogant bastard.
But refusing him meant more than a simple decline. What would Julian say? He's worked so hard to give me a life of comfort, to shield me from the burdens he bears. A luxury I accepted while he carried the weight of a title.
So I swallowed the words I truly meant.
"It's my pleasure, Your Majesty," I said instead, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes.
And just like that, I closed the book—on politics, on peace, on the version of myself I preferred—and rose to follow a path I wasn't sure I chose.
I walked beside him through the stone corridors, the soft echo of our footsteps the only sound between us.
Then I saw him.
Julian.
He stood at the far end of the hall, speaking to a steward—but the moment his eyes landed on me, everything shifted. Just slightly. But I noticed.
There was a flicker—something unreadable behind his calm expression. Then, without a word, he strode toward us and took my hand in his.
Alistair's grip loosened immediately, and he stepped back, his smile still intact but touched now with something cooler… more cautious.
"Welcome, Your Majesty," Julian said evenly, his hand still wrapped protectively around mine. "What can I do for you?"
Alistair gave a light laugh and tilted his head. "Is it so strange to visit my best friend's home?" he said, that ever-present smirk curling his lips. "Or has the Duke of Hartwell forgotten how to host?"
"Of course," Julian said with a note of cheerful warmth. Then he turned to me, his smile deepening just slightly. "Lily, didn't you say you wanted to try the new batch of Twinkle Tarts? The ones made by that head chef you're so fond of?"
I blinked.
How did he know those were my favorites? I never told him—not directly, anyway.
Still, I caught onto the invitation in his voice, the lifeline he was quietly offering. A graceful escape.
"Yes, big brother," I replied, my voice light, my smile genuine for the first time in minutes.
And just like that, I stepped away from Alistair—relieved, though I masked it with a playful tone—as if all I truly cared about was a tray of sparkling sugar-glazed tarts.
That evening, I sat in the quiet warmth of the drawing room, happily nibbling at my Twinkle Tarts, the sweet glaze sparkling under the candlelight. I didn't speak much after that—not to Alistair, not to Julian. I simply enjoyed the sugar on my tongue, the calm in my chest. For once, I let the peace be enough.
That night, I fell asleep easily.
"My wife… is something wrong?"
The voice came out of the silence, smooth and strange, like oil over still water.
I was sitting in a garden chair, surrounded by tall, purple foxgloves—deadly, beautiful things. My gaze was fixed on them, unblinking.
I wanted to move. To turn. To see who was speaking.
But I couldn't.
I wanted to speak. To ask what was happening.
But no sound came.
Then, suddenly, I heard myself say it—my voice, but distant, foreign, as if spoken through a veil:
"Honey… where's my brother? I want to see my brother."
Why did I say that? I didn't mean to. I didn't even understand it.
The man's voice replied, colder this time. Familiar in a way that made my skin crawl.
"You know, my wife… It's bad to speak that way to your husband."
He paused, then added with quiet menace:
"You remember what happened the last time you disagreed with me… right?"
A sharp, invisible pressure coiled around me.
I looked down.
My legs were still in the chair, but they felt wrong. One of them pulsed with a pain so intense, so unreal, it felt like it didn't belong to me anymore. Like it had been—
No.
No, no, no.
The pain was indescribable. Twisting. Deep. As though something had been taken, or ruined, or broken beyond repair.
And I still couldn't move.
Couldn't wake.
Just the flowers. The voice. The pain.
The man finally turned to face me.
For a moment, the world seemed to still—the sound drained from the air, the shadows grew longer, and then I saw him. Dark hair framed a pale, expressionless face, but it was the eyes that struck me cold: pitch black, bottomless, like staring into a void that knew my name.
Panic bloomed in my chest. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. My voice was trapped somewhere deep inside me, clawing to get out. I tried again. And again. Silent, desperate gasps.
Then, with a force that felt like breaking through water, the scream finally tore free—and I jolted awake, heart hammering, the echo of it still ringing in my ears.