When Lyle finished dressing, the quiet rustle of fabric breaking the stillness, he crossed the room with a wooden box cradled in his hands. He sat beside me, and with a soft thud, he opened the lid. The scent hit before I even looked—sharp, sterile, and faintly medicinal. My eyes dropped to the contents: gauze, linen, tiny blades glinting in the low light, vials sealed with wax, and the unmistakable burn of antiseptic.
A medic's kit.
My stomach twisted.
"What the hell is the meaning of this, Lyle?" My voice sounded hoarse—raw, like it had been dragged across gravel. It startled even me. I hadn't meant to sound so shaken. But the air felt heavier with each passing second, like thick fog weaving around my ribs and tightening.
He didn't flinch, didn't look away. His voice was quiet. Measured. "You hate unfamiliar touches. Aneira is the only one who can take care of you—she raised you. I started bathing you when you were five. She had to leave for some family matter, and you asked me to help. Since then, whenever she's gone, I've taken her place."
The words settled between us like dust over forgotten relics.
And then it cracked.
Like a mirror shattering inward, the reflection of Madeleine's memories surfaced, vivid and intact. I saw her—me—standing in a tub carved from pale marble veined with silver. The water rippled as Lyle, younger but no less composed, gently poured water down her back. His hands moved with practiced ease. No hunger. No discomfort. Just calm repetition. She didn't tremble. Her breath stayed even.
There was no fear. No tension. Just… familiarity.
Routine.
It felt too normal. Too intimate in its mundanity.
I swallowed, my mouth dry as sand. The memory faded, leaving behind an ache I couldn't name. I stared at the floor, watching shadows stretch and distort across the wooden planks. The silence pressed in, thick and deafening, wrapping itself around my limbs like vines.
"Just stop doing it from now on," I whispered, barely more than breath. The words fell from my lips like broken leaves, brittle and unsure. I didn't want him to see the tremble in my hands, or how my chest constricted with a foreign emotion I couldn't place.
He didn't respond.
Instead, he dipped a piece of cotton into a vial and brought it to my neck. I caught the sting before I could brace myself.
"Ahh—!" I flinched. It burned. A sharp, searing kiss against my skin. I sucked in a breath, tasting iron on my tongue, as if the pain had bled into my mouth.
Lyle's hand slowed, almost imperceptibly. His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but focus. He moved more delicately after that, each press of cotton careful, methodical.
"You should sleep," he murmured, already standing. "We leave at first light."
And then he walked away.
The silence returned, accompanied by the soft click of the door closing. I leaned back slowly, the mattress groaning under my weight. My cheek brushed the pillow, and suddenly a familiar scent enveloped me—warm, earthy, and faintly spiced.
Lyle.
My throat tightened. The sheets, the room, the air itself—it all smelled like him. Not in an overwhelming way, but like something soaked into the very bones of the space. It was unmistakable.
This was his room.
Why?
Why had he brought me here?
I squeezed my eyes shut, heart thudding in protest.
Forget it. I need to forget this.
This didn't happen. It doesn't mean anything.
But the moment I thought that—
A scream ripped through the quiet like a lightning strike.
"Aaarrghh!!"
I shot upright, breath caught in my lungs. That voice—
Lyle?
Panic clawed its way into my chest. I pushed the blanket aside and stumbled to my feet. The cold floor bit at my soles, but I didn't stop. The screams were growing—louder, rawer. They didn't even sound human anymore.
It was pain. Not physical. Something deeper. Something that tore at the soul.
A flickering orange glow spilled from a room at the end of the hall. My hand trembled as I reached for the door, heart hammering so loudly I could barely hear the hinges creak.
The smell came first.
Copper.
Blood.
Then I saw him.
Lyle. On his knees, his sword tossed beside him like a forgotten toy. The room was a graveyard—splintered furniture, crimson smears on the walls, shattered glass glinting like fallen stars.
His hands dripped red, fingers curled like claws. His eyes were bloodshot, cheeks stained with tears, mouth twisted into a snarl of grief.
"I'LL KILL THEM!! I WILL BURN THIS PLACE TO HELL!!"
His voice cracked, each syllable a violent sob.
In the corner, the butler from earlier stood rigid, pale as moonlight, hands useless at his sides. No one tried to stop him. No one dared.
"Lyle…"
But the name caught in my throat. It dissolved into the air like smoke. So instead, I stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully.
I knelt in front of him.
His sword slashed through the air again, a warning—or perhaps a reflex. The blade passed dangerously close, but I didn't flinch. Couldn't. All I could do was watch.
This wasn't rage.
It was agony. Utter, consuming agony.
Each swing of the blade was a scream that his voice couldn't carry. Each shattered chair a name he couldn't save.
Who did this to him?
What had been taken from him to create this… this wreckage?
"Calm down, my Lord," the butler whispered.
But it was useless.
Lyle didn't hear him. Or maybe he did—but he no longer cared. He slashed again, then again, until—
He collapsed.
Just like that. As if all the fury had drained from his bones and left only emptiness behind.
He crumpled to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut.
I stared at him, my fingers curling against the floorboards. My lungs refused to breathe properly. The silence that followed was unnatural. Oppressive.
A moment later—
Knock knock.
I jolted upright, chest heaving.
A dream?
No. No, it couldn't have been. The heat of the flames, the scent of blood, the raw screams—they lingered on my skin, in my bones.
But the door creaked open, and there he was.
Lyle.
Cloak fastened, boots cleaned, expression unreadable.
Not a single trace of madness.
"It's time," he said.
I could only stare at him.
He looked well-rested. Polished. Like last night never happened.
"Are you alright?" I asked, voice unsteady.
He met my gaze evenly. "I'm breathing well, Your Highness."
Liar.
But I said nothing. I followed him in silence, my legs moving on instinct.
That vision—if that's what it was—haunted me like a phantom. There had been no mention of it in the book. No note of Lyle screaming, covered in blood, breaking apart at the seams.
So what did I see?
A warning?
A future?
A destiny I'd yet to rewrite?
I stared at him as we climbed into the carriage. He didn't look at me.
"Stop calling me 'Your Highness'," I murmured. "Call me by my name. It'll make it easier to avoid suspicion."
He raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Yes, My Lady."
I rolled my eyes.
"Lady Madeleine, then."
It still felt strange. But less distant. Less… imperial.
We rode in silence after that. Forests passed us by—blurred smears of green and gold, trees folding into one another like memories I couldn't grasp. Outside, the world moved in breathless motion. Inside, I remained still, untouched, as if the carriage were a coffin gliding through a dream.
"Do you think my grandfather will be happy to see me?" I asked softly, not because I truly wanted the answer—but because I feared it.
Lyle's eyes found mine.
"I'm sure they will, My Lady," he said gently.
But I wasn't sure. Not at all.
Madeleine's mother had been a daughter of House Luxemburg—old blood, the kind etched into monuments and sealed in dynastic pacts. Revered, untouchable. A lineage that bore empresses and dictated alliances. Love had never touched her mother's wedding band. Only power, polished to a cold shine.
And now I was dragging that sacred bloodline into war. Into scandal. Into disgrace.
A child born of duty, now rewriting fate with dirty hands.
"If His Grace doesn't welcome us," Lyle said after a pause, his voice like the quiet draw of a sword, "what's the next step?"
I didn't turn to him. I kept my gaze on the streaking landscape, on the way the light caught in the cracks of the forest like fire behind glass.
"Then we go to the Grand Duchy of Dewei," I said carefully.
His posture shifted slightly—just enough for me to feel the weight of his attention.
"What makes you think there will be a marriage?" he asked.
I froze.
The question shouldn't have rattled me. But it did. My spine locked into place, mind whirring like a storm-battered compass. Think. Think fast. Say something light. Harmless.
"I had a dream," I said quickly. "Laura marries a Grand Duke."
A pause.
"There's only one Grand Duke in the Empire," he replied, voice light, teasing.
"Must be an oracle," I said, forcing a laugh that felt like it belonged to someone else.
But Lyle didn't smile.
He just looked at me—steadily, quietly. As if he could see every unspoken word shivering beneath my skin.
Then, too casually—far too casually—he said:
"What if the marriage was supposed to be yours?"
The breath left my lungs. Like a window thrown open in winter.
"What?" I whispered.
He didn't blink. His eyes didn't stray. His voice didn't waver.
The air thickened. Even the clatter of the carriage wheels seemed to dull, as if the trees themselves were listening.
I felt it then—the fragile, aching thread between us. One I hadn't dared to name.
My fingers curled in my lap, crushing the soft fabric of my dress. I couldn't look at him. Not now. Not when the truth pressed so close to the surface.
It had never been Laura. It was always me.
But I had stolen a body, not a life.
And the Grand Duke didn't know me. Not really. Not yet.
Outside, the sunlight dimmed behind the trees, casting long shadows that reached for the carriage like clawed hands.
Inside, the warmth turned brittle.
Like glass under pressure.
Like frost creeping up the spine.