The Royal Council chamber was colder than I expected. Not just in temperature, but in mood. High, vaulted ceilings loomed above a circular stone table flanked by twelve carved chairs, each one occupied by a face carved from the stone of Kaereth itself—sharp, watchful, ancient.
I sat in the seat marked for Lyara Kaereth.
The enemy's daughter. The vessel I now wore.
Lord Velkhar, the King's Advisor and highest-ranking member present, was already speaking when I entered. His robes were dark green and black, the colors of House Velkhar, and his voice was like oil—smooth, slippery, and cold.
"—and so, with the northern provinces refusing to increase grain shipments, we risk a food shortage by mid-winter."
I took my seat quietly, praying no one noticed the stiffness in my movements, or the way my eyes scanned like a spy.
Velkhar's eyes flicked toward me.
"Ah. Princess Lyara joins us. Welcome back from the brink."
"Thank you, my lord," I said, keeping my voice calm.
Too calm. Too controlled.
He studied me for a heartbeat longer than was polite.
"I trust the fever has not damaged your memory."
His smile did not reach his eyes.
"No," I lied.
The council chamber was a hive of calculation. Men and women with titles, with old blood and older grudges, whispered behind their palms and weighed my words with invisible scales.
I didn't know their names yet, only their roles—General Avanir, the old war dog; Minister Kirel, who controlled trade routes; Lady Morna, whose expression never changed.
But Velkhar… he was the real spider in the web.
He gestured toward a scroll.
"We are reviewing border tensions with the Southern Tribes. A diplomatic mission has been proposed. Normally your brother would lead it, but General Arven has requested you accompany him."
I blinked.
That wasn't part of the memory I inherited.
"Me?"
He smiled thinly.
"You are of age. And no longer sickly. It's time the realm saw what a daughter of Kaereth can offer."
Was this a trap? A test? Or a genuine mission?
Or maybe an execution in disguise.
Either way, refusing might seem suspicious.
"Of course. I would be honored to represent Kaereth," I replied.
Arven, seated two chairs away, glanced sideways at me—but said nothing.
He was watching. Measuring.
Velkhar nodded.
"Good. You leave in three days. You may take your handmaiden and two guards."
Three days. To prepare. To survive. To search.
My mind spun. I needed to understand what the southern tribes knew—or didn't—about the war, about Solmira. And above all, I needed to find out if any relics of old magic were rumored in those territories.
The rest of the council droned on. Military numbers. Tax levies. I nodded where needed, mimicked Lyara's posture, her silence. But a storm churned in my chest.
As the meeting adjourned, Velkhar intercepted me before I could slip away.
"A word, Your Highness."
I followed him into a smaller room lined with books and maps. Once the door shut, his entire demeanor shifted.
Gone was the courtly mask. In its place—curiosity, sharp and cold.
"You're not her," he said.
I froze.
"You look like her. You even move like her—mostly. But I've known that girl since she was born, and you are not her."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't insult me. I am not accusing you. I'm... intrigued."
He stepped closer.
"Tell me—who are you really? And who sent you here?"
Panic clawed at my ribs.
Did he know about the soul switch? Had he caused it?
He observed me, reading my silence.
"Ah. You don't know either. Fascinating."
Then he did something I didn't expect. He handed me a black velvet pouch.
"Take this. Keep it close. Study it in private. Do not speak of it—not even to your brother."
I took it hesitantly.
"What is it?"
"A key. To a locked door inside yourself. You'll understand when the time is right."
And with that, he left.
I stood there for a long time, the pouch heavy in my palm.
I had come back to destroy Kaereth.
But now I wasn't sure if Kaereth was already destroying itself—from the inside.
---------
That evening, I slipped away to the old tower library—a forgotten wing of the palace thick with dust and silence. Serra had told me the place was rarely used.
Perfect. Hidden. Safe.
I unwrapped the pouch and found a stone—black, jagged, faintly warm to the touch.
When I held it, I saw something. A flash.
A girl in chains.
My face. Lyara's voice. Screaming.
Then darkness.
I dropped the stone. My breath came ragged.
She was alive.
Somewhere, Lyara Kaereth—the real one—was still trapped.
And I had just seen her prison.
----------
I gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white, as the vision echoed in my skull like a scream trapped in a cavern.
She was screaming.
Not with rage, but with terror.
Her violet eyes wide with helplessness. Her voice—my voice—cracked and raw. Whatever prison she was in, it wasn't just physical. It was psychic. Magical. A place built not with stone, but with intent.
The intent to bind, to erase, to replace.
What kind of spell had done this?
And—gods—if she was still conscious, still aware, did that mean she could feel me walking in her skin? Pretending to be her?
Did she hate me?
Or worse… did she beg me for help—and I just didn't hear?
I dropped to the chair beside the ancient desk, the room spinning around me.
Velkhar had known something. Not everything—but enough.
He called it a key.
Was the stone the trigger? Or had it simply cracked something open inside me that was already there?
I needed to understand this magic. I needed to trace it back to its source.
Because if Lyara was alive, and if I still had a shred of honor left as Adaleine of Solmira, then I couldn't just keep living in her body like it was borrowed armor.
I had to free her.
But the moment I made that vow to myself, a deeper fear twisted in my gut—one I hadn't dared put into words until now.
If I freed her… what would happen to me?
Would I return to my own body—burned and broken and buried in Solmira's rubble?
Or would I die?
Again?
I rubbed the heel of my hand against my forehead. I had no answers. Only more questions.
And a rising sense that my borrowed time was shrinking by the hour.
A soft rustle startled me. I spun toward the door, clutching the velvet pouch to my chest.
But it was only Serra.
She stood there with wide eyes and a half-curtsey.
"I'm sorry, Princess. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"It's fine," I said quickly, trying to hide the panic in my voice. "Just… thinking."
She stepped closer, peering at the table.
"I used to bring the real—uh, I mean… you—books from this wing."
She caught herself, then looked terrified.
"I didn't mean—"
"It's all right," I said, holding her gaze. "You meant Lyara. The real one."
She swallowed hard.
"I… I'm not supposed to say things like that."
"You're not in trouble," I told her. "But tell me, Serra—what kind of books did she ask for?"
She hesitated, then leaned in and whispered,
"Books on binding magic. Soul cages. Ancient bloodlines."
My pulse skipped.
"She told me it was for a friend," Serra added. "But she was scared. I could see it. She started having nosebleeds. Nightmares. Sometimes she spoke in her sleep… in a voice that wasn't hers."
That confirmed it. Lyara had known something. Maybe even fought it. Maybe she wasn't the passive vessel everyone thought she was.
"Did she ever say where she found the information?"
Serra nodded.
"There's a sealed vault under the east wing. Most of the palace doesn't know it exists. But she had a key. A black one. Like stone, but smooth and cold."
My fingers curled tightly around the pouch.
Velkhar's key.
I stood up so fast the chair scraped back.
"Serra," I said. "If anyone asks, I was never here."
She blinked. "Where will you go?"
I met her eyes.
"To find the truth. Before the wrong people bury it again."
And maybe, just maybe…
to save the girl whose face I wore.