Chapter 1: The Awakening
Raindrops tapped gently against the frosted windowpane, like whispers of a world just out of reach. The heavy scent of lavender and parchment filled the air. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across the ornate ceiling. Freya stirred.
Her body ached—not in sharp stabs, but in a dull, persistent heaviness, like she had been asleep for centuries and the world had continued without her.
She opened her eyes slowly.
The room was foreign, grand and quiet, with walls carved from marble and heavy curtains that fell like silent waterfalls. Her breath caught. This wasn't a hospital. It wasn't her bedroom in Seoul. It wasn't anywhere she recognized.
Where... where am I?
She tried to sit up but gasped. Her arms were thin, her fingers small. And her voice—
"Is anyone there?"
It was too soft, too young.
The heavy door creaked open. A woman in a black dress entered—no smile, no warmth, just a tray of broth and a glance that barely lingered.
"You're awake," the maid said flatly. "Drink this."
Freya blinked. "Where's my mother?" she asked, instinctively.
The maid looked confused. "The duchess passed away 7 years ago, my lady ."
Her heart clenched.
What duchess?
She wanted to ask more, but the woman had already turned her back, placing the tray down and leaving without another word.
Something was terribly wrong. Her memories were foggy, shifting like a mirage. There was an alley. Footsteps behind her. A shadow. A scream caught in her throat. Blood. Cold.
She pressed a hand to her chest.
Am I... dead?
The days passed slowly. The household was cold, not just in temperature, but in feeling. The Duke—the man who was supposed to be her father—barely acknowledged her. Her brother, Aaron, glanced at her with mild disdain, as if she were a speck of dust on a polished surface.
The maids whispered.
"She's not right in the head."
"Maybe it was the fever."
"She just stares out the window all day."
Freya did. She stared because she didn't understand. Her body was smaller, younger. Her hair, once dark, now shimmered with a silver-platinum hue. Her eyes—orchid, not brown.
Every reflection was a stranger.
In the dead of night, she sat beneath the covers and cried into the fur of the only soft thing she could find—an old stuffed rabbit missing one ear. She wasn't even sure where it came from. But it reminded her of home. Of comfort. Of being wanted.
No one hugged her here. No one asked if she was in pain. No one seemed to care.
But she watched. Listened. Learned.
The name they called her—Freya Erveldote.
Daughter of Duke Damian.
Young Lady of the North.
And every time she heard it, it stirred something sharp and cold in her spine.
She didn't know why, but the name tugged at the edges of her mind, like a melody half-forgotten.
She wasn't just in a different place.
She was someone else.
And the pieces hadn't even begun to fall into place yet.
The morning after her fever broke, pale sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden bars across the marble floor. Freya sat up, the blanket bunched around her waist, her eyes distant.
She had barely eaten. Her limbs were weak, but curiosity tugged at her stronger than hunger.
She rang the bell at her bedside, and after a long delay, the same maid from yesterday arrived—expression still blank, movements still mechanical.
Freya hesitated before speaking, her voice soft but steady. "What's your name?"
The maid blinked, as if surprised to be asked. "Mina, my lady."
"Mina…" Freya repeated the name like it was a spell from a forgotten world. "I want to go outside. To the garden."
Mina paused. "The Duke hasn't given any instructions. You were ill. Perhaps you should rest—"
"I want to see the garden." Her tone was firmer this time. "Just for a little while."
A silence stretched between them. Mina bowed stiffly. "As you wish, my lady. I will bring your cloak."
—
The garden was overgrown with winter roses, the once-vibrant flowers now kissed with frost. Ivy clung stubbornly to statues of old warriors and goddesses long forgotten. A cold breeze tugged at Freya's silver-blonde hair as she stepped onto the path, her slippers crunching against gravel.
She breathed it in. The air was sharp,
real. For the first time since waking, she felt alive.
That peace didn't last long.
"Are you done with your little drama now, Freya?"
The voice snapped through the still air like a whip.
She turned—and there he stood. A boy with tousled bernael hair and candy-colored eyes. Her brother. Aaron Erveldote.
But there was no warmth in those eyes. Only irritation, veiled just thinly beneath the forced politeness of noble upbringing.
She blinked. "Drama?"
Aaron scoffed, stepping closer. "You disappeared for three days. Everyone was in a panic, and when you reappeared, you were... like this. Staring into space. Crying for no reason. Acting like you've forgotten how to be a proper Erveldote."
Freya flinched, heart tightening.
So I've been missing? For three days?
"I didn't mean to worry anyone," she murmured.
"Didn't mean to?" he echoed, coldly amused. "You think people here have time for your little theatrics? Father has important matters. I do too. If you're sick, stay in bed. If you're not, act like a noble lady and stop embarrassing the family."
She stared at him—this boy who was supposed to be her brother. He was so beautiful, like a painting carved from dusk and moonlight, but his words hit like blades.
"I didn't ask to be born here," she whispered before she could stop herself.
Aaron's expression flickered—surprise? Guilt? Annoyance?—but it hardened instantly.
tsk "No," he said, voice sharp. "You didn't. But now that you are, start acting like it."
He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling behind him as he strode back toward the mansion, leaving her in the garden, staring after him with a heart that felt a little heavier than before.
Freya sat on the edge of the stone fountain, breath hitching.
Something inside her was unraveling slowly, like silk caught on thorns. The name. The faces. The silence.
She didn't know where she was. She didn't know who she was. But she was determined to find out.
Because if no one was going to protect her here—then she would do it herself.
The breeze curled around her like a whispered lullaby, brushing pale strands of hair into her eyes. Freya sat on the cold stone bench, hands clasped in her lap like porcelain wilted by time. She stared at the crooked vines crawling up the garden wall, the silence between her and the maid growing heavier by the second.
"Mina," she said softly, not turning her head.
The maid flinched slightly. "Yes, my lady?"
Freya's voice was fragile, but steady—like a paper boat floating across a stormy sea. "Can you… tell me about me?"
A pause.
"I beg your pardon, my lady?"
Freya turned, eyes wide and uncertain. "I mean it. Everything. Who I am. What I like. What I hate. I don't remember any of it."
Mina stared. "You… don't remember?"
"Nothing," Freya whispered. "It's like someone cut out the pages of a book and left the cover behind."
Mina's face flickered with confusion—then something else. Worry? Pity?
"I—well…" The maid's hands fidgeted with her apron. "You are Lady Freya Erveldote. Daughter of Duke Damian Erveldote and the late Duchess Penelope Montes. Young mistress of Erveldote estate. That is who you are."
"That's just a title," Freya said, her tone sharp beneath the softness. "I asked who I am. What was I like before… before this?"
Mina hesitated. Her lips opened, closed again.
"You were quiet, I suppose. Reserved. Always fond of sweets. You didn't smile much," she added, almost as an afterthought. "You weren't very close to the others in the estate."
Freya swallowed. "And my mother? What was she like?"
The maid's eyes darted downward. "The Duchess passed away seven years ago, my lady. You were only six."
"How did she die?"
A long pause.
"That… isn't important, my lady."
Freya's voice turned colder than the marble beneath her. "It is to me."
Mina shifted uncomfortably. "I've already said too much. Please, you should rest. The Duke wouldn't approve of you wandering outside like this."
"But the Duke doesn't see me," Freya murmured bitterly. "No one here does."
Mina said nothing.
Freya looked back at the vines, her heart heavy with unanswered questions. In her chest, something ached—not the sharp sting of physical pain, but the slow blooming of a truth too large to ignore:
She didn't belong here.
Not in this body.
Not in this name.
And yet… the shadows around her whispered otherwise.