For the first time since waking in this world, I wasn't being summoned.
No sparring. No etiquette lectures. No probing questions from nobles who smiled with their mouths but not their eyes.
Just silence. Morning light through tall windows. The scent of old wood, paper, and lavender oil.
And me—staring at my reflection in the polished glass of a wardrobe door, trying to understand the person looking back.
He wasn't me.Not really.
Too sharp around the eyes. Too delicate around the mouth. Skin a little too pale. A little too soft.
I tilted my head.
The boy in the mirror did the same.
"I'm Caelum."
I said it aloud, just to test how it felt.
It tasted strange. Not wrong. But borrowed.
A knock broke the silence.
I expected a servant, maybe the stern old tutor again.
Instead, it was Elowen.
No guards. No warning. Just her, standing barefoot again in the hall like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm bored," she said.
"…Hi."
"I said I'm bored."
"And I said hi."
She blinked. "Oh. Right. Hi."
Then she walked in, uninvited, and flopped onto the rug like a cat claiming new territory.
"Do you not have lessons?" I asked.
"Mother said I'm not to be taught anything that encourages imagination."
"That sounds… healthy."
She ignored the sarcasm and rolled onto her side.
"Read to me."
"What?"
"You're always staring at books. Read one."
I glanced at the nearest shelf. The titles were all heavy-sounding things—lineage records, house politics, economic reform across the western provinces.
"You'll fall asleep."
"Try me."
I picked a random book. Sat across from her. Opened it.
"…'The House of Velindor and the Treaty of Farsea—'"
She threw a pillow at me.
"Not that one."
"Hey! You said read one!"
"I meant a real book."
"There are no real books here."
She looked at me, her expression unusually serious for someone half-buried in cushions.
"You should write one."
"…What?"
"A story. About someone like you."
"That'd be a very short book."
"Then make it longer."
She said it so simply. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Write a story.
As if that wasn't what I was already doing—day by day. Action by action. Rewriting the plot of a world that wasn't mine.
But maybe, deep down… it could be.
Later that day, I wandered the estate alone.
There was a garden I hadn't seen before—hidden past the west wing, down a hall that curved like a question mark. Overgrown and quiet, surrounded by high hedges and broken stone.
It didn't look maintained.
Didn't smell like roses or jasmine or anything floral.
It smelled like earth. Wild and real.
I sat there for a long time.
Thinking.
What was the point of sending me here?
Why this world?
Why this character—the one who was meant to die early, forgotten, just to make the villainess crack?
And why could I resist Elowen's power when no one else could?
It wasn't just some convenient immunity.It felt… deliberate.
That evening, I found a small notebook tucked behind some old scrolls in the study. Blank pages. A fine leather cover. No name.
I pocketed it.
And that night, I started writing.
Not a story. Not yet.
Just observations.
Day 4 — This body isn't mine, but it doesn't reject me.
Elowen isn't what the novel made her out to be.
This world follows rules, but they feel… brittle.
Like a dream I could break if I push too hard.
The next morning, breakfast was quiet.
Too quiet.
Normally, I ate alone. Today was no different, except for the presence I felt before I saw it.
Lady Morwenna.
Elowen's mother.The iron spine of House Thorne.
She entered like a storm on heels. Every servant bowed. Some even trembled.
She sat across from me without a word.
I lowered my spoon slowly.
"…Good morning, Lady Morwenna."
"You address me as 'My Lady.'" Her voice was razor-sharp, and so smooth it left no room for argument.
I nodded. "My Lady."
She studied me. Cold. Analytical. Like a biologist examining a strange bug on a petri dish.
"You've become… close with my daughter."
"She approached me first."
"I didn't say it was your fault."
"…But?"
She set down her teacup with perfect precision.
"But I am watching."
Elowen found me again after breakfast.
"Mother talked to you," she said.
"Yeah."
"Did she smile?"
"No."
"Then she likes you."
"…I'm terrified."
"You should be."
But she said it with a grin, and I couldn't help but laugh.
The rest of the day passed in quiet rituals.
Studying. Wandering. Noticing things I hadn't before.
Like the way the portraits along the hall had all been damaged—scratched faces, faded names. History erased.
Or how the servants never looked Elowen in the eyes.
Or how every time I looked in a mirror, the reflection felt a little closer to mine.
The world was shifting.
Or maybe I was.
That night, the dream returned.
Not the throne room this time. Not the Hero.
Just a single sentence, carved into floating stone in an endless void.
Fate resists change.
But so do you.
I woke with ink stains on my hand.
The notebook was open beside me.
I hadn't written that.
Had I?