There were voices around her.
Low, hurried murmurs behind gilded doors. The rustle of robes. Whisper of harsh and piercing words but underneath it all, a silence so sharp it felt like falling into a chasm.
The room they gave her was barely larger than a storage closet—stone walls sweating with cold, a narrow cot, and a cracked basin. No window. No warmth. Just the silence of a world she didn't belong to.
Soleil sat still, her hands folded in her lap—hands that were not hers.
They were slender, callused in familiar ways yet far too steady, too elegant. Golden cuffs laced her wrists, and the silk robe she wore smelled of incense and old magic. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the old broken mirror across from her.
Gold hair. Golden eyes.
Not hers.
"I'm dreaming," she whispered. Her voice came out smooth, melodic, alien. "I'm dreaming or losing my mind."
But the pain in her chest—tight, aching, real—told her otherwise. She remembered the stroke of her final painting. She remembered the world splitting open. The dizzying fall. The moment she'd opened her eyes to this place, this body, this impossible truth.
Azeriah was gone.
And Soleil was now the girl who had once been the Divine Artisan.
Or so they thought.
She looked down. Her fingers still trembled from the aftershock of the soul-splitting moment, but she clenched them tightly. She couldn't afford to fall apart. Not here. Not when the room they'd stuffed her in felt like a forgotten shrine dressed up as a prison.
There has to be a way back, she thought. This can't be permanent.
She pushed herself up and paced the small room, the silk robe clinging to her like a borrowed identity. Bits and pieces of memory still clung to her like oil on skin—faint impressions, not her own.
A flash of white light. A mountain.
A canvas that glowed.
A hand, not hers, striking the brush down just as she had done in her room.
The painting, she thought suddenly. The divine brush.
If the soul swap had started at that final stroke—when she and Azeriah had painted at the same moment—then maybe…
Maybe the same act could reverse it.
If I can just get to the Sanctum. If I can get to the brush again…
But the Sanctum was locked to her now. Guarded. Sealed.
She was no longer the Artisan.
She wasn't even allowed near the relic chambers.
She chewed on her lip, pacing faster. She'd heard whispers in the corridor about the divine tools being sealed after her failure—how the court was in a panic, how relics had been withdrawn for protection. Whatever power had once welcomed Azeriah now saw her as a fraud. A danger.
The door creaked open. A woman in somber colors stepped inside, expression unreadable.
"Get up," she said, without warmth. "You're to begin your new duties immediately."
"Duties?" Soleil rose, swaying slightly. "I—I'm not well—"
"No one here is," the woman cut in. "You're lucky the Council let you live."
Soleil blinked. "Live? Why wouldn't they—"
The woman's eyes flashed. "You failed your calling. You defiled the Sanctum. Whatever madness overtook you, it brought shame upon the throne and chaos to the court."
"I didn't—" Soleil started, but stopped. The woman was already walking away.
Soleil followed. She had no choice.
The palace corridors were long and quiet, lined with smooth stone walls,
Sunlight filtered through tall, arched windows.
Intricate mosaics bloomed across the ceilings—saints, stars, and mythical beasts woven in glass and gilt, their forms dancing in shifting light.
Echoes moved ahead of every step, too slow to feel like one's own. The air was fragrant with ancient incense and something older, metallic—like the memory of blood long dried.
They passed nobles who turned their faces away. Maids who bowed but did not meet her eyes. A pair of priests whispered something and quickly made the sign of warding.
Even the walls seemed to echo a warning: You are not meant to be here.
At last, the woman led her to a small chamber—bare, except for a narrow cot, a basin of water, and a tray of folded cloths.
"This is yours. You'll serve in the lower quarters until the emperor decides otherwise."
"The emperor?"
"He has yet to speak on your fate. Be thankful for the silence."
The door shut.
And once again, Soleil was alone.
She sank onto the cot, her whole body aching with unfamiliar weight. She wanted to cry. But tears felt distant, unreachable—like trying to cry through someone else's eyes.
She need to find a way , and fast
She looked down at her hands again.
This body. Azeriah's body.
The one destined for greatness. The one cast down without warning.
And yet… beneath her ribs, something still burned.
Not her own soul.
But the last embers of a divine one—still echoing in memory.
She needed to do something , but how?
Surely this body had someone it could trust , right? She thought to herself.
Lost in deep thoughts on what to do next, time seeped away.
That night, she was pulled somewhere far.
Was it a dream? She couldn't tell.
There was no sky, only shifting light. A great canvas stretched across nothing, blank and waiting. A woman stood before it, her back turned, hair lifted by wind that didn't exist. She raised a brush. Soleil felt her own hand mimic the motion, though she wasn't in her body anymore.
Then—something split.
A jolt. A silence that rang in her ears
And then—eyes, emerald green and gleaming, watching her from beneath a veil of shadow. Not threatening. Not kind. Just knowing.