Maria! Are you dead up there?"
The voice yanked her from fire and glass.
One heartbeat ago, she had been standing in a tower of mirrors endless, cracking flames licking at her reflection.
A whisper had coiled through the shards, sharp and sweet as a blade:
"Lys… …"
Not her name. But close.
Then the stars shattered like ice, and she woke choking on her breath.
Her ceiling loomed blank above her, sunlight pooling through the shutters. Chickens bickered outside. Serene was clanging pots and cursing the herbs.
All normal.
Except the taste of smoke in her lungs.
Except the echo still curling in her skull:
Not Maria. Not fully.
The village of Eldermere awoke like it always did.
Fishermen hauling nets slick with salt and curse words.
Vendors shouting deals that danced between honesty and poetry.
Children racing through alleys with half-eaten fruit and full-blown mischief.
The sea shimmered beyond the hills, slow and patient.
But Maria stood still.
At the edge of the marketplace, apron tied too tight, eyes glazed over like the air around her had gone... thin.
"Maria!"
Serene's voice sliced through the bustle warm, exasperated, and painfully familiar.
She moved through the crowd like a storm wrapped in wool and herbs, a basket in her arms and judgment in her stride.
"You're drifting again," she said, pressing the basket into Maria's hands.
Vials clinked. Rosemary wafted.
"Take these to Old Mara. And don't go chasing starlight."
"I don't chase," Maria murmured.
"You drift. Like fog. Or fate. Either way, it's dangerous."
Maria smiled, soft and distant.
Serene's eyes narrowed just briefly as if searching for something behind her foster daughter's gaze.
Then she turned, muttering about wilted ginger and the future being hopelessly stubborn.
Maria walked.
Past the honey vendor who always winked.
Past the statue of the sea goddess which today had a crack across its left eye that hadn't been there yesterday.
Past the crooked alley where children whispered stories too old for their tongues.
She walked...
...but something behind her eyes was already elsewhere.
The dream still clung to her ribs.
Twin suns.
A name she didn't recognize but still somehow claimed her.
Elysia.
It felt warm in her mouth.
Like fire before it burned.
A breeze kicked up behind her.
Gentle.
But every hanging ribbon in the market fluttered at once in the opposite direction.
No one else noticed.
But Maria did.
Her fingers flexed tighter around the basket.
"I'm awake," she whispered.
"But I don't think the world wants me to be."
Above her, far past the rooftops and smoke trails, a single white feather drifted from a sky with no bird in sight.
It spun once...
then vanished into mist.
Maria wove through Eldermere's morning crowd, the herb basket balanced on her hip, a faint frown pulling at her mouth.
The scent of baked pears and woodsmoke chased her down the cobbled path as the vendors shouted their daily chants.
"Two apples for a song!"
"Fresh fish! Only slightly judging you!"
"Free salt with gossip!"
A boy ran past trailing a goose on a string. The goose, for its part, looked furious.
At the fruit stall, old Mistress Thayer was arguing with a sheep.
Yes. A sheep.
"No, Rollo, those plums aren't for chewing, they're for the High Table! Honestly, don't look at me in that tone!"
Maria stifled a laugh and nearly dropped the basket.
She rounded the baker's corner just as a man selling ribbons tripped into a wheelbarrow of honey jars.
A sticky explosion followed.
"Well," the ribbon man said, rising with a dazed blink, "at least now I'm fashionable and delicious."
Even the geese snorted.
Maria stopped at the small stone cottage behind the bakery a warm, flower-draped place that smelled of mint and smoke.
She knocked once.
"Come in or get cursed!" came the familiar croak.
She pushed the door open.
Old Mara, the retired midwife and herbalist, was hunched over a steaming kettle. Her hair looked like it had fought with the wind and lost.
She squinted at Maria.
"You're late."
"I was dodging flying sheep," Maria said, setting the basket down. "And sticky merchants."
"Mm. Good. That means the town's still functional."
Mara rummaged through the herbs, sniffed one, bit another.
"What's this? You call this fresh mist wort?"
"I call it better than what you grow in your moss pot."
Mara cackled. "You'll make a fine tyrant one day."
"I'm aiming for local menace, not tyranny," Maria said.
Mara waved her off with a grunt and started measuring powders into jars with the speed of someone who didn't have time for fate.
"Dreams still visiting?" she asked quietly.
Maria froze for half a second.
"Sometimes."
Mara didn't look up.
"Be careful. Not every echo is memory. Some are warning bells."
Maria nodded once, but said nothing more.
She stepped out into the daylight, the warmth of Mara's cottage already fading behind her.
The crowd had thinned slightly. The rhythm of the day had slowed. Laughter and bells drifted like birdsong.
Then
she saw him.
Across the square. Near the well.
A man.
Tall. Cloaked in silver-stitched velvet.
His hood shadowed most of his face.
But not his eyes.
They locked with hers still, intent, far too knowing.
The world seemed to go still around her.
The sun dimmed, or maybe her breath caught too hard to notice its warmth.
"Do I... know you?"
The question escaped before she could stop it.
The man tilted his head. Not confused.
Curious.
A slow, soft smile curved his mouth.
"Not yet," he said.
And then
He turned.
And vanished into the crowd like smoke scattering into wind.
Maria stood unmoving.
Fingers clenched around the basket.
Her chest ached not with fear.
With recognition.
As if something ancient
had just turned toward her
and smiled.
At midday, the Celestine Palace glowed like a cathedral of light.
Sunlight filtered through crystal windows, painting rainbows across the marble floor. Courtiers whispered beneath chandeliers shaped like blooming stars. Scroll-bearers moved like clockwork. Every robe rustled like a well-rehearsed line.
And at the center of it all
Queen Eleanor sat, crown steady, hands folded.
Perfect. Composed.
Dying quietly.
The council chamber rang with voices.
"The border disputes in Eastern Idravon continue,"
"Temple unrest. The River Order's begun citing dreams again."
"Merchants claim increased fare interference nonsense, of course..."
She nodded. Asked questions. Approved sanctions.
And all the while, the seat beside her sat empty.
"Your Radiance," a scribe said hesitantly, "the anniversary of the Princess's disappearance is in two weeks. Shall we cancel the observance this year? The people don't expect"
"We observe it," Eleanor said, quiet but firm.
The room stilled.
"We always observe it."
The scribe bowed, eyes lowered. "Of course."
After the session, she returned to her private corridor. Her footsteps echoed louder than they should have.
A servant waited outside her chambers, bowing deeply.
"The Lady Archivist asks if you'll attend the historical exhibition this evening, Your Grace. They're unveiling the"
"Not tonight," Eleanor interrupted. "Send my regrets."
"Should I say why?"
She paused.
"Tell her I am... tending to the dead."
In her drawing room, untouched tea cooled on polished glass. An untouched book sat open to the same page for five days.
The only sound was the ticking of the celestial clock on the mantle.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Every hour it chimed, and every hour
she hoped
this would be the one
where something returned.
High above the sea, in a chamber veiled by silk and silence, Queen Eleanor stood rigid at her window, the horizon split by silver.
Behind her, the door opened.
Soft footsteps.
Alaric.
"Still awake?"
"I can't sleep." Her voice was thin. Brittle.
She didn't turn.
"I see her. Every night."
She gripped the windowsill until her knuckles paled.
"She cries for me, Alaric. Still. After all these years."
He crossed the room and gently rested a hand on her back.
"It's been fifteen years, love."
"She's out there. I know it."
Alaric leaned his forehead to hers, closing his eyes.
"If there's a ghost left in this kingdom, we'll find it," he said.
"But you... you have to come back to the living."
Outside, the stars blinked once.