I woke in a panic.
The kind that strikes before thought—heart racing, breath shallow, the sharp conviction that something had gone terribly wrong. I had overslept. That certainty rang loud and immediate, like an alarm bell inside my chest.
Then calm arrived.
Not gradually. Not earned. It descended all at once, a warm hand pressed flat against the chaos, smoothing it into stillness. My pulse slowed. My breathing evened. The panic did not fade; it was replaced.
I lay still, staring upward.
This was not my room.
Sunlight spilled through sheer curtains, painting the walls in soft gold, the kind of light reserved for paintings and sanctuaries. It felt curated—measured to be beautiful rather than honest. The air was warm, faintly perfumed, and heavy with comfort. Too much comfort. The kind that made resistance feel impolite.
I sat up.
The sheets slid away from my skin like they were reluctant to part. I looked down and froze.
These were not my clothes.
I was dressed in something pale and finely woven, fabric that clung without constricting, that breathed better than I did. I stood, my feet sinking into a carpet so soft it felt obscene.
This comfort is illegal, I thought distantly. Or it should be.
I considered tearing the curtains down. The thought felt rude. I hated that more than the thought itself.
"Heiwa," I murmured, the name grounding and familiar enough to test reality with.
No answer.
I crossed the room and opened the door.
A hallway unfolded before me—long, symmetrical, and painfully elegant. Polished wood, framed art whose provenance I did not recognize but instinctively knew was priceless, light fixtures that glowed without visible flame. The space felt less like architecture and more like a declaration.
I held my breath without meaning to.
"Heiwa," I whispered again, softer now, uncertain whether sound was permitted here.
"Good morning, Miss Victoria. How was your night?"
The voice came from my right.
I turned—and my body locked.
Every muscle seized at once, terror spiking so sharply it blurred my vision. The woman before me wore a maid's uniform—impeccable, old-fashioned, immaculate. Her posture was perfect. Her smile gentle.
Her eyes were wrong.
Dull metallic gold, with circular patterns nested within the irises. They rotated slowly, calmly, like instruments taking measurements.
Just as suddenly as the fear struck, it vanished.
Not soothed. Not reassured. Gone.
In its place was a peace so complete it frightened me more than the panic had. A serenity that did not ask permission.
"It was fine," I heard myself say.
The words felt pre-approved.
"Miss—" I began, then faltered. I did not know her name. I realized, distantly, that this should bother me. "I'm looking for Heiwa. We—"
The circles in her eyes rotated a fraction faster.
"Ezra," she said.
The name did not fit the shape of her mouth. Or perhaps the mouth did not fit the name. Her voice carried a faint harmonic distortion, as though it echoed itself a half-second too late.
"Miss Heiwa is already seated. Breakfast has been served," Ezra continued. A pause. "However, you are not appropriately attired for the occasion."
She took my hand.
I panicked—instinct flaring bright and desperate—and tried to pull away.
Her gloved fingers were firm around my wrist. Not painful. Not even rough. Simply *absolute*. Resistance slid off the moment like rain on glass.
"I would recommend bathing," Ezra said mildly. "However, refusal is permitted."
I refused.
She accepted this without comment.
The bathroom attached to my room was larger than some apartments I had known. Marble floors warmed beneath my feet. Water that emerged at precisely the right temperature, releasing steam scented with something that made my head swim.
When I stepped out, my skin felt wrong—too smooth, too clean. As though I had been erased and redrawn. The scent that clung to me was unfamiliar and intimate: nectar-like, layered with peach, honey, and rose, with something luminous beneath it.
Liquid sunlight.
I felt like a sinner.
"Your wardrobe," Ezra said, guiding me to a dressing table already arranged with brushes, pins, and folded garments.
I sat.
She worked quickly, efficiently. My hair was gathered into a chignon I had never worn before, secured with an elaborate pin shaped like a serpent coiled around a budding stem. Additional clips followed—delicate, petaled.
"Anemones," she said, answering my unspoken question.
In the mirror, I saw movement.
My shinobi stood behind me, half-seen, reflected faintly. They did not intervene. Did not signal. Did not warn.
Ezra continued, unbothered.
I was dressed in what she called a baro't—fabric cut and layered into something between ceremonial wear and living sculpture. It fit me perfectly. Of course it did.
I stared at myself in the full-length mirror.
The girl looking back at me seemed… elevated. Refined. Dangerous in a way that did not require weapons.
"We will be late for breakfast," Ezra said, already at the door.
The hallway felt shorter on the return walk. Or perhaps I had grown accustomed to its scale. Either way, the distance folded obediently.
The dining room doors opened.
Everyone was there.
"Good morning," Heiwa greeted, her hair styled with the same meticulous care as mine.
Relief washed through me—real, this time. I moved to her side at once.
"What happened?" I asked quietly, after greeting Miss Lakshmi and Miss Halle. I needed an anchor. A reference point. "I feel like I had a nightmare I can't remember."
Heiwa frowned slightly. "I feel that way too," she admitted. "Like something terrible happened… but every time I try to think about it, my mind insists it's fine."
The table gleamed. Dishes of every kind covered its surface—carefully balanced, immaculately presented. The sun poured through the windows, illuminating the room with a brilliance that flattened shadows and softened edges.
It should have been comforting.
Instead, it felt like standing too close to something holy.
Then the door opened.
Zara entered first—composed, radiant, entirely at ease.
Behind her came her father.
That's the man from that night, I realized as he took his seat at the head of the table, sunlight crowning him like a halo he did not need to earn.
And suddenly, terribly, I understood.
Icarus had not flown too close to the sun.
He had been invited.