Chapter 1: The Gate to Nymira
The gates of hell opened in Seraphyne. Not a portal rending the sky, but blood seeping over the stones, screams frozen in Nymira's spring air. Amidst the chaos tearing apart the Kingdom of Seraphyne, Princess Anya, a fifteen-year-old girl in a dust-stained silk nightgown, flinched at every sound. Her long blonde hair, usually shimmering like golden threads, was now tangled and clung with cold sweat to her temples. She didn't understand why deafening laughter filled the palace, why the sweet scent of flowers was now mixed with the smell of char and metal. Beside her, Prince William of Astellia, her age, moved with terrifying speed, his strong fingers tightly gripping Princess Anya's wrist. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his eyes, eyes that usually looked at Anya with tenderness, now blazed with suppressed panic.
"Run, Anya! Faster!" William whispered, his voice hoarse and desperate. His long legs strode relentlessly, dragging Princess Anya across the rough forest floor of Nymira. Thorns from the bushes tore at her gown, scratching her pale skin, but she felt no pain.
Her once elegant green gown was now spattered with dark stains that were undoubtedly blood. Her long, flowing black hair danced like snakes down her back, and in her hand, a knight's sword was stained a fiery red. Her face, which once exuded captivating beauty, was now distorted by burning vengeance. Her cruel eyes were fixed on Princess Anya, a gaze laden with years of hatred.
He released Princess Anya's hand, drawing his rusted sword from its sheath. "This is not your concern! What do you want?!"
Isolde laughed, a laugh devoid of warmth, only madness. "You ask what I want? Everything! Your father took it from me for that woman!" Her sword rose, pointing at Princess Anya. "That woman, her mother, and now, her daughter! They have taken everything from me, and now, I will take everything from you, William!"
Princess Anya, now trembling behind William, knelt on the damp earth. "Mercy, Isolde! Please!" Her voice trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks. "What have I done wrong?"
"Your mistake?" Isolde advanced, her footsteps crunching menacingly on the dry grass. "Your mistake was being born! . He screamed Princess Anya's name, his voice filled with despair.
Isolde's sword pierced Princess Anya's chest. Thick, red blood spurted, staining her white silk gown a horrifying maroon. Princess Anya collapsed, helpless. A faint smile etched itself on her pale lips, lips that had once always spoken sweet words. William witnessed all of this, trapped in a brutal fighting circle, unable to reach her. He growled, an inhuman strength filling every swing of his sword, but it was all in vain.
Princess Anya's body fell to the ground, Isolde's sword still embedded in her chest. He managed to break free, lunging forward, ignoring the wounds on his body. He knelt beside Princess Anya, pulling the sword out with trembling hands. Blood gushed from the gaping wound.
"Anya! No! Wake up!" William cradled Princess Anya's cold body. Her eyes, once full of life, were now dimming.
Princess Anya's breath rattled, thin as a whisper of wind. She raised a trembling hand, touching William's cheek. "My love … will … last forever .…" Her words faltered, then her eyes closed, her last breath escaping. Her fingers fell limp.
Princess Anya's body stiffened, and then, she became still. The silence deepened, William was transfixed in silence. Unable to believe his first love was dead.
***
The sounds of the dream world still thundered in Shapira's ears as she awoke from her long slumber. But this time, something was different.
"Isolde," Shapira whispered, her lips forming the name with reluctance. The face of the cruel woman in her dream, the woman who stabbed Anya, bore a striking resemblance to her own mother. A terrifying likeness, like a haunting shadow. A feeling of unease crept through every fiber of her being. This was no ordinary dream. This was something deeper, older than her own memories.
Then, she heard it. A song. Whispers in a foreign language she didn't recognize, but somehow, she could feel it. The melody had haunted her since childhood, but now, the sound was clearer, more urgent. As if calling her, pulling her into a fog of memories that were not her own.
"Shapira, are you awake, dear?" Her mother's voice came from the kitchen, breaking the silence. "Breakfast is ready!"
Shapira didn't answer. She leaped out of bed, her mind racing. Her mother was an ordinary woman, a street artist who supported them with her songs and paintings. There was no way she could be connected to that horror, or to the cruel woman named Isolde. But the resemblance in her dream … it was too real to ignore. She had to find out. She had to find answers.
Shapira waited until she heard her mother's footsteps receding from the apartment, the creak of the closing door signaling her mother had left for work. Now was the time. She had to investigate. She crept out of her room, her footsteps barely audible on the wooden floor. No scent she detected could dispel her preoccupation with last night's dream. Her destination was her mother's room. A place she had always considered sacred, full of untouched secrets.
Her mother had always forbidden her from touching the wardrobe, saying it was full of old, unimportant things. Shapira's intuition, however, told her otherwise. With her heart pounding, she opened the wardrobe. Old clothes, worn fabrics, and stacks of old books filled its contents.
Whispers, the same sound as the song in her dream, now sounded clearer, more real. The whispers called her name, but not Shapira.
"Anya … open … Anya .…"
A powerful urge pulled her towards the door, an irresistible compulsion. Her mother had strictly forbidden her from touching this wardrobe, let alone finding anything behind it.
"What are you doing in my room?"
Shapira flinched, but she didn't turn around. She ignored the prohibition, ignored her mother's voice. The urge to know was stronger than anything. With all her strength, she pulled the door open. Blinding white light exploded from beyond the doorway, engulfing her, and she felt an unstoppable pull, dragging her into a disorienting void.
When Shapira felt her feet touch solid ground again, she staggered. This was not London. This was Nymira, the forest from her dreams. The same forest where Anya had died. Fear gripped her, colder than the air.
Suddenly, a harsh growl broke the silence. A large, monstrous figure leaped out from behind the bushes. Its skin was murky green, its fangs dirty yellow, and its eyes burned with bloodlust. Orcs. Not one, but a group. Shapira screamed, backing away in a panic. She had no weapon, no way to defend herself. Her legs felt paralyzed by fear.
"Away from her, you beasts!" A heavy voice thundered from behind the trees. A flash of a sword split the air, and in an instant, a man with long black hair and sharp blue eyes leaped between Shapira and the Orcs. His sword clanged, slicing through the air with deadly force. They were mere straw dummies. His face was grim, his jaw clenched, but there was something familiar about his eyes. Those eyes …
William. Prince William. He, a thirty-five-year-old William, stared at Shapira with a look of surprise and suspicion. His eyes widened when he saw Shapira's face, a face so similar to his late fiancée's. He saw a startling resemblance, seeing a figure he thought was lost forever.
William cut down the last Orc, then turned to face Shapira. Confusion, shock, and then, burning anger filled his face. He walked closer, his steps heavy, his eyes stripping Shapira bare, searching for answers he dreaded.
"Who are you?" William asked, his voice low and menacing. His sword still dripped with Orc blood, and he pointed it at Shapira's throat. "You … how can you have that face?" Prince William accused her. "Are you a spy? Part of Isolde's plan to target me again?"
Shapira gasped, fear mingling with confusion. "I … I don't know what you're talking about!" she replied, her voice trembling. "I'm not a spy! I'm from London! I don't know how I got here!"
"London?" William scoffed, a cynical laugh escaping his lips. "Nonsense! There's no place called London in Nymira! You must be a witch, or perhaps, a deceiver sent by Isolde to torment me!" He seized her arm, his grip undeniable. "You're coming with me. You'll be interrogated in Astellia!"
Shapira tried to resist, but William was too strong. Fear of an unknown future enveloped her, a destiny she didn't understand, tied to a name that wasn't hers. Under William's suspicious gaze, with danger lurking at every turn of this forest, she, Shapira Elizabeth Swan, was taken captive to a world that had once only existed in her nightmares.