Chapter 1 —The Beginning For a New Ending

At cursory glances, those perusing eyes were met with a family whose presence almost seemed gilded. A palace on a hill of the grand Orzo duchy that rivaled the imperial palace and empire itself—people with golden eyes, treasures and reputations. Because of their seemingly ethereal beauty and reputation, the Orzo ducal family were subjects of envy and fear.

And today was the day I met with my so-called father, Duke Orzo.

Today, I stood looking up at my mother as we stood outside the gilded gates of a skilled traitor.

My mother looked so large and infallible from my five year old eyes. She seemed so indestructible—immovable from this angle; my small face upturned towards hers framed by the blue sky. 

But I knew better.

She was none of those things.

Her cotton candy hair was coarse whisps flittering in the afternoon air, emerald eyes shining with unshed tears, hands calloused and rough from hard labor, skin tanned with lines instead of a sunkissed glow, clothes tattered and washed in the dirt from travel. We were both unfed, unbathed, and uncivilized, standing in the majesty of our final destination.

She looked objectively disgusting, but to me, she was the most beautiful person in the whole world, and I loved her more than anything else in my life. She was the only safety I'd ever known in this life. 

I felt the callouses that fed and protected me gently caress my pudgy cheeks, and I knew when her forced smile met my skin in a tender kiss that this was a forever goodbye. The loving and apologetic look on my mother's face caused my whole body to tighten; my chest burnt with cold lava. It poured from the crown of my head down deeply into my bones until they etched horror into my marrow.

Although I had retained memories of my past life and knew this abandonment was coming, I couldn't contain the tears and childish tantrums I threw at the imposing gates of the Orzo manor. I think I wailed harder at the thought of living as an Orzo from now on rather than at the fact my mother was abandoning me.

"Issie, my baby. Don't you want to meet your daddy, hm?"

"NO!"

I scrunched my snotty nose in anger and disgust. I knew what kind of future awaited me. I knew only misery would follow my mother's departure—and she probably knew, too, because she never lied to me as she consoled me on her knees before me. 

She only told me that she loved me more than anything in the world. But never did she tell me I would be happy to see my father, that I would be happy at this estate. She never once told me I would be safe in this manor or that my father loved me like any mother would've at least wished for on the doorsteps of her former lover.

"Iris, I promise to never lie to you."

It was a ridiculous promise she made when I turned four. It was a childish and unreasonable promise, but my mother kept it. (She never told me lies because she was incredibly talented at telling half-truths. My mother truly was gifted at skirting the truth. That's probably why she made such a ridiculous promise to a child. Honestly, she probably made her living as a grifter).

This thought made me wail even louder until my whole body turned red from lack of air. I felt betrayed and angry that my beloved mother was leaving me here despite knowing what my future held—despite knowing I'd be miserable and mistreated.

"You never have to forgive me, Iris, but please know I love you very, very much. I... I just don't know what else to do. I'm so sorry, Iris. I love you, baby. Mommy loves you so much. You are my entire world."

Our combined tears fell like rain onto the paved ground, pitter patter. 

Pitter patter. 

Pitter patter. 

Until it became a downpour from my mother's bent head and reddened, exhausted green eyes onto the drenched ground.

I'm not sure how long we stood in front of those gates with my sobbing, shaking body held in my mother's tear stained arms. I'm not sure how much time passed as she did her best to console me before the guards pried us apart.

"I promise mommy will do everything I can to come back for you, Iris. I love you. Be strong, my baby. Survive."

Those were Elle's, a pink haired beauty with no apparent background, last words to her screaming child, flailing in the strong vice of an Orzo knight's arms.

The last time I saw my mother was when she was blocked behind another uniformed man bending down to pick up my tattered teddy bear. I watched her being turned away at the gate by a judgemental hand pushing her by the shoulder towards the direction of the main road.

It would be the last time I ever saw my loving mother; "Survive" would be the last whispered word I heard in her trembling voice.

It must've been because I was in the body of a child, thinking with an underdeveloped brain; I couldn't control my hysteria that escalated with each step towards the gleaming marbled manor. I don't remember entering into the grandeur of my father's imposing estate. I don't remember meeting my blue haired father and his iridescent eyes. I don't remember his dismissive voice giving the servants orders filled with irritation. I don't remember being unwanted by this gilded house I was to call home. 

The only thing I could remember was the vivid recounting of my future in the pages of a romance novel.

The atmosphere was chilly that summer evening when a condescending maid put me into my new plush bed. I felt discombobulated in this giant bed that swallowed me whole. It was the softest thing I'd ever laid on, but its comforts didn't soothe me that night. Instead, it felt like I was lounging in the mouth of a monster or marinating in the belly of a beast. My whole body felt tight, like my insides were pushing too hard against the surface of my skin; it felt like a wild animal was desperately trying to maul its way out. I was jittery. 

Antsy. 

Nervous.

It didn't feel real.

My reality. My dreams.

Me…

It felt like a horrid, vivid dream from too much sleep—one I couldn't wake from and was trapped within. Even though I'd known this day was coming for a year now, it still felt like a horrid dream I'd wake up from soon. 

I would wake up in my own bed, curled under my own blankets, cuddling with my teddy bear and snuggling with my mother. A small part of me clung to this hope that perhaps it all truly was a horrible dream that my subconscious had written.

So many words and so many images flickered on and off, screaming and whispering in my ears and flooded the darkened room. I wasn't sure which piece belonged where and which fragment of the future fell where. I wasn't sure what was my imagination and which were true memories of a story I'd read before. 

Everything felt off that night.

It must've been from the shock and the tension. This was a life-altering, childhood trauma, scarring experience I'd just gone through. It shouldn't be surprising that my underdeveloped brain and body struggled to remain rational. I shouldn't have felt rage for weeping into the soft pink comforter on my new bed. I should've let myself feel what I felt and expressed the emotions that controlled me.

But I couldn't.

Trauma runs deep, and survival even deeper. There was a gate that blocked my ability to let myself feel the rage and terror that was ripping through my petite body.

Because I needed to survive.

The part of me that had lived 25 years knew survival was our only goal and objective from now on, and petty emotions were useless—unwanted. They were nothing but a show of weakness to the piranhas that circled in front of my door. It was nothing but an invitation for the wolves that had cornered me into this room.

I needed a plan. I needed to calm down. I needed to rationalize.

But I couldn't. At least not that night.

And that angered me even more.

I felt out-of-control agony like my chest was caving into my lungs, filling them with the pain that had crushed me. It felt like a hundred million frozen pinpricks were playing a symphony along my scalp. My nails dug crescent gouges into my tender flesh. It felt like the entire day was etching into my bones, poisoning my flesh, corrupting my marrow.

It was agony.

I wonder what Iris would've felt when she arrived—a true, innocent, ignorant child. A small child thrust into a world even adults skirted and feared. 

What did the Iris from the pages I'd read feel?

Did she feel the same terror that was suffocating me that night? Did she wail as loudly as I had? Was it better or worse for her to be a child with no wisdom of an adult?

Did she cry simply because she had been separated from the only person she'd ever trusted, or did she also cry from the instinctual knowledge that her life was in danger?

How tragic.

How could a child so small be asked to shoulder so much? Things she wasn't even aware of—things even I'm not aware of. Was this author a sadistic human who thought torturing children was fun? Or was Iris's pain a simple afterthought? Was her horrific upbringing only a few sentences to build plot? Was her background meant to evoke pity, or did it justify her painful end? Was Iris never viewed as anything more than a plot device?

Was her life merely a trope? Was this agony I couldn't escape because of a few words on a blank page?

The thought enraged me. 

Pillows knocked priceless vases and precious heirlooms off ledges and desks as they flew around the room. 

Tonight—tonight I would allow myself feel the soul crushing anger that was oppressing me and swallowing the air within my lungs. Tonight, I would express the terror, disgust, and rage that Iris had never allowed herself to feel. 

Tonight, I will scream from the injustice and unfairness.

And that night when my tired body finally drifted off in this beautiful room and soft bed, I saw the words of the webnovel come to life and play as a movie reel. Some of it was in sequential order, and some of it was out of context. Some of the scenes I desperately wanted to ingrain within in my mind, file them safely, labeled as important, but they were gone came the morning.