Serielle woke up in an unfamiliar place. A soft bed with clean linen sheets, different from her bed in her father’s palace.

The wooden ceiling arched above her, candles burned on the small table, and the aroma of warm soup filled the room.

What is this place?

As she tried to rise, the door opened, and a middle-aged man entered, his dark hair streaked with silver.

His robe waved with every step.

Baron Thomas de Aragorn was the man’s name.

Serielle remembered his face.

But she forgot how she knew the man’s name.

He looked at her with a face that was hard to understand—what he wanted—but his eyes…were the eyes of a man who had seen a lot in his life.

“You’re awake,” he said, sounding cautious, assessing.

Baron Thomas stepped closer, looking at her with a gaze that made her skin crawl.

Serielle straightened up, her fingers gripping the blanket.

She opened her mouth, only for the silence to press against her throat.

Nothing came out…Normal…

His brow furrowed. “So, it’s true. You can’t speak.”

Serielle stiffened. True? Did he already know about this?

Her pulse quickened.

The man sighed, rubbing his chin. “You may not remember me, but I remember you.”

She frowned, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.

“It was many years ago. I was dying, poisoned at a banquet. My enemies had grown tired of my existence.” He let out a short laugh.

“And then you appeared. A girl with golden hair, slipping between the shadows like mist. You gave me a bottle filled with something unnatural. The next morning, I was still alive when I should have been rotting in my grave.”

Serielle’s breath came in gasps.

Her memories rushed back, remembering this desperate man.

A dying heartbeat.

The cold bottle glass pressed against his lips.

“I never forgot you,” he continued, watching her closely. “And now, fate brings you to my doorstep, lost and alone.”

She lowered her gaze. Lost was an understatement.

Serielle was stranded in time, torn from everything she had known.

And the hardness of it pressed down on her chest.

“I owe you my life, and I always repay my debts.” He leaned forward. “You have no voice, no home. But you have me.”

She looked up, lowering her eyebrows.

“Let me help you,” Thomas stated. “Stay. I will give you shelter, food. A place among my household.”

Serielle hesitated. She had nothing. No power, no allies.

Only memories that burned like open wounds.

Her stomach clenched painfully, telling her how little choice she actually had.

Slowly, Serielle nodded.

Baron Thomas exhaled, satisfied.

“Good. Then rest after you eat. The maid will come to bring you dinner. We’ll speak more in the morning.” He turned to leave but paused at the doorway. “One more thing, girl.”

Serielle lifted her head.

“In this house, you are under my protection. But choose your allies wisely. Not everyone will welcome you.”

The corridor of Baron Thomas’s estate smelled of polished wood and dried lavender.

She moved through the house like a ghost.

Silent, always watching, never speaking.

The servants whispered behind her back.

“She appeared out of nowhere.”

“The Baron has lost his mind, taking in a mute girl like that.”

“A witch, maybe. Look at her eyes. Too sharp, too knowing.”

Serielle heard them all.

At first, she ignored them. What did she care for the opinions of humans? She had walked in courts of Fae kings, danced under silver moons.

However, their distrust clung to her like damp air.

Then there was Lady Evelyne.

The Baron’s daughter was as poised as a porcelain doll.

Pale skin, dark hair, always dressed in the finest silk.

She smiled in the presence of her father.

But the moment he turned away, her eyes would cool like winter.

“You don’t belong here,” Evelyne said one afternoon, finding Serielle in the garden.

She was trimming a rose bush—not because she wanted to, but because the Baron had suggested she find ways to ‘occupy’ herself.

Serielle looked into her eyes, unblinking.

“Do you even understand me?” Evelyne asked louder this time.

“Or are you just some mindless little thing my father picked up out of pity?”

Serielle didn’t flinch.

She simply lifted her chin, watching the girl in front of her.

That only seemed to irritate Evelyne more.

“I don’t know who you are or what spell you put on my father. But don’t think you’re safe here. This house belongs to me. The servants, the land, all of it. You?”

She scoffed. “You’re just a stray.”

Serielle exhaled slowly through her nose.

If she still had power, she would have had Evelyne’s lips sewn up with thorns just for speaking to her like that.

“That’s what I thought,” Evelyne murmured, turning on her heel and disappearing back into the house.

Time didn’t hold her until she was invited to a party…

Walking through the banquet hall like a shadow, the silk of her borrowed dress whispered against the marble floors.

She kept close to Baron Thomas, as she always had in unfamiliar human spaces with Raphael.

The murmurs followed her as they had in his home.

Curious, prying. But she didn’t hear them now.

She had seen him…Finally! After so many weeks, she got a chance to see him again.

Raphael Arden. The Duke of Ardenhyll was standing near the far side of the room, wine in hand, laughing.

He was…Alive, whole, untouched by her brothers.

Serielle paused immediately.

Her Raphael had been carved by war and sorrow, his laughter was too rare.

But this man—this Raphael—was untouched by any of it.

His blue eyes still held the reckless light of youth; his stance looked too easy, too careless.

And beside him, draped in violet silk, was Lady Raneira.

Serielle’s stomach wanted to come out from the inside and declare war instantly.

“Do you see her, little star?” Raphael had once murmured to her in the garden of an estate just like this, against her ear.

“That’s Lady Raneira, my first love.”

First love.

The one who shattered him, the one who had made promises to his face only to break them with another man.

Serielle’s fingers dug into her palm. Nails pressed hard into her skin.

Raphael didn’t look at her. Of course, he wouldn’t.

In this timeline, there had never been a Serielle pulling an arrow from his chest, never a Fae girl who had placed a hand over his wound and willed him to live.

There was only Raphael Arden, laughing with a woman who had once broken him.

Unaware that a girl who had once loved him was just right across the room, unable to call his name.

Serielle tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.

Baron Thomas de Aragorn, standing beside her, let out a low hum.

“So,” he murmured thoughtfully. “He’s the one you long for.”