At first, I thought this world was merely strange. Regal. Harsh. Detached from any history or politics I knew. But not strange enough to be alien. Royalty behaving monstrously was hardly rare. Palaces with golden walls, rooms full of silence—I'd read about them, dreamed about them, even written them myself.

I didn’t realize the truth until Ilyra spoke his name. She was folding linens, murmuring to a maid just beyond the crib, when she said it. “Prince Lucien should be returning from military tutelage by next week, gods willing.” And just like that, the world shattered.

Lucien. Lucien Vetras. The eldest son of a fictional tyrant emperor, my first true creation—the prototype for every cold, calculating noble I’d ever written. A prince with dark-threaded hair and cruelty so refined it masqueraded as wisdom. In my manuscript The Crimson Court, he was the central villain number one, a weapon forged from flesh. I remember writing him in solitary, when my body was too heavy to move and the silence had become a threat instead of comfort. I gave him venom-soaked lines of poetry, a smile that didn’t need fangs to terrify. I gave him a brother too.

Cassian Vetras. Wilder. Younger. A boy with fire in his eyes and blood on his cuffs. If Lucien was the blade, Cassian was the flame. Loud, visceral, loyal only to his brother. In my story, the court favored him for his smiles, his laughter, yet he was no less monstrous. Hearing their names here—spoken aloud in this impossible place—was like reading my own obituary written by someone else.

And then I realized: this was my world. The empire I’d built in madness. The court I’d painted in cruelty and prose. I hadn’t been reborn. I had been rewritten—slotted into the margins of my own book.

Except there was one problem. I hadn’t written myself. Selene Vetras never existed in The Crimson Court. No daughters, only sons, mistresses, and generals who cowered behind velvet and steel. Selene was a stranger. A guest in my own story. Someone—or something—had added me in. And the thought left a cold taste in my mouth, like trespassing in a dream you thought was yours.

The week passed slowly. Ilyra moved with her usual precision, but now I watched differently. I traced her words, the rhythm of her sentences, the way she called the Emperor “His Grace,” “the Red Sovereign”—a title I’d scribbled on a coffee-stained prison napkin in a third draft. My world had come alive. Perfectly. Down to the ivy curling around the eastern tower, the dust-covered altar in the servants’ quarters, the scar above the left eye of a silent guard. It was horrifying, and it was mine.

The day the princes returned, the sky was bone-white. I watched from the nursery window as the carriage drew into the courtyard. Ilyra had dressed me in violet, fussing over my hair and sleeves. I sat still, hands clasped tightly in my lap.

Lucien stepped out first. Even from afar, he was exactly as I imagined: tall for his age, sharp-featured, every step claiming the ground beneath him. Cassian followed, smaller but just as assured, grinning as he shouted something to the guards. My brothers. The princes of my story. The boys who flayed traitors for sport, who whispered of tearing kingdoms apart.

I didn’t feel fear. I felt curiosity. Would they be the same? Would they sense I wasn’t supposed to exist? Would they recognize the thing wearing their sister’s skin?

When they entered, the room shifted—not light, not temperature, but gravity. Lucien first. Twelve years old, posture perfect, school uniform spotless, eyes like storm-washed iron sweeping over me as if cataloging weaknesses. Cassian, ten, bright-eyed, grinning like he’d decided the day would end in blood or laughter.

They stopped in front of me like predators pausing before an unfamiliar prey. “This is her?” Cassian asked, voice high with amusement. “She’s small.”

“Quiet, too,” Lucien added. “Didn’t even stand when we walked in.” I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I watched.

Cassian crouched, head tilted. “Do you cry?” he asked, pinching my cheek, testing, twisting. Lucien mirrored him, hands precise, like a doctor checking for a pulse. Two sets of hands. Two points of pain. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t wince. I simply… was.

Cassian let go first. “She didn’t even blink!” Lucien released me slowly, eyes narrowing. “She doesn’t feel pain,” he murmured. 

“Or she’s just really, really good at hiding it,” Cassian said, delighted. I sat back, fingers laced. 

“It doesn’t matter either way,” I said, soft, flat, carefully measured—a child’s voice wrapped around a dead man’s cadence. “I don’t see the point in pretending something hurts when it doesn’t.”

Cassian grinned. “Father’s going to love you.” Lucien didn’t grin. He didn’t look away.

They lingered longer than I expected, circling, asking strange questions, testing my patience, my reactions. Lucien tried to surprise me; Cassian tossed a soft blade at my feet. I picked it up, held it right, and Lucien’s eyes widened like a puzzle piece had fallen into place.

When they finally left, Ilyra returned, dusting the windowsill. “Well,” she said, neutral as always, “it seems your brothers have taken an interest in you.” I said nothing, but inwardly, I thought: Good.