The fluorescent lights above the cubicles hummed with a tired rhythm that matched the way Lena felt inside. It was past nine, and most of the office was already dark. She rubbed her eyes, staring at the last spreadsheet glowing on her monitor. Her fingers ached from typing, her coffee had gone cold hours ago, and her phone buzzed with a message from her roommate asking if she was on her way home. She wasn’t. She was still buried under a pile of client forms that needed to be sent before midnight.

Outside the window, the city was half asleep. The rain had been falling since evening, fine silver lines streaking across the glass. Lena had always liked rain—it made the world quieter, softer—but tonight it just made her feel more alone. She saved her work, shut down the computer, and gathered her bag, scarf, and umbrella. The janitor waved at her as she stepped out of the elevator, and she smiled politely before walking into the wet night air.

The streets were mostly empty. Headlights cut through the drizzle, casting long reflections across the asphalt. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she walked toward the bus stop, her breath forming little clouds in the air. She thought about her day, her boss’s sharp tone, the endless tasks that kept her chained to the screen. Sometimes she wondered if this was what adulthood was supposed to feel like—endless tiredness disguised as routine.

A car splashed through a puddle beside her, spraying her jeans. She sighed and looked up at the traffic light ahead, blinking red through the fog. The crosswalk signal changed, and she stepped forward, tightening her grip on the umbrella handle. Her phone vibrated again. Probably another message. She reached into her coat pocket to check, not noticing the car turning too fast at the corner.

A blinding flash of white light. A screech of tires. A dull thud that seemed to echo from far away. Then nothing.

When she opened her eyes again, she was lying on the ground—but it wasn’t asphalt. The surface beneath her was hard stone, cold and smooth, and there was sunlight instead of rain. She sat up quickly, blinking against the brightness. Around her stretched a vast courtyard lined with marble pillars and banners fluttering in a gentle wind. Beyond the walls rose towers capped with golden domes. She heard voices—women talking, laughter, the rustle of fabric.

“What are you doing there?” a voice called.

Lena turned. A girl in a long light-blue dress was staring at her, carrying a wooden tray filled with folded cloth. Her accent sounded strange, her tone sharp but curious. “You’ll be late. They’re already gathering at the hall.”

“I—sorry, where am I?” Lena asked, her voice trembling.

The girl frowned. “Where? The palace of course. Now hurry before the steward comes. You don’t want to be marked absent on selection day.”

“Selection day?”

The girl rolled her eyes, grabbed Lena’s hand, and pulled her toward a group of young women lined up near a large gate. They were all dressed in plain gowns, their hair tied neatly, their faces pale with nervous excitement. Men in armor stood by the entrance, checking the rows. Someone shouted orders.

Lena stumbled as she tried to keep up. Her mind was a blur. The smell of flowers, the warmth of the sun, the old stone beneath her shoes—it all felt too real to be a dream. She looked down at herself and froze. Her office clothes were gone. Instead, she wore a simple beige dress, its fabric coarse but clean, and her shoes were soft leather flats that fit perfectly.

A horn sounded across the courtyard. The crowd quieted. The gates opened with a deep groan, revealing a grand hall beyond. Gold light poured through the arched doorway, and a voice announced something about “maid candidates” and “royal service.”

Maid candidates. Royal service.

Lena’s pulse quickened. She wanted to protest, to tell them she wasn’t supposed to be here, that she worked in an office in Chicago, not in some palace—but the words stuck in her throat. No one around her seemed surprised by her presence. It was as if she’d always been one of them.

The girl beside her whispered, “Keep your head down. Smile when they look at you. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Lena nodded faintly. The line began to move.

As they entered the hall, Lena’s senses filled with colors and scents she couldn’t name. Tall stained-glass windows painted the floor in patterns of red and gold. Nobles sat on raised platforms, watching with detached interest. At the end of the hall stood a tall man in dark robes holding a scroll. His voice carried across the marble as he began to call names.

When it came to the girl next to her, the man marked something on his paper. Then his gaze fell on Lena.

“Name?” he asked.

Lena hesitated. “Lena Carter,” she said softly.

The scribe frowned, puzzled. “A strange name. Foreign, perhaps.” He made a mark anyway. “Step forward.”

Her legs moved on their own.

The hall seemed to stretch endlessly as she walked to the center. Everyone’s eyes were on her. Somewhere above, sunlight caught on the gold ornaments, scattering tiny sparks of light around her. She felt the weight of the air, heavy with expectation, as if something unseen was watching closely.

She stopped at the center and lowered her head, her heart pounding. She didn’t know what this place was or how she had come here, but one thing was clear—her life as she knew it was gone.

Far behind the nobles’ seats, an older woman whispered to a guard, her voice low but urgent. “That one,” she said, pointing discreetly at Lena. “Keep an eye on her. There’s something different about that girl.”

The horn sounded again. The next name was called. Lena stepped back into the line, her palms sweating.

The ceremony went on, the room echoing with names she couldn’t pronounce. Outside, bells began to ring. Somewhere, in a world that no longer existed for her, a phone kept buzzing in the pocket of a jacket lying on a rain-soaked street.