The room was warm and inviting, its fireplace already crackling with life, casting golden light across the finely furnished space. The fine stone floor carried the soft click of his heeled shoes as he stepped inside, and the scent of polished wood and faint spices lingered in the air.

  It was as large as the personal quarters he had once shared with his father in Kael Kestrel, though where their chamber had been practical—stone floors, a modest dining area, a small kitchen, and two separate bedrooms—this place felt almost extravagant. The walls bore intricate tapestries, their woven designs catching the fire’s glow, and a sitting area was arranged near the hearth, featuring a fine couch and two plush armchairs, as though waiting for guests to settle in and enjoy the warmth.

  Ronan hesitated at the threshold, his breath caught between the old and the new. The warmth should have been inviting, but it clung to him like something unseen, curling against his skin, pressing into the heavy folds of the unfamiliar fabric. The dress shifted against his legs, the movement too smooth, too light—nothing like the worn leather and stiff wool he had known. It felt wrong. His world had been shaped by soot and steel, the scent of molten iron, the weight of a hammer in his hands. But as he stepped further in, a dissonance gnawed at him, subtle but growing. Something felt off.

  His breath came shallower as his heeled shoes clicked against the stone, each step too sharp, too precise—a sound he had never made before, but one that now followed him everywhere. This place—this life—felt foreign, as if it had been shaped for another. He forced a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself. Panic would serve no purpose. He had chosen to follow Alena, to seek answers. But even now, each step, each shift of fabric, each sound that followed him, only deepened the questions.

  Alena moved toward one of the armchairs with practiced grace. Lowering herself into the seat, she gestured smoothly for Ronan to do the same, watching him—not just expectant, but as if she were gauging something.

  As Ronan walked toward the free armchair, the softened click of the heels against the plush carpet did little to mask his unease. Every step felt measured, precise—not his own. It was a subtle but persistent reminder that even walking was different now. Nothing about him moved as it should.

  He reached the chair and hesitated. It was too soft. It looked like it would pull him in, hold him there. He resisted the impulse to remain standing, but when he finally lowered himself, the moment of stillness was shattered.

  The instant his body sank into the plush cushioning, long hair moved with him spilling forward like a silken curtain, blinding him. He jerked instinctively, unfamiliar strands brushing his cheeks, tickling his nose. The weight of it pressed against his shoulders, foreign and distracting. He raised a hand—a hand he already knew was too slender, too smooth, too alien—and pushed the hair back with an unsteady motion.

  Long nails skimmed against his scalp as he did, dragging slightly against the strands, and for the second time, he had to move with careful precision. They were a hindrance, just like the dress, just like the shoes, just like everything.

  And the dress—Oblivion take this damned dress. The silk constricted around his legs, pressing tightly against his thighs the moment he tried to sit the way he always had—feet apart, grounded, ready. But the fabric refused, tugging against him, forcing his knees closer together. The shoes preventing him from fully relaxing, unable to sit like he wanted, instead keeping his feet firmly on the ground. His stomach twisted. The dress, the heels, the forced posture—everything restrained him.

  Even now, with the chair threatening to pull him into its depths, he kept his back rigid, his muscles tense. If he let himself relax, he feared he might sink too deeply, become too comfortable. And that was a risk he could not afford.

  Across from him, Alena crossed her legs with effortless grace, her gown shifting smoothly with the movement. She was watching him—not obviously, not critically, but noting something. She had seen the hesitation. She had seen him push the hair back. She had seen his struggle with the way the dress confined him. But she gave no sign of what, exactly, she was searching for.

  A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and unspoken.

  Then, Alena lifted a slender hand and rang a small silver bell sitting on the side table. The soft chime barely cut through the thick air between them, but the effect was immediate.

  A muffled response came from beyond the door, and within moments, it opened just enough for a figure to appear—a servant, clad in dark, well-fitted livery, standing with practiced stillness.

  "Tea," Alena said simply, her tone smooth, unhurried. "And something light to eat please."

  The servant nodded without question, bowing their head slightly before slipping away as silently as they had come.

  Ronan barely moved, his grip tightening against the armrest of the chair. Of course there were servants. Of course she did not pour her own tea. This was a world of quiet commands and immediate obedience, where a simple bell summoned what was needed. It was effortless, ingrained—so different from everything he had known.

  His eyes flicked to Alena, searching for some hint of condescension, some smugness in the way she had ordered the tea as if he were an honored guest instead of a displaced soul shoved into a body that wasn’t his. But if she noticed his reaction, she gave no sign. Instead, she simply folded her hands in her lap and regarded him with that same quiet scrutiny.

  "Would you like something specific?" she asked, her voice light, as though it were an innocent question. "Or shall I assume you prefer something mild?"

  He held her gaze for a moment before exhaling slowly through his nose. A test. Everything felt like a test. His first instinct was to say nothing at all. To refuse, to challenge, to push back against whatever game she was playing—but he bit it down. There was no victory in resisting something so small. No control to be reclaimed in denying a cup of tea. His shoulders tensed, but outwardly, he remained still.

  "Whatever you’re having is fine," he said flatly, though the moment the words left his mouth, they felt foreign. The softness of his voice twisted in his ears, unfamiliar and wrong, like a finely tuned instrument played by unskilled hands.

  She smiled faintly. "Very well."

  And then, silence again.

  The air between them felt heavier now, though Ronan could not tell if it was his own unease settling in his chest, or if Alena, too, was waiting for something.

  She did not speak again right away, simply folding her hands in her lap, waiting. Ronan could feel the weight of the silence pressing against him, thick and deliberate. She was not impatient, nor expectant, but comfortable in his discomfort. The realization made something curl tight in his chest.

  She’s waiting for me to ask. The thought grated at him. Ronan’s fingers curled against the chair’s armrest. He had spent his entire life being ordered, nudged, pushed forward by people with power over him. Even before this body, even before the army, his world had always been dictated by someone else—his father’s expectations, the levy call, the knights who had placed a hand on his shoulder and spoken of duty like it was a privilege.

  And now this. A woman’s body. A voice that was not his own. A stranger watching him as though waiting to see what he would do with it.

  "Why?" he pressed, his voice sharpening. "What went wrong?"

  Alena exhaled lightly, though it was not a sigh—more of a carefully measured pause before speaking. "Nothing went wrong," she said. "But something... unexpected happened."

  Ronan’s grip tightened. "That doesn’t answer my question."

  Alena’s lips curled, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Something amused her. Or perhaps it pleased her that he was pushing, rather than waiting for her to explain on her own terms.

  "You were not supposed to wake up," she admitted, finally. "At least, not like this. You were not the one we called."

  That was not an answer, not truly—but it was enough to send ice curling through his stomach. "Then who were you trying to bring back?"

  Another pause. Alena’s gaze did not waver, but something about the moment stretched between them, fragile yet heavy.

  "A woman named Isolde Aldwych," she said at last.

  Ronan felt something press against his ribs—not pain, but a dull pressure, a slow comprehension of just how deep this went. The name meant nothing to him, but the way she spoke it did. There was weight behind it, reverence, expectation.

  "But how?" His voice was steadier now, but no less sharp. "Who is she that you go through this trouble to bring her back?"

  Alena regarded him for a moment before answering, as if measuring how much to say. "She was one of us," she said simply. "A member of The Fifteen."

  The words landed like a stone in his gut. That could not be true. The Fifteen were long dead—not in the way of ordinary men, but in the way that gods fade into myth, their names etched into history yet removed from living memory. They were the first, the chosen of Aethor, the bearers of his divine gift.

  Every soul who carried the blessed blood—including the Aetherian Knights—traced their lineage back to one of those figures. Founders, rulers, legends.

  Edran Lorlyth, who made the forests move at his command.

  Garrin Kemp, who could unearth truth from lie.

  Isolde Aldwych, Edran’s wife, commander of flames themselves.

  Alena Hanruli, wife of Garrin, famed healer, mender of broken bodies and broken bones.

  Their names shaped the world—not just in the Kingdom of Sardia, but in the Duchy of Varn, Duchy of Castain, and the Kingdom of Gresten. All of them, long dead.

  Dead, and yet. Here he sat, in front of a woman named Alena, speaking of another long-gone legend—Isolde Aldwych. Here he sat, in a body that was not meant for him. His breath came shallow, his pulse a steady drumbeat in his ears. Here he sat, not dead as he should be—but alive. Alive, breathing. In a body that had not been meant for him.

  "That’s impossible," he said, voice sharpened by the weight of realization. "That would mean that you are…"

  Alena did not blink. Did not waver. "Alena Hanruli," she finished for him, her voice steady—too steady. As if the name were no stranger to her lips, as if she had spoken it countless times before.

  She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity, something unreadable flickering behind her amber eyes.

  "And you, my dear," she said, her voice almost… amused, "are a mystery."

  Just as Ronan opened his mouth to respond, a sharp knock at the door cut through the moment. He flinched—not much, but enough. His nerves were frayed, and something about the perfect timing of the sound only unsettled him further.

  The door opened smoothly, and a servant stepped in, moving with quiet efficiency. She carried an ornate porcelain teapot, its gold filigree catching the firelight in delicate patterns, along with two fragile cups—so fine they looked as if they would shatter in the calloused hands he no longer had.

  His gaze dropped to his own fingers, slender and unblemished, their smooth skin a mockery of the life he had lived. Hands like these would fit too easily around one of those cups.

  Another servant followed, balancing a silver tray lined with neatly arranged slices of fruit and cakes—elegant, precise, untouched.

  The soft clink of porcelain on polished wood filled the air as they set the tray between him and Alena, a quiet sound that seemed to expand in the stillness.

  He stared at the scene, his discomfort growing. He was a blacksmith’s son, a soldier, used to hard bread, weak ale, and the grease-stained wooden tables of Kael Kestrel’s taverns. Not… this. Not dainty porcelain and plates of sugared delicacies meant for nobles.

  The thought of reaching for one, of eating in front of Alena and her unreadable eyes, made his stomach coil. Would she watch him? Expect something from him? The air felt heavier, the polished silver reflecting the flickering candlelight like a stage waiting for a performance.

  Alena, unbothered, merely smiled as the tea was poured. The scent of it—light, floral, expensive—drifted between them. She lifted her cup with the practiced ease of someone who had never feared breaking something fragile.

  Ronan, on the other hand, remained still, his hands curled into his lap. He did not belong here. This was not his life. This was not his body. And yet, here he was.

  The servants stepped back, their postures straight, their hands folded neatly in front of them. Their work was done, and they stood in quiet expectation, patiently waiting.

  Alena took a slow sip, the barest flicker of satisfaction crossing her face before she set the cup down with a soft clink.

  "Everything is in order," she said, her voice smooth, unhurried. "You may leave."

  The two servants merely bowed their heads in silent acknowledgment. No wasted words, no unnecessary movements. Ronan swallowed, his unease deepening. Not once had they spoken. Not a murmured greeting, not an acknowledgment—just quiet, efficient movements, practiced and precise.

  His fingers curled against his lap, grasping at the smooth dress. He had grown up in the forges, in the clang of hammers, the shouts of merchants, the rowdy warmth of the tavern where men spoke freely, cursed loudly, laughed when they could. He had fought alongside men who grunted with exertion, swore at their wounds, breathed heavily beneath the weight of war.

  But these people—they moved with a quiet purpose, never fumbling, never hesitating. There was no wasted motion, no uncertainty.

  Ronan felt like he should say something—acknowledge them, meet their eyes, offer a nod—anything. But the moment to act slipped through his fingers like sand. By the time he swallowed his hesitation, the door had already shut behind them. And he was left in silence once more.

  His gaze drifted to the finely set table. The delicate cups, their steaming contents releasing soft curls of fragrant warmth, rested untouched. A sweet, fruity scent curled through the air—light, inviting, but unfamiliar. The golden filigree traced the image of a setting sun, gleaming under the candlelight.

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  The silver tray sat between him and Alena, lined with an array of small cakes and fruits. Some, he recognized—the kind he’d seen in bakeries or at the markets of Kestrel, pastries dusted with fine sugar, ripe berries nestled in flaky crusts. Others were wholly foreign, their colors deep and rich, their shapes unfamiliar. Everything looked exquisite and unfamiliar.

  Alena took small, unhurried bites of a delicate pastry, its golden crust topped with some of the reddest strawberries Ronan had ever seen. The fruit’s surface glistened in the candlelight, bursting with ripeness, its scent just faintly sweet beneath the aroma of tea.

  Would it be so bad to take a piece? The thought crept in unbidden. The servants had prepared this, had carried it in with careful precision. It was meant to be eaten. Meant to be enjoyed. The rich scent of the strawberries mingled with the warmth of the tea, filling the space between them.

  And yet, something in him resisted. His fingers twitched slightly, but he did not reach for the tray. Not yet. Instead, he pushed the thought aside, setting his mind on something far more pressing.

  His gaze lifted to Alena, watching her as she took another delicate bite of her pastry, perfectly at ease. "You are one of The Fifteen. How can you still be alive?"

  For the first time, she hesitated. It was brief, almost imperceptible—the faintest pause in her movements, the flicker of consideration behind her eyes. She was in control, that much was clear, yet there was something careful in how she regarded him. As if measuring him. As if deciding how much truth he was owed.

  Then, a knowing smile ghosted across her lips. "Think." Her voice was smooth, effortless, the hint of a challenge woven beneath the word. "I believe this is a question you already know the answer to." She nodded slightly toward him, then took a slow sip of her tea, as if the conversation was nothing more than idle talk between acquaintances.

  Ronan felt his jaw tighten. She was toying with him. Playing at riddles while he sat here, waiting for real answers. He had followed her because she had promised them—and yet, she was telling him nothing. Did she think this was amusing? Or was she simply measuring how far she could push him before he demanded the truth?

  Enough, he leaned forward slightly, his voice edged with warning. "Answer me, or I walk out of here. You promised me answers, yet I know even less than when I woke up."

  Something flickered across Alena's face—a shift so brief, so imperceptible, that he couldn't grasp its meaning. Then, her lips curved, not quite a smile. "Idle threats only make you seem a fool. Tell me, where would you go?"

  Had he pushed to far? The weight of her words settled in his chest, heavy and undeniable. Where would he go? Back home to Kestrel, where his father wouldn’t even recognize him. Where he would be a stranger in his own life, in his own skin. And even if he could make it back, it was a long walk from the coast to the city.

  Alena watched him in silence, letting the realization take hold. Then, at last, she exhaled, setting her teacup down with deliberate ease. "Now, you are right. I did promise you answers, and you shall have them. But please, indulge me for a moment."

  She was looking at him now—truly looking, her amber eyes sharp, peeling away at him layer by layer.

  "Who are you?"

  She took a deep breath, letting the question settle between them, heavy in the silence.

  "Ronan is not a name I recognize from the Lorlyth family," she continued, her tone still measured, but now edged with something more pointed. "And you were staring at the painting of Kael Kestrel almost with longing—yet none of the Lorlyth hail from there."

  Ronan blinked. The Lorlyth? His confusion deepened, twisting into something more tangled than before. "The Lorlyth? You mean the Dukes of the Greenwold?" His brow furrowed. "Why would I be related to them?"

  For the first time, Alena frowned. It was subtle, but he caught it—and for the first time, he felt a flicker of victory. She was confused.

  It was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual composure, but he had seen it. "Because," she said, her voice still smooth, but now carrying a thread of something new—something colder, more calculating, "you are in Rosalia Kelmist's body."

  The name hit him like a hammer to the chest. Rosalia Kelmist. He did not know it. Did not want to know it. But the moment Alena spoke it, something twisted inside him. Her body. This was her body. His breath quickened. His stomach clenched.

  Alena watched him closely now, her amber eyes unblinking, searching his face for any crack in his reaction. "And for the The Luminous Covenant to work, you need a direct paternal bloodline from Edran Lorlyth."

  She leaned forward ever so slightly, her fingers pressing lightly against the table. "So tell me, Ronan, what part of the family do you hail from? The Lythan? The Kelmist? Or perhaps one of the lesser Lorlyth's?"

  Silence stretched between them. The room felt too warm, too still, too much. Ronan opened his mouth—then shut it again. His mind scrambled for an answer, but everything felt distant, blurred beneath the weight of what she had just told him.

  He had died. He had awoken here, in this body. A body that did not belong to him, that had been meant for someone else. His fingers curled against his lap—slender, unfamiliar. This wasn’t his skin. This wasn’t his body. It was Rosalia Kelmist's.

  It felt as if a stone had dropped into his stomach, heavy and sinking. His fingers twisted in the silk, breath coming fast, too fast. The fabric clung to his skin, smooth where it should have been rough, foreign where it should have been familiar. His stomach churned.

  He lurched forward, gripping the chair’s armrests as if to steady himself, but the motion sent his hair spilling over his face—soft, silken, hers. A sharp breath escaped him. He shoved it back, hard, as if he could push away the truth settling in his bones. This wasn’t just a mistake.

  His breath hitched. He had stolen her life.

  Needing something—anything—to ground himself, he finally caved and took a sip of the tea. Still warm. Still untouched by all of this. It tasted excellent, but he barely noticed. His thoughts remained elsewhere—on her. On Rosalia.

  He had stolen her life. Her body. He had killed her. His eyes flicked downward. The teacup trembled in his grip—no, his grip was trembling. His hands, slender, delicate, a noblewoman’s hands, feminine and soft. Not his. The porcelain wavered. His breath hitched. He exhaled slowly and set it down. That’s when he saw it. A faint, red outline on the rim. An imprint of lips. His lips. Rosalia’s lips.

  He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak past the tightness in his throat. His voice was quieter than he intended, softer. "I… I’m not a Lorlyth."

  Another pause. His hands curled tighter around the fabric of his dress, the fine material bunching under his grip, his red nails contrasting with the green of the dress. "I’m Ronan Blackarken. Son of Gideon Blackarken. I was born in Kael Kestrel." A breath "I am a blacksmith."

  Silence. Alena did not speak, did not move. She merely studied him, her amber eyes thoughtful, her expression unreadable. The soft crackling of the fire filled the silence between them.

  Ronan felt the weight of her scrutiny pressing down on him. Measuring. Calculating. Then, finally, she exhaled—a quiet, slow breath.

  "A blacksmith." She said the word carefully, as if tasting it, testing it against what she knew. "And yet, you are sitting before me."

  Her fingers drummed lightly against the table, a steady, measured rhythm. "For the ritual to have worked, your bloodline must be unbroken. The power of the The Luminous Covenant does not stray beyond direct descent."

  Ronan let out a hollow laugh—sharp, bitter, but wrong. The sound caught him off guard, too light, too smooth, a feminine edge curling around the bitterness. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, but the damage was done. The laugh lingered in the air, a foreign thing that did not belong to him.

  "That’s impossible," he said, forcing steel into his voice, though it still felt too soft, too unfamiliar. "My father was a blacksmith. His father before him. If I have noble blood, it must be so watered down it’s worthless."

  Alena didn’t so much as blink. "And yet," she said, her voice infuriatingly calm, "here you are."

  She studied him, her amber gaze cool, dissecting. "So," she continued, tilting her head slightly, "either you are lying—" she let the words stretch between them, deliberate, pressing, "or somewhere down your lineage, your father, or his father before him, was not as ordinary as you believe."

  Her fingers stilled, and she leaned back slightly, her expression sharp but oddly considering. "A bastard, perhaps. Or the descendant of one, hidden away." She let the words settle between them.

  A bastard. The word landed heavier than he expected. It wasn’t the first time he had heard it. Thorne had said the same when he became aware of Ronan's power, when he extended the invitation to the Aetherian Knights.

  Ronan’s throat felt dry. Back then, he had dismissed it. A guess, nothing more—a noble’s way of making sense of something that shouldn’t be possible. But now, hearing it again, from her—someone who spoke not from speculation but from certainty—it carried weight.

  His mind churned. Could it be true? His father had never spoken of noble blood. There had never been even the faintest whisper of lineage. No old family name, no tales of distant ancestors tied to lords or knights. And yet—

  Here he sat. Brought back by a ritual that should have been impossible for him. With powers that should only belong to those of noble descent. It made a twisted kind of sense.

  And yet—it did not explain everything. Why him? Why not Isolde Aldwych? The one they had actually called for. The one who should have been brought back.

  Ronan exhaled sharply, his voice breaking the silence.

  "Why did it have to be me?” His voice wavered, and he hated it. "Why did this ritual—this Covenant—bring me back and not Isolde? Why did it have to be me that was put into this body?"

  His breath came shallow, uneven. The burn at the corners of his eyes sharpened. He clenched his jaw, blinking hard—but it was too late. A single tear slipped hot against his cheek before he could stop it. He turned his head sharply—too sharply—and the motion sent his hair spilling forward, long strands brushing against his damp skin.

  The sensation jolted him. Silken, unfamiliar, suffocating. It clung to his cheek where the tear had fallen, a reminder of everything that was wrong. His breath hitched as he pushed it back with an unsteady hand, his fingers too smooth, too slender, too foreign.

  Alena did not speak. She did not offer comfort. She only watched, her amber eyes steady, measuring him. Maybe she saw it. Maybe she didn’t. But she said nothing.

  The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. The fire crackled softly, filling the void where his control had momentarily fractured, its warmth a cruel contrast to the ice curling in his gut. Ronan exhaled—slow, steady—forcing the tremor from his chest. His fingers twitched against the armrest, as if testing its solidity, something real to anchor him.

  Her expression remained inscrutable. "That is what we do not understand," she said at last, her voice even, measured. "What both Cadog and I are trying to figure out."

  Ronan swallowed hard. His fingers twitched against the chair’s armrest, as if testing its solidity. "So you’re saying this was a mistake," he said, his voice flatter than he intended.

  Alena tilted her head slightly. "Not a mistake," she corrected. "But… unexpected."

  Then, something changed. A shift—small but undeniable. The sharp edge in her gaze softened, the weight behind her words becoming something else—something raw.

  Her voice lowered, quiet, deliberate. "Ronan, please trust me when I say, we did not intend for this to happen."

  Her voice was quieter now, and for the first time, it almost sounded… sincere. "But here we are."

  Ronan stiffened, instinct warring with reason. He shouldn’t trust her. He had no reason to. And yet…

  He could feel it, just beneath the surface—an unspoken certainty, an intuition that whispered of truth. It was irrational, impossible. He had spent his life learning to read people the hard way—through years of bargaining at the forge, watching his father navigate deals, and knowing when someone meant to cheat them. This was different.

  This was not learned. This was felt. It came to him like an undercurrent in the air, like knowing the sky would rain before the first drop fell. Alena was telling the truth.

  The realization unsettled him. It was too familiar, too much like the feeling that had crept over him in the aftermath of battle, in the bloodied stillness of the Sardian Pass. That gift.

  The one that had earned him fame and legend—that had caught the eye of the Aetherian Knights. That had given him a place among the most powerful warriors in Sardia. And then—

  That same power had led him to his death. A reckless end. A loss of control. The feeling clawed at him, unwanted and familiar. He did not want to think on what it meant. Not now.

  He needed something else. Something to anchor him to the present. Answers.

  Anything to take his mind off this. He exhaled, forcing the tension from his shoulders, though it didn’t fully leave him.

  "Where do we go from here, then?" he asked. The words felt strange in his mouth. Resigned. Because what choice did he have? He wanted to live. He wanted to breathe the air and feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. Even if it wasn’t his skin.

  Alena watched him for a long moment. Her expression remained composed, unmoved. But there—just beneath the surface—something flickered in her eyes. A shift so subtle, so fleeting, that he almost missed it. Pity.

  His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  Alena exhaled softly, tilting her head just slightly, as if weighing her words. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady—but quieter than before.

  "That is a question to which I do not know the answer." She hesitated again. It was clear she was not used to uncertainty—and disliked it even more.

  "You have brought us quite the conundrum," she murmured, though it felt as if she were speaking just as much to herself as to him.

  Her amber gaze flickered, studying him. Measuring him.

  "You are not one of The Fifteen, yet you returned from Oblivion as if you were." A pause, brief but weighted. "You are a commoner, yet you must share blood with Edran Lorlyth and Isolde to take the body of their descent."

  She now looked straight at Ronan, the full weight of her gaze settling on him. "But perhaps the most concerning of all—you are sitting here, while we have no idea what became of Isolde."

  A beat of silence. "Is she lost in Oblivion, waiting for us to call her back? Or has she gone the way of those with lesser power—returned to Aethor for good?"

  She exhaled, the first crack in her composure, the weight of something unspoken pressing into the space between them. "Have I lost my lifelong friend?"

  Her voice wavered—just slightly. Ronan almost missed it, but it was there, a crack in her composure. She had lost something. Someone. The words hung there, fragile, as if she had not meant to say them aloud. Then, just as quickly, she straightened, her tone cooling. "But for now, we must deal with things as they are." A measured pause. "We must deal with your situation."

  "Like it or not, you, Ronan, are now Rosalia Kelmist."

  "Her family will know you and expect their daughter. Her friends and acquaintances will expect the carefree young woman they remember. And society—" she let the word settle between them, heavy and inescapable, "will expect you to behave as a young lady should."

  Ronan’s breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary thing.

  The room suddenly felt too warm, too tight. The dress clung to his skin, the silk brushing against his legs like a cage he couldn’t pry open. His hands curled into fists against the armrests, long nails biting into his palms.

  “No.” The word scraped from his throat, raw, unsteady—but it was there. His voice was quieter than he wanted—too soft, too unfamiliar, too much like hers. He forced himself to straighten, to push back against the creeping panic curling in his chest.

  "I am not her." The words came through gritted teeth, the only defiance he could grasp onto.

  Alena tilted her head slightly, unreadable. Considering. Then, she exhaled, slow and measured. "Perhaps," she allowed. "But for the rest of the world—you will be."

  A sharp breath. "I can leave," Ronan blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Go back to Kestrel, where no one knows her. Convince my father of who I am."

  His voice was fraying now, too raw, too close to breaking. He was almost begging, because the truth was laid bare before him—inescapable, undeniable. This wasn’t a mistake to be undone. There was no way back.

  Alena’s gaze didn’t waver. "It does not work that way, Ronan."

  "Kestrel receives nobles from all across Sardia, both to visit Duke Thorne and to join the Aetherian Knights." She watched him, and there it was again—that look. That damnable, quiet pity.

  "Besides, what would you even say to your father?" Her voice was steady, but something in it pressed like a blade. "I know you heard I died, but here I am, in a noble lady’s body."

  Ronan’s breath hitched, sharp and uneven. Too fast. Too shallow. His fingers twitched against his lap, gripping at silk that wasn’t his own, pressing against legs that weren’t his. His stomach twisted, his chest tightening, like something was curling around his ribs and squeezing.

  He gritted his teeth. He would not break. Not here. Not in front of her. But his fingers trembled, tightening in his lap. The silk of the dress felt suffocating, the perfume in the air too sweet, too foreign. His throat was raw, aching with unshed screams. He wanted to tear the fabric, to strip it away, to claw back into something that belonged to him. But there was nothing. His vision blurred. His throat ached.

  And before he could stop it, before he could swallow it down, a single tear slipped free. It traced a slow path down his cheek, warm against unfamiliar skin. Wrong. He stiffened, breath caught in his chest, as if sheer willpower could undo it, take it back.

  But the dam was broken. Another tear fell. And another. And this time Alena had seen.

  He didn’t look at her, didn’t need to. Because he could feel it. Not just the silence stretching between them—not just the shift in the air. He felt it in the gift that ran through this body, in the blood of Aethor that was never meant to be his. Her pity. Cold. Heavy. Pressing into him, curling around his ribs like smoke, inescapable. He gritted his teeth against it, against her sadness bleeding into his skin as if it belonged to him.

  A faint rustle. The soft click of heels on carpet. She moved closer. Then, warmth. A hand on his arm, light but certain, resting over the thin fabric of his dress sleeve. She said nothing. She didn’t need to.

  This was not his skin.

  This was not his life.

  The thought sliced through him, and just like that, he broke. The first sob tore free before he could stop it—harsh, strangled, as if ripped from somewhere deep inside. He had not cried in years. Not since he was a little boy. But this—this was too much. A strange body. A strange place. A fate that was never supposed to be his. It crushed him.

  Another sob. Then another. He barely noticed when Alena’s hand shifted, gently pulling at him. He stiffened, he resisted, a small, instinctive pull away—shame creeping in even now. But he was too tired. Too broken. And when she guided him toward the couch, he let her.

  She held him, without a word, without expectation. Her warmth pressed against him, steady and quiet. She did not hush him, did not tell him to be strong. She simply let him break.

  And he did. He cried, and the grief took him whole. His life was gone. He was dead.

  Somewhere, Daire was still stuck in the Sardian Pass, without him, without his lifelong friend. Did he know? Did he think Ronan had abandoned him? Would he survive the pass alone? His father was back in Kestrel, waiting. What would he get? A message. A cold, formal letter from a soldier who didn’t know him, telling him his son—his only remaining family—had fallen in the war.

  No one would explain how it had happened. No one would tell him what had truly become of his boy. And Ronan could not tell him. He was gone. Forgotten. A ghost in a body that was never meant to be his.

  He had never felt so alone.