“Voices of the Rebellion: Collected Testimonies from the War of Sundering”

  Compiled by Archivist Rennic Hallen, Year 91 o.L.

  Archived in the Royal Collection, Great University of Sardia

  (Note: the Sard River is referred to in the original testimonies by the Velkari name ‘Sark’)

  “The day they crossed the Sark, the Velkari banners flew high. By nightfall, they were ash. Some say the Fifteen led the charge, eyes glowing like dawn—and that was the last time the east looked west without fear.”

  Date unknown, 572 o.L.

  Ronan Blackarken

  Eventually, the tears slowed, leaving Ronan hollow and exhausted. The room settled into silence again, punctuated only by the faint crackling of the fireplace. Each shaky breath he drew felt too shallow, yet too much, pressing against a chest that seemed unfamiliar, rising and falling with a rhythm he barely recognized.

  Soft fabric rustled nearby, a gentle yet persistent reminder that he was not alone. He glanced up slowly, his vision blurred, to see Alena quietly watching him. Her amber eyes held neither pity nor impatience—just a steady, composed presence, as if she understood that no words could reach him yet.

  "Rest will help," she finally said, her voice calm, measured. "This is not something that will be resolved tonight. Allow me to call the servants—they'll help you prepare for sleep."

  A flicker of resistance stirred deep within him, a last fragile effort at reclaiming control. He clenched his jaw, momentarily considering protest, but the weight of exhaustion and the strangeness of his body were too great. His shoulders sagged slightly, the fight in him dimming to quiet resignation.

  "Fine," he muttered softly, almost too quiet to hear, the word bitter on his tongue.

  Alena offered a small, reassuring nod before gracefully stepping toward the door. Her voice drifted softly as she summoned the servants, a quiet authority in her command. Within moments, the door opened, and two servants stepped inside, their movements calm and practiced as they approached.

  Ronan felt his chest tighten once more, a lingering resistance tugging at the edges of his consciousness. Yet, exhaustion overtook even that small spark of rebellion. With practiced calm, the servants gently guided him from the sitting room into the adjoining bedroom, leaving Alena behind. Their quiet steps were muffled against the plush carpets, marking a clear separation from her composed presence. His limbs felt heavy, foreign to him as he moved, each step reinforcing his sense of disconnection from this new reality.

  By the time they reached the bedroom, any remaining defiance had faded to quiet resignation. Still, when one of the servants reached out gently to help him prepare for bed, something deep inside him bristled, reigniting a fragile ember of resistance.

  A quiet defiance. A final, fragile piece of control. "No—wait," he said, voice rough, raw. "I can do it myself."

  The two women hesitated—just for a breath. Then, one of them offered a soft, reassuring smile. "I know it’s been a long day, my lady, but let us help. You’ll feel so much better once you’re in something more comfortable." Without waiting for an answer, they stepped forward, their movements practiced and familiar.

  "I said, I can do it myself!" The words came sharper this time, higher-pitched than they should have been. The sound of it made his gut twist, but he ignored it. He could do this. He would do this.

  He grasped the fabric at his shoulders, trying to yank it off. It barely budged. The neckline caught on his hair, the opening too small.

  Frowning, he reached behind him, fingers brushing something stiff. Buttons. Too small, too delicate. He tried to grasp them, but his nails—longer than he had ever kept them—fumbled against the tiny fastenings.

  His hands trembled. His breath quickened. He clenched his jaw, twisting his arms behind him again. The dress wouldn’t come off. It clung to him like a second skin.

  One of the servants cleared her throat softly. They were waiting. Watching. He could almost sense their impatience—not in any movement, but in their stillness. "Are you sure you don't want us to help?"

  His jaw clenched. He tried one last time, straining, his nails scraping uselessly at the tiny fastenings. But it was no use. His hands dropped, fingers curling into his palms, useless and trembling.

  "Fine," he muttered, but his voice barely carried. The silence pressed in, waiting. A beat. Then— a breath, shallow, forced. "Please help."

  One of the servants smiled gently, as if relieved. "Of course, my lady. There’s no need to struggle alone." Their hands moved with practiced precision, undoing the buttons smoothly, their touch familiar, effortless. In moments, the dress loosened, slipping from his shoulders, sliding down his arms, whispering softly against his skin.

  Though he was far from free. Beneath lay another dress—simpler, yet undeniably feminine. Silk straps sat gently on his shoulders. The bust was adorned with lace, the rest of it clinging too softly, too intimately against him.

  Then that too was removed.

  It revealed yet another layer, a corset pressing firmly against his ribs, shaping him, emphasizing curves he didn't want to acknowledge. He hadn't even noticed it. As they unlaced it and then removed it unfastening it from two stockings. He felt breath return to his lungs, though even with it removed he could still feel it, a ghost of it still present.

  They had him step out of the heeled shoes, his feet aching, calves stretching uncomfortably. Gentle hands removed the silk stockings from his legs, fine and luxurious. The sensation left his skin feeling bare and exposed.

  The servants moved efficiently, this time dressing him again, in yet another delicate garment—silk, clinging softly, too gently, a constant, insistent reminder of his changed form. This one again only held up by two straps of silk, though it was far more adorned. Clearly, no other garment would cover it. One of the women adjusted a strap of silk at his shoulder, her fingers light and practiced, offering, "This shade complements your complexion beautifully, my lady."

  He flinched. The title curled around him, sweet and effortless, spoken without thought—but the weight of it hit like a hammer. "My lady." That is what they had been calling him, that is how they saw him. The words didn’t belong to him.

  His jaw clenched. His hands twitched at his sides, itching to pull the fabric tighter over himself, to correct her, to make her take it back. But there was nothing to correct. She wasn’t wrong. Not to them. Not in this body.

  Then—the hands at his shoulders smoothed down the silk, fingertips grazing his bare skin.

  Too soft. Too familiar. He sucked in a breath. A different night. A different touch. The warmth of a woman beneath his hands, the silk of her dress slipping over her skin as he peeled it away.

  Memories surged, unbidden, of another night years before. He had been seventeen, dancing with Emma Fielder at the Festival of Radiance. Ronan and Daire had managed to steal some wine, laughing as they passed the bottle between them. The festival lights had flickered in the night air, the scent of roasted almonds and summer blossoms mixing with the haze of drunken excitement.

  Emma had been beautiful. The yellow dress. The dark curls. The red lips. He had watched her mouth curl around the rim of the bottle, had wanted to taste the wine from her lips. They had been drinking their fill, dancing under lanternlight, bodies close, the warmth of alcohol turning every touch electric.

  Then they had snuck away. It had been the first time for both of them. When Ronan pulled Emma’s dress down, his hands had been eager, shaking with anticipation. And then—her corset. Framing her thin waist, lifting her breasts, displaying them for him. He had run his hands over the fabric, tracing the shape of her, his excitement mounting as she smiled. She had been wearing stockings too. Almost sheer. Presenting what was between her legs. Presenting what was being offered to him.

  Now, he was the one being presented. His breath hitched. The silk brushed against his thighs, soft and bare. Lace lifted his breasts. The fabric was soft, delicate, a cruel reminder that this was real.

  The thought almost made him cry again. His chest felt tight, lightheadedness creeping in—not from excitement, but from something colder, something suffocating.

  Alena entered the bedroom quietly, dismissing the servants with a small flick of her fingers. The soft shuffle of feet retreated, and the door closed behind them with a quiet finality.

  The silence settled heavily. She regarded Ronan thoughtfully, her expression unreadable.

  "How are you feeling?"

  He swallowed, his fingers curling slightly against the silk draped over him. Soft. Too soft.

  "Exhausted," he admitted, his voice flat.

  She nodded gently. "I understand. This must be overwhelming."

  Something inside him twisted. Overwhelming. The word was too small for what he was feeling. He almost laughed—bitter, sharp, humorless. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and asked, "Is it always like this? Servants waiting on you head to toe, watching every move? Do you ever have privacy?"

  His voice was edged now, bitter and biting.

  "It depends," Alena said calmly. "Some nobles distance themselves more. But for most of us, especially women, we are dependent on the servants. As you probably saw, our clothing can be quite complicated."

  This time Ronan did laugh, a short, hollow laugh, shaking his head. The motion sent strands of silken hair over his shoulders, another cruel reminder.

  "Complicated," he repeated, voice flat.

  He flexed his fingers, the sensation of smooth silk clinging to his skin both foreign and suffocating. The air felt too warm. His legs were bare this new dress only covering down to his knees, he could feel cool air brushing against them, his bare feet planted in the rug covering the cold stone floor.

  "So, I'm just supposed to accept that my every move is watched, my body dressed and undressed by strangers?" His voice was sharp, but beneath it, something cracked.

  Alena tilted her head slightly, studying him with quiet intensity. There was no mockery in her gaze. No pity either. "For now, yes."

  A pause. Her voice softened, but there was no room for argument. "Rest," she said. "Tomorrow will come swiftly."

  She turned, moving with the effortless grace of someone who had never had to fight for control of their own body.

  Sleep had come fitfully, punctuated by restless dreams and lingering anxiety. It was restless, punctuated by half-formed dreams that unraveled the moment he reached for them. Images flickered and faded—battlefields, home, faces he had known. His father’s forge, the glow of hot steel. A girl in a yellow dress, laughing. A sword in his hands. Blood. And worst of all, dreams of nothing.

  Morning arrived too quickly, sunlight spilling through heavy curtains. For a moment, he lingered. Weightless. Suspended. The brief haze before waking, where nothing had to be real yet. The bed was wonderfully comfortable, better than any he had ever slept in. Smooth warm duvets, a mattress that felt like a cloud, and pillows just the right firmness.

  But even here, discomfort encroached. His eyelids were heavy, swollen and sore. When he blinked, a gritty dryness scraped across his vision. His face felt puffy, tight, like his skin had been stretched too much overnight. His head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache pressing behind his eyes. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick, almost sticking to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed, but it did nothing to ease the parched rawness in his throat.

  A thought surfaced sluggishly. Had he cried? The memory came back—tears he hadn’t wanted to shed, body wracked with exhaustion, breaking beneath it all. Oh. Yes.

  Then—the door creaked open. Curtains tore apart, and sunlight slammed into his face. A sharp, stabbing pain bloomed at his temples, his headache worsening in an instant. His eyes squeezed shut, breath catching as the golden light pierced his vision, forcing him into wakefulness, back to his living nightmare.

  A chipper voice cut through the stillness. "Good morning, Lady Rosalia."

  He flinched. The words hit like a slap, sinking in slowly, too late to stop the impact. His fingers curled weakly against the sheets. For a single, fragile second, he had forgotten. Had hoped that it was all one of his dreams.

  The soft clink of metal on the nightstand. A rustle of fabric as the servants moved closer. It was the same two women who had helped undress him yesterday evening. Where these personally assigned to just him?

  The thought felt wrong. Why should he have two servants, two people, waiting on him just because he was a noble?

  "We've brought you some water and a cold cloth to help your eyes."

  Ronan swallowed. His throat was still too dry, raw from the night before. Of course, they had noticed. They had seen the aftermath yesterday, and likely knew how it would be this morning. His puffy eyes. The way his face still held the traces of a breakdown he hadn’t wanted to have. His cheeks burned, but with no fire, only the dull heat of humiliation.

  His fingers twitched against the sheets before he reached for the cup—then froze. Slender hands. Delicate. Feminine. The soft curve of his fingers, the unnaturally smooth skin, the long burgundy nails.

  His breath caught, grip faltering for just a second. Not his hands. The realization slithered through him, unwelcome, pressing against the edges of his mind. A quiet tension curled in his chest, tight and suffocating, but he shoved it down. Not now.

  He curled his fingers tighter around the metal cup, its cool weight grounding him. He hesitated only a moment longer before lifting it to his lips, taking a slow sip, letting the water coat his throat. He focused on the sensation, the control of it. Another sip. The dryness faded, replaced with something tolerable. His grip steadied. He set the cup back down with careful precision, exhaling softly as if the simple act had cost him something.

  "Thank you."

  The two women smiled, bowing their head politely. "Of course, my lady. Cover your eyes with this, and let us prepare everything to get you ready for the day." The younger of them patted the cloth beside him and moved away.

  The older woman asked, "Shall I bring you your usual tea, my lady?" A pause. Just a breath too long. Her brows lifted slightly, her hands stilling as if waiting for confirmation. When the silence stretched a second longer, she nodded to herself. "I’ll have it prepared."

  Ronan let out a slow breath, staring at the damp fabric. It was a small thing. A simple thing. But for some reason, the sight of it made his stomach twist. It felt too gentle, too delicate. Something meant for comfort. Meant for her. The thought unsettled him, curling in his chest like something foreign, something that didn’t belong to him.

  His fingers twitched, hovering over the cloth but not quite reaching for it. The damp fabric glistened faintly in the morning light, waiting. His hand hovered, breath shallow, the urge to pull back almost stronger than the urge to touch it.

  The servants continued their work, moving through the room with silent efficiency. They didn’t wait for him to respond. They had expected him to accept this. All of it. His fingers tightened against the sheets, tension settling in his shoulders. His eyes were dry, his head ached, and the cool cloth would help. There was no real reason to resist. So why was he?

  The answer wouldn’t come. It lingered at the edges of his thoughts, stubborn and unyielding. Like something he wasn’t ready to name. Not yet.

  Eventually, he gave in. His body sank back into the mattress, the warmth of the bed swallowing him whole as he pressed the cloth over his eyes. The cool dampness clung for a moment before settling, a relief against the dull ache pulsing behind them. He exhaled, long and slow, tension slipping from his body in increments, though never fully leaving.

  Around him, the bustle of people at work made it feel almost normal. Almost. The sounds weren’t entirely foreign. The rustle of fabric, the quiet shuffle of movement—like the army camp rousing at dawn, the clang of armor and muttered curses. Like the mornings when his father worked early in the kitchen, pots shifting, cabinets being opened and closed. The days he had been allowed to sleep in, wrapped in warmth.

  But this wasn’t the camp, and the forge was a lifetime away. And too soon, reality pulled him back.

  "We are ready for you, my lady."

  The words came without impatience, but with the quiet certainty that he would obey. That he was already expected to rise.

  Ronan exhaled slowly, pressing the cloth more firmly over his eyes, as if the coolness could delay the inevitable. The temptation to stay in bed was strong. He was a noble now, wasn’t he? Nobles did whatever they pleased. Yet, somehow, he had never felt less free.

  The servants moved around him, never hesitating, their quiet efficiency a force of its own. He could hear the final preparations—the soft shifting of fabric, the opening of containers, the barely-there murmur between them as they ensured everything was in place. There was no question of whether he would get up. Only when.

  The moment stretched. He could remain still, prolonging this just a little longer, but to what end? Defiance over something so small was just another form of surrender.

  With a quiet sigh, he pulled the cloth from his eyes and sat up. One of the women stepped forward immediately, as if she had been waiting for that single motion.

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  The blankets were drawn away before he could react, the last remnants of warmth vanishing. He forced himself not to flinch as she reached for his arm, helping him to his feet with practiced ease. Her touch was light, reassuring, almost intimate in its familiarity. Not just guiding him—attending to him.

  One of the women moved towards a table with a mirror, humming softly as she arranged powders and brushes in neat rows. There was no hesitation, no doubt that he would want this.

  "Don’t worry about your eyes, my lady," the other said, a note of gentle amusement in her voice. "We can cover that up with a bit of powder. No one will even notice."

  She smiled as she said it, a small, knowing thing, the kind of reassurance offered to someone who had woken looking less than perfect and cared about such things. Because Rosalia would care, wouldn’t she?

  Ronan swallowed. Something cold pressed into his chest, like a door shutting between him and the person they thought he was. They thought this was for him. A noblewoman wanted to be beautiful. Wanted to be prepared for the day. Wanted to be seen.

  His fingers twitched, curling slightly at his sides. The words sat like a stone in his throat. He should correct them. He should tell them they were wrong. But he couldn’t.

  They stood waiting for him to move.

  But he could not make himself step toward the table, toward the mirror. He had yet to see his reflection, knowing that that would make this all undeniably real. His stomach twisted at the thought.

  Instead, he did the only thing he could think of to delay.

  Sitting back down on the bed, he opened his mouth—then hesitated, before forcing steel into his voice. "Please, bring me Alena. I need to speak to her."

  The words hung between them. One of the women paused, fingers lightly touching the handle of a brush on the vanity before stopping, uncertain. The other exchanged a brief glance with her companion before turning back to him, brow slightly furrowed.

  "My lady…?" A heartbeat of silence. "I’m sorry, but… who?"

  His jaw clenched. "Alena. The woman who I was with yesterday evening. I need to see her. Now."

  A flicker of something unreadable crossed the servant’s face, but she lowered her gaze politely. "Do you mean Lady Elowen?"

  Ronan hesitated. He had never heard that name before. But who else could they mean? He swallowed, voice sharp. "Yes. Bring her."

  A pause. One of them lowered her gaze briefly, then spoke carefully. "Shall I fetch Lady Elowen once you’re dressed?"

  The words were light, but the expectation in them was clear. A noblewoman would not summon someone—especially not another noble—before she was properly prepared. The servants assumed he simply wasn’t thinking, that grief or exhaustion had made him forget himself. He almost laughed at the thought.

  "No. Fetch her now."

  A pause. Then, with a slight bow, one of them stepped toward the door. The other, however, remained by the table with the mirror, her hands smoothing the fabric of the dress, straightening an already straight section of emerald silk.

  The tea was ready before Alena arrived. The remaining woman left briefly, returning moments later with the cup. Steam curled into the air, carrying the light scent of summer berries. Something Rosalia must have had every morning. Something that was supposed to be his now.

  Ronan swallowed hard. His throat ached with dryness, but his hands refused to move. To reach for it was to accept it—to accept this. His fingers twitched against the sheets. The servants stood quietly nearby, waiting, as if his hesitation was nothing more than the morning sluggishness of a noblewoman.

  The longer he waited, the heavier their presence became.

  He clenched his jaw. His muscles, tense for so long, screamed for relief. He wanted to fight this—wanted to shove the tray aside, to prove that he was not who they thought. But what would it change? They would still call him "my lady." They would still expect him to dress, to behave, to become her.

  His fingers moved before he could stop them, curling around the handle. Too natural. Too effortless. The delicate cup rested perfectly in the delicate hand that held it, as if it belonged there. As if it had always belonged there. His breath caught. A strange, unsettling sense of inevitability curled in his gut. He should stop. He should pull back. But he didn’t.

  It tasted wonderfully of summer berries, ripe and sweet, easing his throat, chasing away the last of his headache. Warmth settled in his chest, soothing despite himself. His shoulders, tense for so long, lowered slightly, his spine aligning into something straighter, more effortless. His fingers rested lightly on the rim of the cup, the way a lady’s would—elegant, measured.

  Without thinking, he tilted the cup just so, letting the liquid settle before taking another sip—smooth, practiced, delicate. The movement felt instinctive, unthinking. Refined. A noblewoman’s gesture. The realization came a second too late.

  Across from him, the servant smiled, though there was a flicker of hesitation before she spoke. "You’re looking better now, my lady."

  The warmth from the tea turned to something heavier in his chest. He quickly set the cup back on the table, as if distance from it would make the feeling pass. Tension returned to his shoulders.

  The servant reached for the robe, already unfolding it with practiced hands, moving as if this was inevitable, as if Rosalia would never refuse. "Let’s have you in your robe before the lady Elowen arrives, my lady."

  He wanted to fight it. He had seen how quickly he could lose control, how easily this body could move without him thinking. But it was getting cold. His shoulders were bare.

  And he was already pushing it with the two servants. He could already hear the whispers in his mind, the quiet amusement in their voices. How improper. How unseemly. How Lady Rosalia had met someone half-dressed, still in her night clothes.

  The worst part was that it mattered. That he cared. That the thought of laughter at his expense made his skin crawl.

  He knew how quickly gossip could spread, had heard it in the taverns of Kael Kestrel when the castle’s servants had been too deep in their cups. He had seen how a whispered comment over ale could turn into a scandal by morning—how a misplaced glance, a torn hem, could become something sordid in the right tongues.

  "Thank you." The words left him quieter than intended, automatic. Not quite his, but expected.

  He let the woman wrap the silken robe around him. The fabric settled over his shoulders, whisper-light, pooling at his wrists in a way that felt almost weightless. It clung to the silk of his dress, layer upon delicate layer, every piece designed to complement the next. The green of it matched the color of the dress he was already wearing, clearly meant together. A coordinated display. A presentation.

  And just in time—a knock at the door. The other servant returned. She stepped in and held the door open for Alena. She was already dressed and ready for the day.

  She moved with effortless composure, her gown a striking contrast to how he looked—a flowing white dress trimmed with intricate blue embroidery, the soft sheen of silk catching the morning light. The fitted bodice and long, elegant sleeves framed her with an air of quiet authority, every detail precise, deliberate. A silver pendant, resting just above the neckline, gleamed faintly—a subtle marker of status, of control.

  He could feel her taking in the scene—Ronan sat on the bed, wrapped in a robe and his nightdress, a stark contrast to her effortless readiness.

  "Please, leave us. Rosalia and I would like a moment to speak."

  She was fully in control. If Ronan calling for her this morning was a surprise, she did not show it. As the servants moved toward the door, Alena’s voice, light yet unmistakably firm, followed them. "If one of you would be a dear and bring me a cup of the tea Rosalia has, that would be perfect." A final, effortless command. The door clicked shut behind them.

  Alena turned her gaze back to him, her expression unreadable, composed. "So, Ronan, why did you need to speak to me so urgently?" Her tone was smooth, almost amused. "The poor woman who came for me seemed quite puzzled by your… unusual request."

  Ronan swallowed, his fingers curling into the fabric of his robe. He hadn’t thought past calling for her. Now, under her sharp gaze, the weight of it settled heavier. "I…" His voice faltered, rough. He exhaled, jaw tightening. "I’m not doing this."

  Alena arched a brow. "Not doing what, exactly?"

  "Any of it," he snapped. The words came too fast, edged with frustration. His fingernails pressed into his palms, the bite of them sharp, grounding. "Getting dressed, playing along, pretending—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t care what’s expected of me. I won’t do it."

  A silence stretched between them. Alena regarded him with quiet patience, as if he were a child throwing a tantrum, as if she had already anticipated this.

  "And what, exactly, will you do instead?" she asked, her voice mild.

  Ronan clenched his jaw. What would he do? He could rip off this robe, refuse to let them dress him, refuse to let them touch him. He could storm out of this room as he was, demand to be taken home, demand for someone to fix this. But he already knew the answer. No one would. No one could.

  His chest tightened, breath shallow. He hated how neatly the walls closed in, how there was no escape, no alternative. "You think this is inevitable," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

  "It is." Alena did not blink. Not cruel, not mocking—just certain.

  His pulse pounded in his ears. "What if I don’t care?" he pressed. "What if I walk out of here as I am? Let them talk. Let them stare."

  Alena sighed, as if indulging a particularly exhausting conversation.

  "Then they will talk. They will stare. And worse, they will remember." She leaned forward slightly, her gown immaculate, her expression calm. "You may not care, but the rest of the world does. And it will never forget the noblewoman who greeted the day in nothing but her nightdress."

  His stomach turned violently. She was right. He knew she was right. The moment he stepped outside this room, he wouldn’t be Ronan Blackarken anymore. He would be Rosalia Kelmist, and Rosalia’s mistakes would not be forgiven.

  He could already hear the whispers in his mind, the hushed amusement, the speculative cruelty.

  "She’s mad, isn’t she?"

  "Did you hear? She wouldn’t let them dress her this morning."

  "Poor thing, maybe she’s broken in the head."

  His hands curled into fists, his breath unsteady. He could fight on a battlefield, he could stare down a knight with a sword in hand—but this? This was unwinnable. His gaze flickered, just for a second, to the table across the room, where a mirror sat untouched. He hadn't dared approach it. Hadn't dared to see. The thought alone sent a shudder through him.

  They were briefly interrupted by one of the servants knocking on the door, and bringing Alena the cup of tea she had requested. She looked at Ronan with an odd look, as if she was concerned for him.

  When she left, Ronan took a moment to gather himself. "I can’t even look at myself," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. It slipped out before he could stop it, raw and unguarded. He clenched his fists tighter. "So tell me, Alena—how the hell am I supposed to face anyone else?"

  She tilted her head slightly, considering him in silence. Then, after a long moment, she spoke. "You don’t have to look, Ronan. You just have to let them see what they expect."

  "I could leave," he said, the words sounding weak even as he spoke them. "Disappear. Go somewhere far enough that no one would know me. A village, maybe. A simple life. I don’t have to be Ronan. I could just be… someone else."

  For the first time, Alena’s lips curved into something colder.

  "You would still be a woman Ronan" She said patiently, "And would you leave?" she asked softly.

  Ronan hesitated.

  "Would you rob them of a sister? A daughter?"

  His stomach twisted.

  "Rosalia Kelmist has a family who loves her. A mother and father who still believe their daughter will wake up this morning." She tilted her head, voice measured but sharp. "Do you intend to steal that from them? To let them believe their child is dead while you run away and hide?"

  Ronan’s breath hitched. He hadn’t—he hadn’t thought of them. But then, a spark of defiance flared.

  "She is dead," he said, the words flat, but bitter. "You don’t get to guilt me with a life that’s already gone. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t ask for this. So don’t pretend I owe them anything."

  Alena did not react. Not at first. Then, with an exhale, she reached for her tea, taking a slow, careful sip.

  "Perhaps," she said lightly, as if considering it for the first time. Then she set the cup down, looking at him once more. "But you are here, and they will never know the difference. And telling them would be like killing her."

  Ronan’s nails dug into his palms, but he had no answer to that.

  Alena tilted her head slightly, gaze steady. "You could walk away, Ronan. No one would stop you. But if you do, ask yourself this—are you running from them, or from yourself?"

  His breath stilled. This wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. But when had life ever been fair?

  The truth settled in, slow and heavy. He wanted to live. And if he wanted to live, he had to be Rosalia Kelmist, at least for the moment. Slowly, stiffly, he exhaled, his shoulders dropping not in relief, but in resignation.

  His voice, when it came, was hoarse. Flat. "Get it over with."

  Alena smiled faintly, reaching for her tea. "Good girl."

  His stomach twisted violently, but he didn’t fight. Not now. For now, he would do what was expected. For now, he would let them believe they had won. But the moment would come. He would change that perception. He did not have to be a prissy noblewoman, a fragile ornament wrapped in silks and expectation. He could reshape this role, make it his own—more self-reliant, more independent.

  "Before I leave you to get ready, there is one more thing." Ronan stilled at the shift in Alena’s tone. Gone was the cool amusement, the poised certainty. She was watching him now, gaze sharper, intent, leaving no doubt as to the seriousness of what came next.

  "As I said, the woman who came for me was quite puzzled," she continued, her voice measured. "But not just by your request to see me before you were even dressed." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. Then, she tilted her head slightly, watching him closely. "She also said you did not know my name. That you called me Alena."

  A flicker of unease curled through him. "Yes, because that is your name, isn’t it?" The words left him before he fully processed them, his voice steady, but doubt already creeping in. A pause. Then, a memory surfaced—faint but certain. The servants had corrected him. Elowen. The realization struck like a spark catching fire. As he was in Rosalia’s body, so too was Alena in Elowen Emhin’s. His breath stilled.

  "I see you've realized your mistake," she said, her voice unwavering. Her gaze did not soften, the importance of what was being said clear. "It is imperative that we present ourselves as the bodies we inhabit. You are Rosalia from now on—just as I have been Elowen for many years. Just as Cadog is Sorin Colmin, the Voice of Aethor."

  Ronan clenched his jaw. "How long?"

  Alena’s expression remained unreadable. "How long what?"

  "How long have you been doing this?" His voice was quieter now, but not softer. There was something razor-sharp beneath it, something cold clawing its way into his gut.

  A pause. Then, a small, knowing smile—not cruel, not triumphant. Just a truth long settled. "Since the beginning."

  Something in him recoiled. "You mean to tell me you’ve been stealing lives for centuries?" His hands curled into fists, silk bunching beneath his fingers. "Replacing people. killing your own descendants, and leaving everyone else in ignorance that their loved ones are gone, replaced?"

  Alena did not blink. "We take a few, so that thousands may live."

  His breath caught. "What?"

  She sighed, almost patient. "Do you truly believe a kingdom sustains itself through good fortune alone? That peace is won by chance? That rulers always rise through merit?" She shook her head slightly. "Every time a throne wavers, every time power shifts, the world teeters on the edge of war. One weak ruler, one ambitious noble, and tens of thousands die for it."

  Her amber eyes locked onto his, calm and unwavering. "We prevent that."

  Ronan]] exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "You justify it like it’s some noble cause. Like you’re gods, deciding who should live and who should be erased."

  Alena regarded him, unfazed. "You think of it as erasure. We see it as preservation."

  His stomach twisted. "That doesn’t make it right."

  "Right and wrong are luxuries of those who do not bear the burden of history." She let the words settle, tilting her head slightly. "How many wars have been averted because of us? How many dynasties have remained unbroken, preventing civil war? How many commoners—people like your father—have been spared the horrors of conscription, of famine, of devastation?"

  Ronan’s breath came shallow. "And how many people have you stolen from their own lives to do it?"

  Her gaze did not waver. "Far fewer than would have died otherwise."

  He hated how calm she was. How she didn’t gloat, didn’t try to persuade—she simply stated it as fact. A decision made centuries ago, over and over, because they believed they knew best.

  "Do not presume to judge us," Alena said, her voice measured. "It was difficult at first—taking over the body of a child you helped raise. But we saw the danger. Our freedom and independence were too new, too fragile. And the Empire of Velkaris was just waiting for a moment of weakness."

  For the first time, there was passion in her voice, a glimpse of something deeper. She wasn’t just justifying herself—she was imploring him to see it their way.

  "We ensured stability. Ensured peace and prosperity." She paused, letting the words settle between them, her gaze searching his. "The few times we stepped back, we saw how quickly things could spiral. How quickly everything we built could be undone."

  Ronan didn’t answer. What was there to say? That he would fight? That he would never accept this? That it was wrong? It didn’t matter.

  He clenched his fists, nails pressing into his palms, silk gathering between his fingers. The truth settled like iron in his gut: he could refuse, rage, resist—but none of it would change what had already been decided. What had already been done to him, to Rosalia.

  Alena studied him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable, then turned toward the door. "I’ll leave you to prepare." She reached for the handle, then hesitated, glancing back.

  "Cadog has summoned me. He has new information about you—about Isolde." A pause. "You should join us when you’re ready for the day."

  It wasn’t a request. Ronan forced himself to breathe evenly, to push down the immediate urge to snap back. Instead, he met her gaze and said nothing.

  Alena’s lips curled faintly, though whether in approval or amusement, he couldn’t tell. Then, with a measured step, she opened the door. She did not look back as she left.

  Ronan exhaled sharply through his nose. His muscles remained tense, his shoulders squared as though preparing for a fight that never came. It was only when the door swung shut behind her that he allowed his posture to sag.

  His name was Ronan. Not Rosalia. No matter what they called him, no matter what they expected. And yet—when had it started feeling like he needed to remind himself of that?

  A soft knock shattered his thoughts. "Lady Rosalia? May we enter?"

  His stomach twisted. The servants. Of course. He didn’t answer immediately, but his silence must have been taken as permission, because the door creaked open, and the two women stepped inside.

  They moved with quiet efficiency, neither hesitant nor uncertain—only practiced. One carried a tray with a small plate of fresh fruit and bread, while the other carried a pot of tea, its familiar scent curling through the air.

  Ronan’s throat tightened. They were here to dress him. To make him presentable. To turn him into her.

  "We’ve prepared your breakfast, my lady," one of them said, setting the tray on a nearby table, the delicate porcelain clinking softly. "And we’ll have you ready shortly."

  He hated how normal they made it sound. How little hesitation there was in their voices, how effortless the transition was for them. No unease, no second glances—only routine. Now that the strangeness of the morning’s interruption had passed, they were eager to return to normalcy—to smoothing out the wrinkles of the day, both literal and figurative. To preparing Lady Rosalia for her day.

  They saw no difference between Rosalia Kelmist yesterday and Rosalia Kelmist today. They didn’t see a man shoved into another person’s skin. They only saw a noblewoman to be attended to.

  A gentle hand touched his arm, guiding him forward before he could think to resist. "Come, my lady. Let’s make you presentable."

  His breath hitched. No. He had been stalling. Pushing off what had always been waiting for him.

  The mirror.

  His feet felt too light, disconnected from the floor as they led him to the vanity. The chair was already pulled out for him, waiting. The servants moved with calm precision, their every motion designed to make this feel natural. It wasn’t. It would never be.

  He hovered for a moment, fingers twitching at his sides, his stomach twisting. If he didn’t sit, maybe he could pretend a little longer. Maybe he could delay it just a moment more. But they were watching. Waiting. And if he refused now, if he faltered—it wouldn’t change a thing.

  With a slow, measured breath, he lowered himself into the chair. The mirror was waiting.

  The servant closest to him smiled, smoothing a hand lightly over his shoulder. "There we are."

  Ronan swallowed hard. His fingers curled against the cool wood of the vanity. He didn’t want to look. But his eyes were already lifting.

  And for the first time, he saw her. A stranger. A vision. Rosalia Kelmist stared back at him.

  His mind struggled to make sense of it, but his body knew the truth before his thoughts could catch up—the weight of her presence settled into him like a cloak he had no choice but to wear.

  She was breathtaking. Unfairly so. The kind of beauty that turned heads in courtly gatherings, that made men lean closer and women take note. Her face was sculpted with the kind of effortless elegance only noble breeding could produce—high cheekbones, a delicate but defined chin, full lips that could curve into a teasing smile or a sharp, knowing smirk.

  And her eyes—they weren’t his. Not anymore. They should have been an ordinary shade of brown, but they weren’t. They were the same shade of amber as Alena's, shimmering with flecks of ember and gold, framed by long, naturally dark lashes that made them seem deeper, more knowing than they had any right to be. They were eyes that saw and understood, that could charm or unsettle, command or invite. A noblewoman’s eyes.

  His chest tightened.

  The cascade of burnished copper and chestnut hair draped over her shoulders, a silken frame of gold-touched waves, shining with a softness that spoke of oils and careful hands tending to it each morning. It didn’t belong to him. He wanted to run his hands through it, to pull at it, to prove it was a wig, a trick, a lie. But the memory of it brushing against his bare skin the night before, spilling over his collarbones as he moved—his hair now—burned against the back of his thoughts.

  He lifted a hand—her hand—to his face. Slender fingers, nails neatly shaped and tinted with a deep, understated red, the shade of a woman who knew the power of allure but never needed to demand attention. His hands had once been rough, calloused from the forge, from the grip of a blade. Now, they were perfect. Unblemished. Manicured.

  This was Rosalia’s face.

  This was his face. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him.

  This wasn’t a disguise. A disguise could be taken off, undone, removed at the end of the night. But the woman in the mirror moved with him, breathed with him, was him. And the world had already accepted her. His stomach twisted violently.

  "Shall we begin, my lady?"

  The words slid over him like silk, smooth and practiced, with no expectation of resistance. He felt his breath stutter in his chest, his grip tightening against the vanity as if grounding himself. He had spent his life in rough linens and leathers, in clothes that allowed him to move, to fight, to be himself. And now, silk whispered over his skin, clinging where it shouldn’t, shaping where it had no right to.

  His reflection did not shift. She only watched him back, poised, waiting. Ronan wanted to shatter the mirror. But he didn’t.

  Instead, he exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders—not because he had accepted it, not because he would ever accept it, but because he understood something with sudden, bone-deep clarity.

  The battle was already lost. The servants would dress him, they would make him ready, they would see no difference. The world would see Rosalia. And for now, he would have to let them.

  He swallowed hard, hands clenching into fists, then slowly unfurling. "Fine."

  The mirror did not react.

  Neither did the woman in it.