Thya's Point of View
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When I finally woke up, the first thing I noticed was the unrelenting pain pounding through my head. It was a sharp, unforgiving ache that spread like wildfire from the crown of my skull to my temples, pulsing with an incessant rhythm that felt like it would never stop. Each throb was worse than the last, a cruel reminder of the state I was in. I was no stranger to headaches—they had plagued me for years—but this was different. This was worse. Far worse. It was as though someone had taken the dull pain I had grown used to and sharpened it into a weapon designed to torture me.
My forehead was slick with cold sweat. I could feel it gathering there, trickling down the sides of my face in an uncomfortable, sticky line. It clung to my skin, cooling in the room's air, making me shiver despite the oppressive heat I felt radiating from my own body.
When I tried to open my eyes, the effort was futile. My vision was blurred, so much so that the world around me dissolved into a chaotic mess of indistinct shapes and meaningless colors. Shadows moved around me, twisting and shifting, but none of them came into focus. It was as if someone had placed a thick fog over my eyes, smothering any chance I had of making sense of what was happening.
Yet, even without my sight, I wasn't alone. I could feel them. People were nearby. I couldn't see them, but their energies were impossible to ignore. They pressed against me, chaotic and overwhelming, like whispers brushing against my skin without ever forming into words. Their emotions—worry, urgency—buzzed in the air around me, but none of their presences felt familiar. Not one.
I tried to speak. I needed to say something, to demand answers, to understand what was happening. But the moment I attempted to force the words out, I realized it was useless. My throat felt as though it had been scraped raw, dry and parched beyond relief. My lungs, weak and struggling, barely allowed me the shallowest of breaths, let alone the strength to form words.
All I could do was lie there, silent, as their voices drifted around me. At first, they were muffled, as though they were speaking from far away, but slowly, they became clearer. I caught snippets of frantic exclamations—someone saying I was awake, others calling for a physician. Their voices rose and fell, overlapping in their urgency, but I couldn't make sense of them.
Why were they acting like this? What had happened to me?
Before I could even attempt to piece together an answer, the pain in my head intensified. It grew sharper, deeper, more consuming. It felt as though my skull were being split apart, as though nails were being driven into my temples with every beat of my heart. The pain radiated outward, spreading to my face, my eyes, my nose, and even my ears. Every inch of my head was engulfed in agony.
But none of it—none of it—compared to the pain in my chest.
It was as though a weight had been placed there, pressing down relentlessly, crushing me from the inside out. It was sharp, raw, and excruciating. My ribs. The realization hit me like a second wave of pain. The broken ribs. I remembered how they had fractured under Sohan and Adonis's blows. The memory was distant, blurry at the edges, but it was enough to reignite the fury simmering deep within me.
They had done this to me.
They had beaten me senseless, broken me as though I were nothing.
And they were going to pay for it.
No matter what it took, I wasn't going to let them get away with this. They would regret every blow, every bruise, every broken bone.
The thought burned in my mind, but the strength to hold onto it was slipping away. The pain was too much, and my body was too weak. Staying conscious felt like trying to hold water in my hands—impossible. Slowly, inevitably, I felt myself sinking back into the dark. My tears, silent and hot, rolled down my face, a final act of defiance against the pain before unconsciousness claimed me once more.
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When I woke again—or rather, when I became aware of myself again—I chose not to open my eyes. The light was on; I could feel it, harsh and blinding even through my closed eyelids. It was the kind of light that made you wince, cold and clinical, and I didn't want to face it.
Instead, I focused on the presences around me. There were people here again, just like before. Their energies surrounded me, buzzing and restless, but this time, one of them stood out.
Emilia.
I recognized her immediately. Avyanna's nanny.
Her energy was unmistakable, tinged with a bitterness so sharp it was suffocating. I didn't need to hear her voice to know what she was feeling. It was loathing—pure, unfiltered hatred.
And I couldn't even blame her for it.
Daisuke had made her my maid-in-waiting, a decision that still baffled me. Emilia had never liked me. She had always been cautious, distant, as though she didn't trust me. But now, her disdain had grown into something far more vicious. It didn't take much to understand why. Emilia had loved Avyanna like a daughter, and in her eyes, I was the reason for everything that had gone wrong.
"It's been twenty-five days," Emilia said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "She must wake up at any moment. She's stayed unconscious for far longer than I thought she would. And even though she woke up after five days, she fainted again immediately and hasn't shown any sign of waking up since."
Twenty-five days. The words hit me like a slap. Had it really been that long?
"Yet the trials began two weeks ago," she continued, her tone dripping with disdain. "Not that it matters. It's not like she wanted to participate anyway. Or like she would have stood out if she had."
Her words stung, each one sharper than the last. I had grown used to her indifference, but this cruelty was new. It was deliberate, pointed, and it cut deeper than I cared to admit.
"You shouldn't speak like that about her, Miss Emilia!" Another voice broke in, deep and authoritative. The physician. His defense caught me off guard, though I could sense the frustration beneath his calm exterior. "She's still a Princess, and you must respect her, whether you like her or not. You serve her now!"
Emilia scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "Not like the bitch can hear me anyway," she muttered under her breath.
Gods help me.
"I wouldn't say that, Emilia," I rasped, my voice weak but cutting through the air like steel. "If none of you want me to… do what I do… I suggest you don't look me in the eye."
And with that, I opened my eyes, blinking against the brightness of the room. My vision adjusted slowly, the blurred shapes resolving into clearer figures. Emilia looked startled, her expression twisted with something between shock and fury.
The physician, on the other hand, stepped closer, his demeanor calm and professional. "Don't worry, kid," he said, a hint of humor in his voice. "I came prepared. I'm using dark glasses. Now look at me—let me see your eyes."
He reached out and gently held my chin, tilting my face upward. Reluctantly, I obeyed, meeting his gaze through the dark lenses of his glasses.
"Are you the doctor?" I asked, my voice hoarse and unsteady.
He smiled then, a kind, genuine smile that caught me completely off guard. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had looked at me like that.
"Indeed, I am," he replied. "And you have quite the peculiar body, don't you?"
Panic surged through me at his words. Did he know? Had he discovered the truth about my health conditions? I'd avoided physicians for years, terrified that someone might uncover my secrets and use them against me.
"Hm…" I murmured noncommittally, not trusting myself to say more.
The physician studied me carefully, his sharp eyes scrutinizing every detail. "Your eyes are as clear as red crystals. Do you see everything all right?"
I blinked a few times, glancing around the room as my vision sharpened. "Pretty much, yeah," I said, my voice steadier now.