The warm afternoon sun bathed the streets of Gaia as Mildred and Priscilla stepped out into the open. The city's bustling sounds seemed to fade away as they strolled toward a quaint café perched atop a hill, offering a sweeping view of the valley below. The café, with its rustic charm, was a serene retreat—just what they needed after the whirlwind of official business.
As they walked, Priscilla noticed the calm atmosphere. People recognized Mildred, but their greetings were polite and restrained. There were no reporters trailing them, no flashing cameras—just quiet acknowledgment. It was a striking contrast to the usual chaos that surrounded him.
"I wonder," Priscilla mused aloud, "why, despite knowing you're the king, they act so… at ease around you."
Mildred's lips curved into an amused grin. "Curious, are you?"
Priscilla turned her gaze to the café's balcony, where the city sprawled beneath them. A soft breeze carried the sounds of laughter and distant chatter. "Just a little," she admitted.
"Well, that's a secret," he teased, enjoying the faint blush that rose to her cheeks.
Priscilla chuckled, her curiosity piqued. "That only makes me more curious."
"Let's make it a game," Mildred suggested, leaning forward slightly. "We trade secrets—one for one."
Priscilla arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Why would I agree to that?"
"Just a friendly exchange," he replied, his grin widening.
She took a sip of her drink, considering. "It's a risky offer, Your Majesty. Your secrets are far more valuable than mine. What's stopping me from selling them to the press and creating scandals?"
Mildred laughed. "I'd like to see you try. But I trust you won't. Besides, whatever we say tonight disappears tomorrow—forgotten."
"Pretend this conversation never happened?" she asked, incredulous.
"Not entirely," he said with a playful smile. "But we'll let it fade."
Priscilla sighed, unable to suppress a laugh. "Fine. You win. I'll play along."
Mildred's gaze softened as he thought, It's you who needs someone to talk to, not me. But at least you're willing to talk.
"Well," he began, "to answer your question, we have an agreement with the press. They're not to disturb us in public, and in return, we grant them exclusives—portraits, interviews, and the like."
Priscilla nodded. "That makes sense."
"Your turn," he prompted.
She paused, scanning the streets below where children played and couples strolled. A smile tugged at her lips. "When I was younger, I bought a wig and pretended to be my sister to skip class."
Mildred blinked. "Your sister?"
"We're a year apart and look almost identical, except for our hair color."
Mildred chuckled. "That's clever. My turn: I used to fake illness to skip council meetings."
Priscilla laughed. "I didn't expect that from you."
"Everyone needs a break," he said with a wink. "Your turn."
Priscilla grinned. "Once, I secretly joined a play to earn money for a book my father banned me from reading."
Intrigued, Mildred leaned closer. "Was the baron in financial trouble?"
"Oh no," she laughed. "My father thought books made me antisocial. I realized begging him to lift the ban was easier than acting—I'm terrible at it."
Their laughter was interrupted by the waiter's arrival. Priscilla, emboldened, requested a splash of alcohol in her drink to ease the awkwardness of conversing with the king. Mildred obliged, smiling.
"I read horror novels when I'm emotionally overwhelmed," he confessed as the waiter left.
Priscilla's eyes widened in surprise. "That's unexpected."
"What about you?" he asked.
She hesitated, then admitted, "Romance novels. They help me escape."
As she sipped her altered drink, her expression brightened. "This is delightful. What's in it?"
Mildred's voice lowered, his tone intimate. "Please, call me Rowan."
Priscilla blinked. "But… you're the king."
"Just Rowan," he insisted. "It's only us here."
"…Rowan," she said softly, the name foreign on her tongue.
He smiled. "You're the fourth person to know my given name. The others were my parents and my sister."
"No one else?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "It's short for my full name, Mildred."
Priscilla hesitated. "Then… call me Leah."
Mildred's heart raced. He knew. Deep down, he'd always known. But he stayed quiet, waiting for her to speak.
"Leah… Isn't that your sister's name?" he asked gently.
Priscilla lowered her gaze, nodding. "It's been so long since I've heard it from anyone outside my circle."
"Leah," he whispered, his voice tender.
Tears welled up in Priscilla's eyes as she nodded, her emotions overwhelming her. "Yes."
Leah sat alone in her room, the soft flicker of candlelight casting wavering shadows on the cold stone walls. Her silver hair tumbled around her shoulders, a glimmering cascade that served as a constant reminder of the identity she was forced to bear. The strands gleamed in the dim light, a reflection of her sister's beauty—a beauty that haunted her still.
Priscilla had been the golden child—the cherished one, adored and idolized by all. But her untimely death had left a gaping void in the family's perfect facade, a void they demanded Leah fill. Mourning wasn't permitted. Grieving in her own way was unthinkable. Leah was told she had to step into Priscilla's shoes, to become her sister in every way that mattered. The world was never to know that Leah still lived.
Her family's decree was absolute: Priscilla's legacy must endure. The illusion of her perfection must remain unbroken. And so, Leah was stripped of her own name, her own life, and molded into the image of the sister she could never be. Even her father demanded obedience, insisting this charade was for the greater good, for the preservation of their family's standing. His words left no room for defiance, only a heavy promise: Leah would live as Priscilla.
Even her sister's fiancé, the man Leah was now bound to by duty, had never truly known her. His love was for Priscilla, not for the pale imitation Leah had become. She was nothing more than a shadow, a substitute for the woman he had lost. His lingering affection for the real Priscilla served as a constant reminder of Leah's inadequacy, a truth she could neither escape nor accept.
Day by day, she played the part, her silver-dyed hair and forced smiles a flimsy shield against the weight of her lie. Yet every step she took as Priscilla felt like a betrayal of herself. Each night, she would retreat to the sanctuary of her room, but even there, she was haunted by the reflection of the person she pretended to be. Leah was lost—caught between the ghost of her sister and the fragments of her own fading identity.
Her father had sought to tether her to purpose by appointing her as the Crown Princess Lyra's Lady in Waiting. Leah had resisted, but her protests fell on deaf ears. Yet amidst her reluctant service, she found a rare solace in Lyra. Unlike the others, Lyra knew the truth. She didn't demand perfection or pretense. With Lyra, Leah could breathe, could exist—just as herself.
Lyra's palace became a refuge, a haven of acceptance amid a life of relentless expectations. In the company of Lyra and her close circle—Astrid, Katherine, Edward, and Lily—Leah experienced the faint warmth of belonging. It was in these fleeting moments of companionship that she felt closest to the person she had been before.
Yet the fear of discovery lingered like a shadow, a quiet terror that one day, someone would see through her mask. Even as she found moments of peace, Leah knew her freedom hung by a thread.
One evening, after another day spent pretending, Leah sat in Lyra's library, attempting to lose herself in a book. Her thoughts, however, wandered to her fiancé. Their engagement was a cruel mockery of love—a bond formed not from affection but obligation. To him, she was a placeholder, a pale echo of a love lost to time. The knowledge gnawed at her, amplifying her feelings of isolation.
Closing the book with a sigh, Leah wandered the halls of the palace. Catching sight of her reflection in a gilded mirror, she paused. The face staring back at her was familiar yet foreign—a carefully crafted mask that bore Priscilla's likeness. Beneath it, Leah's essence felt like a fading memory, a ghost lingering on the edges of existence.
"Leah?"
Lyra's voice broke through her thoughts, warm and steady. Turning, Leah met the Crown Princess's gaze, her kind eyes filled with quiet understanding.
"You seem lost in thought," Lyra said softly. "Are you alright?"
Leah forced a smile, though it faltered under Lyra's perceptive stare. "I'm fine. Just… thinking."
Lyra's expression softened. "You don't have to pretend with me, Leah. You never have to be anyone but yourself here."
Leah's breath hitched, emotion swelling in her chest. Those words, so simple yet profound, carried a weight she had never felt before. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.
For the first time in years, Leah felt a flicker of peace. In Lyra's presence, she could be Leah—not Priscilla, not a ghost, but herself.
And for that, she was deeply, immeasurably grateful.
The gardens of Gaia bathed in the amber hues of the setting sun, painting the stone terrace in golden light. Leah and Rowan sat across from each other at a small table, the soft flicker of candlelight dancing between them. The stillness of the evening seemed almost sacred, broken only by the occasional rustle of the breeze. Leah's hand rested on her cup, fingers tracing its edge as if searching for courage in its smooth surface.
The conversation began as all their others had—easy, lighthearted musings about Gaia, its beauty, and Rowan's rare escapes beyond the palace walls. Yet, as the warmth of their drinks settled in her veins, Leah felt the dam of her silence begin to crack. And then, without preamble, the words she had never meant to say escaped her lips.
"I'm not really Priscilla," Leah blurted, her voice trembling as the truth hung suspended between them like a fragile glass orb.
Rowan froze mid-motion, his drink forgotten. His eyes, sharp yet kind, fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice careful, measured.
Leah faltered, her throat tightening as years of secrecy clawed their way up, demanding release. She had carried this truth like a stone in her chest, its weight unbearable. Perhaps it was the wine loosening her resolve—or perhaps, deep down, it was the quiet yearning for someone to truly see her.
"I'm Leah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "My sister, Priscilla… she died. And my family—they made me take her place. I've been pretending to be her ever since. I didn't have a choice."
Rowan's expression shifted, confusion giving way to a mix of surprise and empathy. He leaned forward, the flicker of candlelight catching the tenderness in his gaze. "Leah… I'm so sorry."
Her laugh was bitter, hollow. "You couldn't have known. No one does. They believe the lie because it's easier. Even her fiancé—" Her voice cracked, and she turned away, brushing at a tear that betrayed her composure. "I never got to grieve her. I never got to be me."
Rowan sat back, his silence weighted with thought. Pieces began to fall into place: the stories of Priscilla's tragic passing, the odd discrepancies he'd sensed but never questioned. And now, here she was, baring the truth she had buried for years.
"Why?" he asked softly. "Why live this lie?"
Her shoulders slumped as if the question itself had drained her. "Because they needed her, not me. My family needed the illusion, and I… I couldn't say no. It wasn't just my life—it was hers, too. And then, as time went on, it became impossible to stop. I thought I'd fade away, that no one would notice."
Rowan's jaw tightened, his gaze unwavering. "But I notice. I see you, Leah. And I'm here—if you ever need someone to share the weight of this secret, or even just… to be yourself with."
Her breath caught, his sincerity cutting through the layers of guilt and fear she had built around her heart. For the first time in years, she felt the faintest glimmer of hope.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice fragile yet grateful. "I didn't think anyone would care enough to understand."
His smile was soft, yet there was a warmth in it that steadied her. "You have my loyalty, Leah. Always. Though," he added with a playful tilt of his head, "I never imagined you'd be so full of surprises."
Her laugh came unexpectedly, light and genuine. "I suppose I've been keeping a few."
"Well, then," Rowan teased, his tone easing into something lighter, "it's only fair you ask me something in return."
Her brow arched. "A secret for a secret?"
"Precisely," he said with mock seriousness. "Ask away."
Leah leaned back, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Alright, Your Majesty. What's something I don't know about you?"
Rowan pretended to deliberate, his fingers drumming theatrically on the table. "I once snuck out of the palace to attend a masquerade ball. No one knew—not even my mother. It was the best night of my life."
Her eyes widened in surprise. "The king sneaking out for a masquerade? That's not what I expected."
He chuckled, his laughter infectious. "Oh, the stories I could tell… but those are for another night."
Their conversation shifted to playful banter, the heaviness of her confession easing into the comfort of shared laughter. And for the first time in years, Leah felt like she could breathe.
As the night wore on and they wandered the quiet streets of Gaia, Rowan couldn't stop the thoughts swirling in his mind. Leah was no longer just a name tied to a story of loss. She was resilient, raw, and real in a way that left him both awed and humbled.
He glanced at her, walking beside him, her face softened by the glow of the streetlights. She wasn't a shadow, wasn't someone's replacement. She was Leah—a woman who had endured so much yet remained unbroken.
And as they walked, Rowan couldn't help but wonder if he might one day be the one to offer her not just freedom, but the love and acceptance she so deeply deserved.
For now, though, he stayed by her side, his resolve unspoken yet unwavering. This was just the beginning.