The sharp clang of chains broke the silence, jerking Astrid into consciousness. Her head throbbed as though she had been struck with a hammer, and her body shivered against the cold marble floor. The damp, iron-tinged air filled her lungs, making every breath feel heavy. Slowly, she opened her eyes, her vision blurred as faint torchlight flickered across a cavernous room.
Rows of people stood before her, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of hatred and satisfaction. Their whispers built into a roar, a symphony of disdain, hissing like the air itself sought to crush her. Astrid struggled to make sense of her surroundings, but her mind was a fog. Where was she? Why was she here?
"Guilty," a voice thundered, cutting through the noise like a blade.
Astrid flinched, her heart hammering in her chest. She tried to rise, but her arms felt heavy, her wrists shackled with iron cuffs that bit into her skin. The echoes of the word rang in her ears—guilty. Guilty of what?
A man in dark armor stepped forward. His face was hidden behind a gleaming helm, but his towering frame and measured stride exuded authority. He unrolled a scroll, the parchment crackling in the tense silence that followed. His voice, low and deliberate, struck like a hammer on stone.
"Lady Astrid Valehart, Duchess of Blackmere, you stand accused of high treason against the Crown. The charges include conspiracy, attempted usurpation, and the unlawful use of forbidden magic. By decree of His Majesty, you are sentenced to death."
Astrid's breath caught in her throat. Her name—Astrid Valehart—sounded foreign yet familiar. It wasn't her name, was it? Panic surged through her veins. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked, dry and raspy like she hadn't used it in days.
"I'm—no, you've made a mistake," she croaked, her desperation mounting. "I'm not this... Astrid Valehart. I don't even know who that is!"
Her words seemed to amuse the crowd, their whispers turning to laughter. Someone hurled a rotten fruit, the splatter of juice stinging her cheek. Astrid winced, her fingers brushing her face instinctively. The hands she saw—delicate, pale, adorned with jeweled rings—made her stomach lurch. These were not her hands.
She stared down at herself. Her body was draped in a tattered, once-opulent dress stained with mud and blood. The dress didn't fit her. Nothing about this fit her. It was as if she had stepped into someone else's skin.
The man in armor sneered. "Still playing games, Duchess? Even in your final moments, you cling to your lies."
"I'm not lying!" Astrid shouted, her voice breaking. "This isn't me. I don't even know where I am!"
The crowd's laughter grew, a cruel, mocking sound that made her ears burn. Her mind raced, searching for any explanation. The last thing she remembered was her old life—mundane, unremarkable, but safe. Now, she was here, in this stranger's body, facing accusations she didn't understand.
"Enough," the man barked, silencing the crowd. He gestured toward the center of the room, where a wooden execution block loomed. Its surface was worn smooth by use, the grooves darkened with stains she didn't want to name.
Two guards grabbed her arms, their iron grip dragging her forward despite her struggles. Her bare feet scraped against the cold stone floor as she kicked and twisted, her chains clanking loudly.
"This has to be a nightmare," she whispered to herself, tears stinging her eyes. "Wake up. Just wake up."
The guards forced her to her knees before the block, pressing her neck into the groove. The executioner stood nearby, his massive axe gleaming under the torchlight. The crowd roared in approval, their voices a wall of sound that drowned out Astrid's pounding heartbeat.
"Any final words?" the executioner asked, his tone indifferent.
Astrid's lips parted, but no sound came out. She had no words—only a thousand unspoken questions and a rising tide of terror. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her vision narrowing as panic took hold.
The executioner raised his axe, and the room seemed to hold its breath. Astrid squeezed her eyes shut, her mind screaming for salvation. Just as she braced herself for the inevitable, a voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Stop."
The single word sliced through the chaos like a knife, and the executioner froze mid-swing. The crowd fell silent as a figure stepped forward, his presence radiating authority. He was tall and impeccably dressed in dark military regalia, adorned with silver and gold accents. His icy blue eyes were fixed on Astrid with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.
"Prince Lucien," someone murmured, their voice trembling with a mixture of awe and fear.
Astrid dared to open her eyes, her heart still hammering. The man before her was regal and unyielding, his dark hair framing a face carved from stone. She didn't know him, but something about his presence felt unshakably familiar.
"The trial is over," Prince Lucien declared, his voice firm and authoritative. "The Duchess's life is mine to decide."
The crowd erupted into whispers and murmurs, their confusion palpable. Astrid stared at him, her relief tempered by a growing sense of dread. This wasn't salvation—it was something else entirely.
Lucien's gaze didn't waver as he addressed her directly. "Lady Valehart, you may have escaped death today, but do not mistake this for mercy. Your life now belongs to me."
Astrid's stomach churned. His words were not a reprieve—they were a sentence of a different kind. Before she could respond, the guards yanked her to her feet, dragging her away from the block. The weight of the chains and the crowd's hateful stares pressed down on her, suffocating.
As she was dragged through a narrow hallway, the torchlight dimmed, casting long, shifting shadows on the walls. Her legs wobbled, her breaths shallow. Every step felt heavier than the last, the pressure in her chest growing unbearable.
The guards stopped abruptly, opening a heavy iron door. They shoved her inside, and she stumbled, catching herself on the edge of a rickety wooden table. The room was small and sparse, with a straw mattress in one corner and a single flickering candle on the table. The door slammed shut behind her, the sound echoing in the confined space.
Astrid slumped against the table, her chains clinking softly. Her heart raced as the events of the day replayed in her mind, each moment more surreal than the last. She stared at her hands, the jeweled rings glinting mockingly in the candlelight.
This isn't my body. This isn't my life, she thought, tears welling in her eyes. Who am I?
Her gaze fell on an old, cracked mirror leaning against the wall. She approached it slowly, each step weighted with dread. When she looked into the glass, the face staring back at her was both impossibly beautiful and entirely alien. High cheekbones, full crimson lips, and storm-gray eyes framed by dark waves of hair. It was the face of someone powerful—and dangerous.
The pressure in her chest tightened, her breaths coming faster. Her vision blurred as her knees gave way. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the glint of torchlight reflecting in the mirror, the face of the stranger who was now her own.