The sky was the only place where my imagination could truly roam free. I often pictured myself as a bird, the wind, or a drifting cloud. They all had a starting point and a destination—unlike me, a six-year-old girl about to be drawn into a game of power whose ending I already knew.
"The merciful Lord must pity her, that foolish little girl, always daydreaming like her soul's been stolen by a demon." The sisters at Lilymorn Monastery gossiped about me freely now. They didn't even bother to lower their voices anymore.
The other children played noisily in the yard, tumbling in the dirt. I wasn't oblivious—I could easily pretend to be like them, crawling around in the mud as though I belonged. But I didn't want to.
Six years ago, I died and was reborn in this world. With the memories of my past life intact, I was closer to thirty years old on the inside.
The habits of a small child repulsed me—runny noses, filthy clothes caked in mud and grime. I couldn't stand it, so I kept my distance.
The mountain's stillness was suddenly interrupted by a commotion outside the monastery. More people had arrived to adopt children.
Sister Wright spotted me lingering in the yard and rushed over, grabbing me roughly and dragging me back into the house.
It hurt—her harshness never changed.
The sisters couldn't outright refuse common adopters, but they hated the idea of handing over their "prime goods" to ordinary folk. Whenever typical adopters visited, they only displayed the less remarkable children.
The better-looking ones, like me, were reserved for the wealthy or powerful—nobles or rich merchants. When such people came, we were scrubbed clean, dressed in fine clothes, and paraded around like prizes to fetch a good price.
I'd overheard the sisters talking about it once. They'd placed a hefty price tag on me, calling me the monastery's prized possession.
I let out a soft, involuntary sigh.
Sister Wright glared at me, baffled by how a little girl could seem so weary of the world.
What could I say? Life had never been fair to me.
In my previous life, I was also an orphan. I once lived in a neighborhood riddled with drug dealers and homeless people, scavenging behind grocery stores for expired food.
As I got older, I juggled multiple jobs just to survive and pay for school. The weight of life always kept my eyes downcast—maybe that's why I now loved looking up at the sky.
On the last day of that grueling life, I sat on a rooftop drinking—a reckless choice, I knew.
A small cat, one that often greeted me from below, leapt gracefully onto the rooftop railing. The wind blew, and she teetered on the edge.
I reached out, trying to coax her toward me, but in that moment, I lost my balance and fell.
Drinking on a rooftop, being careless with my life—perhaps that was fate's way of punishing me.
And so, I was reborn into this world, once again an orphan.
With a loud creak, the monastery's heavy, battered door swung open.
I snapped out of my daze to find Mother Valtierra's deeply wrinkled face peering through the doorway. Her greedy expression was lit with unmistakable joy, a sure sign that today's potential adopter was exceptionally wealthy.
She waved eagerly at the sisters inside, her voice sharp and commanding. "Quick! Bring them all out! No need to change their clothes!"
Sister Wright turned to me, lightly tapping my cheek with the back of her hand before fixing me with a stern look. "Be a sweet girl. Put on your smile."
How irritating. As if I wouldn't act the part without her prodding. I wasn't some selfless saint without desires. If a wealthy family wanted to adopt me, of course I'd make the most of the opportunity.
I widened my eyes and put on the most pitiful, doe-like expression I could manage, tiptoeing forward with exaggerated shyness to peer out.
It didn't matter. I was six years old—it wasn't embarrassing in the slightest.
But the visitor standing outside was unlike any adopter I'd ever seen.
Instead of the usual middle-aged nobles or merchants, there stood a boy, perhaps only in his early teens, dressed in clothing that marked him as a member of the upper class.
Behind him was a small entourage of impeccably dressed attendants, their very presence emphasizing his elevated status.
The boy's golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, framing features so delicate they seemed almost ethereal. His piercing emerald-green eyes surveyed the scene with an aloof sharpness.
Everything about him exuded a nobility that felt entirely out of place in Lilymorn Monastery's shabby courtyard.
He looked like a portrait come to life—The Young Lord in Morning Light. That was the perfect title for the image forming in my mind.
A child shopping for another child—it was an absurd irony I couldn't help noticing.
The boy's gaze flicked briefly over the other children before locking onto me. His piercing eyes seemed to root me in place, sending a chill down my spine.
Sensing his interest, Mother Valtierra shuffled eagerly to my side, wringing her hands as she introduced her prized possession. "She is… uh…"
You forgot my name, didn't you, you money-grubbing hag?
"It doesn't matter," the boy interrupted coldly, not even sparing her a glance.
He stepped closer, his movements precise, and studied me with an intensity that felt more like he was evaluating an object than looking at a person. His faint smile was flawless but devoid of warmth, making a shiver crawl over my skin.
"From now on, you are Ysabel," he declared.
The name struck a faint chord of familiarity, though I couldn't place where I'd heard it before. Still, it didn't matter. Anything was better than the soulless label I'd been given—a name that treated me as little more than a commodity.
One of the boy's attendants stepped forward and handed Mother Valtierra a heavy wooden box. She accepted it with trembling hands and unlocked it with a small golden key.
When the lid lifted, her face glowed as if basking in sunlight, her gaping mouth making her look like a greedy toad.
I'd seen children adopted before, peeking through cracks in the door, and this was nothing like those times. What had just happened was closer to a transaction—an exchange of goods rather than a choice of heart.
The boy turned on his heel and began walking back toward the grand carriage waiting nearby.
I stood frozen, half-expecting him to at least introduce himself. But no, it was clear I was nothing more than a possession to him—no different from how Mother Valtierra saw me. I wasn't worth his time or words.
I let out a quiet sigh and tilted my head skyward—
Only for Sister Wright to shove me roughly from behind. I stumbled forward, barely keeping myself from falling face-first into the dirt.
Regaining my balance, I quickly scurried after the boy.
How rude! If my face had been scarred from that fall, the value of that box full of treasures would have plummeted by at least half!
Trailing behind the boy, I moved toward his carriage, but one of his attendants stepped forward and stopped me.
Without a word, the attendant led me to a second, slightly less ornate carriage. It wasn't until I sat down inside that I realized my lowly status meant I couldn't share the same ride as him.
So much for the freedom I'd dreamed of. The outside world wasn't like being a bird in the sky after all.
Lilymorn Monastery faded in the distance as I gazed through the carriage window.
Small, decrepit, and muddy, it seemed even more miserable now that I was leaving. Several play structures in the yard looked as if they could collapse at any moment.
The children who hadn't been chosen stood motionless in the yard, their envious gazes glued to the carriage I now sat in.
Mother Valtierra, clutching her treasure box, had already disappeared inside. The sisters had retreated as well, leaving the unadopted children unsupervised.
A faint pang of nostalgia tugged at me as I remembered the orphanage from my past life. Despite its poverty, it had been a warm sanctuary for me during my most vulnerable years.
Mother Eldenwyne, a kind, elderly woman, had run the place. Though the orphanage had few staff, it was always filled with young women volunteering as caretakers. They were gentle souls who often read us stories.
One of them had a special favorite of mine. She'd read it to me over and over... but, oddly, I couldn't recall her name or even the story's title.
What a heartless memory I must have. Yet her face remained vivid in my mind—her smile, a simple joy more uplifting than any fairy tale.
*****
Ysabel stumbled forward, every step feeling like a dagger slicing into her feet. The pain gradually overtook her body until it claimed complete control.
Her legs gave way, and she collapsed beside the pond outside the house.
There was no cry of anguish, no struggle. She simply stared at her reflection in the clear, still water. Her tears, mingled with blood, dripped into the surface, distorting the image until it dissolved completely.
In that moment, she finally understood. Everything, from the very beginning, had been part of Cedric's grand design. She was nothing more than a pawn on his chessboard.
Her thoughts drifted back to their first meeting, when she'd been like a caged bird, yearning for his mercy. She had even envisioned a life of freedom and happiness once she escaped the cage.
At the time, the naive Ysabel had believed this was fate writing a new chapter in her life's story. She didn't realize that the author of the story was Cedric, and it had always been written as a tragedy.
— Excerpt from "The Crown's Fall," Chapter 26: Realization Coming Too Late