The cacophony of shouts echoed through the air, each word drenched in malice.
"Catch her!"
"Don't let her escape!"
"Bitch, stop running!"
Syraelle's heart pounded like a war drum, her legs propelling her forward without second thought. The rough cobblestones under her bare feet sent sharp pains shooting through her soles, but she couldn't stop. Her breath came in ragged gasps, sweat trickling down her temples.
"Run faster, Elle," she muttered under her breath, the name foreign yet oddly familiar on her tongue.
Why am I running? The question lingered in her mind, but there was no time to ponder. Her eyes darted around wildly, taking in the unfamiliar streets and towering buildings that seemed to close in on her. She swallowed hard, panic threatening to choke her. Where am I?
A sharp whistle sounded behind her, a cruel reminder of the men giving chase. The urgency in their footsteps snapped her back to reality. Fuck Elle, Forget the questions.
RUN.
She forced herself to move faster, her chest heaving as she pushed her body beyond its limits.
Her gaze swept across the chaos of the marketplace ahead. Stalls lined the street, merchants shouting over one another, children weaving through the crowds. It was her only chance. She veered sharply to the right, plunging into the throng of people. The press of bodies provided a temporary shield, her pursuers' shouts growing fainter behind her. She hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself small, weaving through the maze of unfamiliar faces and scents.
Just as she thought she'd lost them, a hand shot out of nowhere and clamped around her wrist like an iron vice. She let out a startled gasp as she was yanked back, her back colliding with a cold stone wall. The force left her breathless, her pulse pounding in her ears.
"What do you think you're doing here?"
The voice was low, dripping with disdain and a bitterness that sent a chill down her spine. She looked up, her wide, frightened eyes meeting the piercing glare of a young woman. Her face was a picture of cold beauty, her sharp features marred by an expression of barely concealed hatred. For a moment, Syra couldn't speak, her throat dry, her mind racing.
"Morwena..." Elle whispered, her voice catching in her throat. What is she doing here?
Morwena Palemire, the embodiment of disdain wrapped in human form. The person who hated Syraelle Phalanor to her very core. Why? Because the man she worshipped had dared to love Syraelle. It wasn't Elle's fault that some men had poor taste, but apparently, Morwena begged to differ.
A sneer tugged at Morwena's lips, her eyes burning with hate. "What? You forgot me even before you could serve your master?" she spat, her voice sickly sweet and oozing triumph, as though she'd just unveiled a profound truth of the universe.
"What...?" Elle blinked, her mind fumbling to grasp what she meant. What master? Did she mean some creepy fantasy-world overlord? God, no.
"Ahh, dear sister," Morwena purred, her tone dripping with mock pity that could rival a bad theater villain. "Did you forget? You're now officially a slave."
"Sister...?" Elle's brain slammed into a metaphorical wall. Wait. Did she just call me sister? Since when did that happen?
Morwena's perfectly arched brow twitched with annoyance as Elle continued to gape, not cowering in fear as expected but rather looking thoroughly confused, as if she'd wandered into the wrong movie set. Morwena clicked her tongue, her voice sharp. "Come on, let's go. Those men were chasing you, but of course, they failed. Not that it's a surprise." Her tone was laced with condescension, and Elle could feel her metaphorical shackles rise.
Before Elle could protest—or come up with a snarky response—Morwena's iron grip clamped around her wrist, dragging her toward a house that felt less like home and more like a trap.
Inside, a group of royal guards loomed in the room, their red vests and black pants immaculate despite the heat. Each carried a golden sword marked with an intricate "V" engraving that practically screamed official business. Elle's heart pounded as she stared, her hands clenching together in growing dread.
"Here she is," one of the guards said, his voice curt as his eyes flicked to Elle's mud-streaked dress with disdain. Another guard sneered, "Get her changed, Ms. Morwena. We can't take her looking like this. Disgraceful, really." His tone carried an air of authority, his words punctuated by Morwena's visible flinch.
"Y-Yes, sir," Morwena replied, her sudden humility almost amusing if it weren't for the fact that Elle was the one being thrown to the wolves. Morwena's grip tightened as she yanked Elle further into the house, her nails digging into her wrist hard enough to leave marks. "Mumma, I brought her back!" Morwena announced, her voice brimming with pride as if she'd just dragged home a prized hunting trophy.
From the shadows emerged Ms. Cora Palemire, her stern expression capable of silencing a room. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed Elle, her lips curling into a scowl. "Where did you go?" she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Do you want us all dead?" She grabbed Elle by the arm, dragging her further into the room like a scolding warden.
Elle flinched as Cora continued, her words dripping with venom. "Don't you want to pay us back for taking care of you all these years?" The implication made Elle's stomach churn.
Pay them back? For what? Making my life a living hell? Elle thought bitterly, her fists clenching as she bit back the urge to snap back. But as her gaze flicked to the guards waiting outside, their swords gleaming ominously, she realized her fight might have to wait.
"I...I don't know what you are talking about," Elle stammered, her voice unsteady as her mind raced to make sense of the situation. A stepmother? A sister? And not just any sister—Morwena, the very embodiment of hatred in her world. Where the hell am I? What in the actual hell is this?
Elle's thoughts spiraled as panic bubbled within her chest. This couldn't be real. No way this was real. She scanned the room desperately, searching for something—anything—that could prove this was just a bad dream. Then her eyes landed on the calendar.
1785.
Her jaw dropped. "What the hell?" The words flew out before she could stop herself.
The room fell deathly silent, and Ms. Cora's eyes widened in shock before narrowing into furious slits. With a speed Elle didn't expect, the woman snapped her hand across Elle's cheek, the slap reverberating like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Is this how a lady should speak?" Cora's voice was sharp enough to cut steel, her trembling body a testament to the rage she was barely suppressing. "If it weren't for the royal decree that slaves cannot be harmed once owned, I would've shown you your place myself! Have you already forgotten everything we taught you? Huh?"
Elle's head snapped up, her cheek burning from the impact. Her hands itched to retaliate, to give this woman a taste of her own medicine, but she clenched her fists tightly and swallowed her fury. She barely understood what was happening, and the last thing she needed was to escalate this insanity. What did I even say? Hell? Seriously? I can't even curse here? Her anger simmered under the surface as her jaw tightened.
"What are you looking at?" Cora barked, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. She turned away from Elle, her tone softening unnervingly as she addressed Morwena. "Dear, get her changed and bring her down. Let her wear something of yours instead of those cheap rags."
Elle couldn't miss the drastic shift in Cora's demeanor. The sugary tone she used with Morwena was almost laughable compared to the venom she'd just spat at Elle. But when Cora's eyes flicked back to Elle, the malice returned, sharper and more cutting than before.
What's her problem? Elle thought bitterly. And what's with that makeup? Especially those lips. Did someone run a bulldozer over them or what?
Morwena grabbed Elle's wrist with her claw-like grip and dragged her to another room. The space was eerily pristine, with an unsettling sense of orderliness that screamed "previous occupant."
Elle looked around, noting the feminine touches—soft pastel curtains, a delicate vanity, and a faint lingering perfume that wasn't hers. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. This room wasn't for her. She was just a stand-in for the girl who once lived here. Or maybe life had decided to fulfill her dark romance fantasy. Except being sold wasn't exactly on her bucket list. Was it?
Her spiraling thoughts were interrupted by Morwena's voice, as sharp and grating as ever. "Go clean yourself. I'll bring you a dress."
Elle looked up, meeting Morwena's calculating eyes. There was something sinister in her gaze, a subtle gleam of satisfaction that made Elle's stomach churn.
Before Elle could respond, Morwena turned on her heel and left the room, her lips curling into a sly smile as she muttered to herself, "Finally, you're taking my place, and I'll take yours."