Page 5 of Revert
I stared as if the mirror had played some cruel trick, willing it to vanish. But it remained, stark and undeniable, exactly where I remembered the crown prince’s sword striking.
Liora frowned at my growing pallor. “Are you certain you’re well? Perhaps you should rest. I’m sure His Majesty will understand—” Her voice faltered before she hastily caught herself and forced a empty smile. “His Majesty is always just and fair.”
Her eyes darted around the room, checking for potential eavesdroppers that would report potential disloyalty. The guards stood just outside. By all appearances we seemed to be alone…but we both knew the walls could talk in Thorndale.
My fingers trembled as I traced each jarring line of the wound from a death that had supposedly never happened. “I…don’t know how I got this.” I willed my voice not to tremble.
Liora blinked in astonishment. “Youdon’t know? Then where did it come from? I’m certain you didn’t have that scar when I tended to you last night.”
There was no excuse I could offer to counter her understandable incredulity; I couldn’t pretend she had simply missed such an memorable detail while helping me prepare for bed the night before; in a court full of enemies, I had to do my part to maintain whatever allies I still had.
I chose my words with care; I couldn’t afford another crack in my careful composure, especially after my emotional display earlier, which had undoubtedly already aroused suspicion.
I bestowed one of my well-rehearsed smiles, the delicate one I wore when appeasing foreign dignitaries or slipping past suspicion. “I had a clumsy moment and used a healing potion from Myrielle that closed the wound, but I suppose it left a mark.” My home kingdom specialized in the healing arts, so my plausible lie eliminated the possibility of her checking my story with the royal physician.
Her frown deepened as she examined the scar, as if searching for some trace of deception hidden in the shape of the wound. “I suppose that explains it,” she said slowly. “But what were you doing out of bed so late?”
Panic prickled beneath my skin. I forced a light laugh, even as my mind raced, too muddled for the intricate calculations this dangerous charade required. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to catch up on correspondence. The injury came from trying to open a stubborn wax seal and my letter opener slipped.”
She raised a skeptical brow, but must have realized her questions had pushed the limits on the liberties she was allowed and didn’t press further—even an imprisoned princess remained royalty and deserved respect, until the crown ordered otherwise.
Once I finished dressing, a maid arrived from the kitchens carrying my breakfast tray, and Liora resumed her work,gathering my blonde hair into a carefully plaited coil in a bun atop my head.
I curled my hands around the porcelain teacup, letting the warmth seep into my fingers, still marveling that I could feel anything after my experience with death. The familiar scent of the tea that I’d drunk every morning since my arrival wafted upward in soft curls of steam, the citrusy flavor edged with bergamot soothing against my taste buds.
I struggled to untangle myself from my nightmare’s lingering tendrils and settle into the rhythm of my routine. The automatic gestures further grounded me: I was Princess Bernice of Myrielle, betrothed to Crown Prince Castiel of Thorndale. Yet the title felt strangely distant, as if I were mimicking a life I no longer fully believed was mine.
Hoping for a distraction, I set down my tea and turned my attention to the silver tray of freshly arrived correspondence. I lifted the top envelope and tried to concentrate on the duties that my unsettled thoughts couldn’t avoid, but the moment I broke the seal and my eyes landed on the heading, my confusion returned in a rush.
13 Luminar.
My heart thudded as I stared in disbelief at the date, two entire months earlier than the present. Today should have been10 Solstice, mid-summer. The letter trembled in my hand as my mind scrambled for a rational explanation, my fingers tightening around the letter in an effort to ground myself, crumpling its edges.
I looked up at Liora. “Pardon, but is it possible an old letter got mixed in with today’s post?”
She paused mid-braid, a crease forming between her brows. “No, Your Highness. I brought them directly from the steward’s hand myself. This one arrived just this morning with the rest.”
Her voice was steady, but I caught the flicker of unease, the terror at the possibility of having made a mistake. In this palace; even the smallest error could have dastardly consequences, for both of us.
As tempted as I was to verify the truth I already feared, I couldn’t risk it. I forced an apologetic smile.Don’t do anything to arouse suspicion. “No need. I’m still rather shaken from earlier. I must have misread the date.”
She nodded, visibly relieved, but not without suspicion. Her eyes lingered a heartbeat too long before she returned to her task.
I turned back to the letter, forcing my fingers to still. As much as I wanted to unravel this perplexing mystery, this wasn’t the place, not with Liora watching and guards stationed just beyond the door, while I remained trapped within a court where every shadow was reported back to the king.
Two missteps in one day were more than enough, especially when I couldn’t be sure who among the staff might be the king’s spies…if anyone could be trusted at all. Until I understood what was happening I needed to remain composed, vigilant, and cautious about where I placed my trust.
I struggled to still my shaking as I returned to the stack of letters. I excused the first incorrect date as a clerical error or from some forgotten backlog of correspondence, but these efforts to manufacture a plausible explanation crumpled when I opened the second letter, then the next, and another still, all bearing dates in the same date range two months in the past.
My pulse stuttered as a plausible explanation gradually began to take shape, one that lay entirely outside the bounds of reason, and yet I couldn’t ignore the string of strange errors, evidence aligning into a pattern before my eyes that pointed to an impossible possibility.
Had I somehow…been pulled backward in time? The thought was absurd, but so was the scar from a wound that had never happened, and the vivid memory of my own death.
A headache pulsed behind my eyes, muddling every attempt at reason. I fought to push through the haze clouding my mind to force my thoughts into some semblance of order. Whatever had happened between the moment I supposedly died and the moment I awoke had left my memories in disarray, as if they needed time to settle.
I tried to sift through them—unpacking moments, arranging details, carefully matching feelings with facts—searching for any inconsistency that might reveal the truth of whether I was truly in the past, what had changed…and what had not.
Most memories blurred together, indistinct and shifting, but one rose clearly through the fog. My gaze drifted to the books arranged on my desk, lingering on the journal nestled among the tidy stack.
