The hum of the elevator was the last thing Yana Drevelle remembered. That, and the coffee stain slowly blooming on her white blouse. It spread like ink on parchment—unruly, inevitable. A moment later, there was a lurch, a shriek of metal, then—
Nothing.
She woke to silence. Not sterile hospital silence, but a kind of sacred quiet, broken only by the soft rustling of fabric. She blinked.
Above her, golden drapes swayed in a breeze that didn't exist.
Yana sat up too quickly, her head swimming. She was lying on a canopy bed, embroidered with symbols she didn't recognize. Her fingers brushed the velvet sheets. Real. Warm. She pulled her hand back as if burned.
Where the hell was she?
A mirror stood across the room, framed in dark wood carved with vines and wolves. She stumbled toward it, bracing for her own reflection—coffee-stained, bewildered.
But the woman in the mirror wasn't her.
This face was sharper, the jawline prouder, the skin dusky olive where hers had been pale. Her long black hair shimmered with blue undertones, braided with what looked like silver thread. Her eyes—Yana's eyes—were still green, but ringed with a strange golden hue. Regal. Unfamiliar.
She backed away. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.
The door creaked open.
"Princess Liora," a voice murmured.
Yana turned, heart in her throat. A girl stood in the doorway, no older than sixteen, her eyes wide with fear. She wore a linen dress and bore a tray of bread and steaming soup. Her hands trembled.
"You're awake," the girl whispered. "They said... they said you wouldn't wake."
Yana's mind spiraled. Liora. Princess. What kind of dream is this?
But dreams didn't hurt this much. She could feel the ache in her chest, the soreness in her arms—bruises hidden beneath layers of fine silk. She reached for her wrist. Bandaged.
"What happened to me?" she asked, surprised by the voice that came out. It was lower, smoother. Foreign.
The girl hesitated. "You were caught. Practicing the weave."
Yana blinked. "The weave?"
"Thread-Weaving. My lady... you were sentenced to exile." The girl swallowed. "They said you were mad. That you cursed the High Court."
Yana took a shaky breath. "I don't remember any of that."
The girl's expression softened into pity. "The High Priest said your memory would falter... the price of meddling with fate."
Fate. Threads. Weaving.
Something in Yana stirred—an echo not her own. Memories that didn't belong to her brushed the edge of her thoughts: moonlit halls, a cold loom humming with energy, silver threads alive in her hands.
"I'm not mad," Yana said. She wasn't sure if she meant to convince the girl or herself.
The girl set down the tray and stepped back. "They'll come for you by dusk. To take you to the edge of the Ashen Wastes."
"Wait," Yana said, as the girl turned to leave. "What's your name?"
"Ceris," she said. "I served you once, before... before everything fell apart."
The door shut softly behind her.
Yana turned back to the mirror. "Liora Velquinn," she whispered, testing the name. It sent a chill down her spine.
Outside the window, storm clouds gathered. Wind hissed through the gaps in the stone, whispering secrets in a language Yana didn't know—but somehow understood.
She was no longer in her world. And this body she wore—this life—had once belonged to a woman tangled in prophecy and power.
Yana Drevelle had died.
But Liora Velquinn had just awoken.
And something in the weave had changed