One of the guards, his voice muffled beneath the weight of his iron helmet, leaned closer. "You'd better accept the proposal as soon as possible if you want to save your life."
My heart pounded. "What proposal? Who are you? And where am I?" My voice cracked as I glanced down at myself. The gown I wore was old, torn, and reeked of damp stone. It clung to me like a reminder that I didn't belong here.
The guard chuckled darkly. "Oh, I see what you're trying to do. Pretend you don't know. But it won't work."
The others joined in, mocking me. One stepped forward, his armor scraping against the dungeon floor. He spat at me, the gesture sharp and cruel. "Even the man you're about to marry will discard you without a thought. What can that ugly face of yours possibly offer?"
Their laughter echoed against the walls, each sound cutting deeper than the chains around my wrists. I tried to pull free, but the iron bit into my skin. Shame and fury burned inside me, but beneath it all was a gnawing fear: whatever proposal they spoke of, it was tied to my fate.
The guards' footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving only the echo of their laughter behind. I slumped against the cold wall, chains biting into my wrists, my breath shallow.
"What could possibly be going on here?" I whispered to myself. My voice sounded small in the cavernous silence. "This has to be a dream. I must've read too much last night—three chapters of Bloodbound and too much wine. That's all this is. A nightmare."
But then the air shifted. A faint shimmer rippled across the dungeon walls, and a voice—soft, feminine, yet commanding—slid into the space.
"I am the Novelist System," it said. "You may call me Kyron."
I froze, my heart hammering. "What the hell is this? Please, wake me up. I need to get back to my desk, to my other novels. I don't have time for this madness."
The voice deepened, resonant now, as though it carried the weight of centuries. "Valery Hartman, from this moment forward you are Princess Aetheria of Eldoria. You are no longer the author—you are the character. You will live Aetheria's life, endure her pain, and make changes to the plot as you move through it. Beware: if you are hurt here, you will feel it in your body. If you die here, you die in the real world."
My stomach dropped. "Damn… what do you mean? Are you telling me I've fallen into my own novel? Why me?"
Kyron's tone was patient, almost sorrowful. "Because the worlds you create are not illusions. They exist in realms beyond the human eye. Every novel is a world, every story a reality. Writers are the architects who keep these realms alive. When the ending is true, the world continues to thrive. But you… you gave Bloodbound the wrong ending. The protagonist died too soon, and the world began to collapse. Eldoria is fading. Only you can repair it."
I shook my head, chains rattling. "This is insane."
"There is no insanity here," Kyron replied. "Only consequence. You hold the threads of this world in your hands. If you wish to return, you must weave them into the right ending. Perhaps, at the end of the tunnel, you will find what you are truly searching for."
The shimmer dissolved, and the voice vanished, leaving me alone in the damp silence. My body trembled, stunned and terrified. I was no longer Valery Hartman, bestselling author. I was Princess Aetheria, prisoner of my own imagination.
Just as I was about to surrender to sleep, footsteps echoed down the stone corridor—slow, deliberate, each one striking like a drumbeat against my nerves. The heavy door creaked open, and light spilled into the dungeon.
She entered.
The woman wore a flowing gown of deep emerald silk, its fabric catching the torchlight with a shimmer that made her seem almost otherworldly. A delicate fan rested in her hand, carved from ivory and painted with golden vines. Her hair was jet black, styled into an elaborate updo that reminded me of the sleek, sculpted glamour of Kim Kardashian—every strand pinned with precision, not a single lock out of place. Her face was sharp, symmetrical, and cruelly beautiful; her lips painted a deep crimson, her eyes lined in kohl that made them glimmer like polished obsidian. She moved with elegance, every step calculated, her presence commanding the room as though the dungeon itself bent to her will.
And then it struck me. I knew her. She wasn't just any noblewoman—she was the female antagonist of Bloodbound. My step‑sister. The lunatic who had once burned the left side of Aetheria's face out of sheer jealousy. The one and only Ophelia.
My stomach twisted. How do I get out of this mess? I couldn't recall every detail of the novel, but the major events were etched into my memory. And this woman—this villain—was at the center of them.
Her voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear. "If it isn't this lowly servant of mine, lacking even the simplest etiquette. Why aren't you greeting your future queen? Or perhaps you've forgotten your place here."
I tried to kneel, though the chains bit into my wrists and ankles, sending jolts of pain through me. My body trembled, but I forced myself to bow my head. "Who are you?" I asked, feigning confusion, pretending as though I had lost my memory.
Ophelia's eyes narrowed, her fan snapping shut with a flick. "Stop trying to play mind games with me."
"Wait… what do you mean?" I whispered, my voice weak but steady.
Her heel struck the stone floor with a sharp crack, echoing like thunder in the chamber. Fury radiated from her posture. "Enough of this nonsense. Call the royal physician!" she barked, her voice reverberating against the dungeon walls.
The guards outside stirred at her command, and I felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on me.
After what felt like an eternity of unbearable silence, the heavy door creaked open and the royal physician stepped inside. He pressed his hands together, bowing low. "Your Grace," he said with solemn reverence before approaching.
I glanced at Ophelia. Her expression was priceless—calm, smug, and radiant with the satisfaction of being obeyed. No matter what stunt she pulled, the people still bowed, still offered respect. That truth gnawed at me, but it also gave me a strange sense of power.
The physician leaned closer, studying me carefully. His eyes narrowed as he asked a series of questions, his tone gentle but probing. Finally, he asked, "What is your name?"
I hesitated, then answered firmly, "I am Valery Hartman."
The chamber fell silent. My name sounded foreign here—unique, modern, out of place. I could feel the suspicion ripple through the room. Ophelia's eyes flickered, sharp with calculation.
"Well," she said coolly, "I think you can go."
The physician bowed to both of us before retreating, his robes sweeping across the stone floor.
Ophelia turned to the guards. "Untie her. Take her to her room."
I knew her too well. I had created her. Impressing her wouldn't be difficult; she thrived on manipulation, on exploiting weakness. If I played the part of someone who had lost her memory, she would seize the opportunity.
She swept out of the dungeon, leaving the guards to unfasten my chains. My wrists burned as the iron fell away. "Can you escort me home?" I asked softly.
One of them sneered. "It's really true—she's lost her memory."
I forced a weak smile. "I don't think I can find my way home. And tell me, why was I locked in the dungeon?"
The guard smirked. "You stole Princess Ophelia's jewelry."
"Oh really?" I said, feigning innocence. "Why would anyone steal from her? She seems powerful… and beautiful."
They exchanged glances, then led me through winding corridors until we reached a grand manor. My breath caught. "Wow… whose place is this?"
One of the guards answered flatly, "It's your palace."
I blinked, stunned. "Thank you for your kindness," I murmured, stepping inside.
The palace was vast, its marble floors gleaming, its chandeliers dripping with crystal light. I sank into a velvet chair, my mind racing. "With how everything is going," I whispered to myself, "the script might start changing."
The four maids entered gracefully, their gowns swishing against the polished floor. They curtseyed in perfect unison, voices soft yet firm: "Welcome back, Your Grace."
Their words carried a soothing rhythm, meant to calm the princess and remind her of her place. One maiden stepped forward, clearly the leader. As she entered, the others moved aside and stood at the door, heads bowed. She knelt, hands pressed together, and said with reverence, "Your Grace, welcome back."
Her black hair gleamed under the lantern light, styled neatly to frame her delicate features. She wore the same pink gown as the others, but around her neck hung a talisman—an emblem marking her as a trusted servant of the palace. I recognized her instantly. She was the maid I had once written as loyal, but in truth, she had conspired with my step‑sister and step‑brother. A trap in human form.
She rose and stepped forward, arms outstretched as if to embrace me. I recoiled, moving sharply, and she stumbled onto the bed. "What are you trying to do to me? Help me!" I screamed.
She scrambled to her feet, panic flashing across her face. "Your Grace, I can explain—"
I bolted toward the door. The guards rushed in, their armor clattering. "What's happening?" one demanded.
"I don't know what she's trying to do," I said breathlessly. "Get her out of here."
The guard gave a curt nod. She was escorted out, her eyes lingering on me with a mix of fear and resentment.
Moments later, the four maids returned. One spoke softly, "Your Grace, you are to dine with His Majesty in the hall."
I froze. "I have a father? I thought he had passed away."
The maids bowed deeply, their voices sharp with reprimand. "How dare you speak ill of His Majesty."
I lowered my gaze quickly. "Forgive me. I didn't know."
They guided me through the chambers, showing me the vast room and then leading me to the bath. It was no ordinary bath—it resembled a small pool, filled scented petals. Steam rose gently, carrying the fragrance of roses and jasmine.
One maid helped me undress, while another prepared oils and cloths. I dipped a leg into the water, the warmth wrapping around me like silk. Slowly, I submerged my body, the tension easing from my muscles. The maid washed my hair and skin with practiced care, while the others laid out gowns for the evening.
When I emerged, they dressed me in a flowing blue gown, backless and elegant, its fabric shimmering like moonlight. My copper‑brown hair was left loose, cascading down my shoulders. Yet the scar on my face remained, a cruel reminder of Ophelia's jealousy.
"Bring me herbs," I ordered. They obeyed, returning with a bundle. I dismissed them, insisting I would find my way to the dining hall. Alone, I applied the herbs to my scar. Within moments, the skin healed, smooth and flawless. No one knew of the herb's secret power—I had written it as a minor detail in the novel, never imagining I would need it myself.
I placed a veil over my face, my brown eyes gleaming through the sheer fabric, and stepped out. The guards escorted me to the main palace.
The dining hall was vast, lit by chandeliers and lined with tables heavy with food—roasted meats, fruits, wines, and delicacies fit for royalty. At the head of the table sat my father, King Aldric, regal and stern, his crown gleaming. Beside him was his wife, Queen Seraphina, graceful and poised. And there, seated with them, were my step‑brother, Prince kael , and my step‑sister, Ophelia, her eyes glittering with malice.
The guards halted behind me. I stepped forward, lowered myself into a deep bow, and spoke with careful reverence:
"It is the highest honor to stand before Your Majesties. May the light of Eldoria ever shine upon this hall."