She woke to cold.
Not the harsh kind that frightened her, but a quiet chill that rested against her skin, light and steady. It felt like air moving through a place too large, too open. She lay still, breathing slowly, letting the sensation settle before she moved.
Above her stretched a ceiling of pale stone, smooth and high, traced with faint patterns that caught the light. The brightness was soft, almost white, reflected gently as if the room itself refused darkness.
This was not where she had fallen asleep.
She shifted slightly.
Her body responded without hesitation. The movement was smooth, familiar in a way her thoughts could not explain. She lifted her hands and studied them in silence.
Slender fingers. Pale skin. Hands that looked careful, precise—like they belonged to someone who had always been watched.
Long strands of hair slipped forward when she moved. Dark, cool against her shoulders.
She sat up.
The bed beneath her was wide and neatly arranged, layered with fabric that felt light yet expensive beneath her palms. When her feet touched the floor, marble greeted her skin—cold, clean, grounding.
She stood.
The room was spacious and bright, filled with tall windows and thin light that seemed to settle everywhere. Nothing felt threatening. Nothing felt welcoming either. It was a place made to be seen rather than lived in.
A mirror stood near the far wall.
She approached it slowly.
The woman reflected back at her did not look startled.
That was what surprised her most.
Her face was calm, composed, almost distant. Sharp lines softened by light. Gray eyes watched her steadily, without recognition or fear. She looked like someone important—someone whose presence carried weight, even in silence.
"That's not me," she said quietly.
The voice was unfamiliar. Softer. Lower. It fit the body perfectly.
She did not step away from the mirror. Instead, she remained where she was, studying the reflection as if it might explain itself.
As she stood there, another sensation made itself known.
A gentle awareness at her back.
Not discomfort. Not pain. Just a presence—light and restrained—resting near her shoulders, as if something there had been folded carefully, waiting.
She shifted her posture.
The sensation followed, smooth and natural.
She straightened slightly, rolling her shoulders once. The feeling responded with a soft adjustment, like fabric moving with her, like air catching against something delicate.
Her breathing slowed.
Without fully thinking, she reached back.
Her fingers brushed against cloth, then something beneath it—layered, textured, warm. Real.
She paused.
Turning sideways toward the mirror, she finally saw it.
Wings.
Folded neatly against her back, their feathers pale and clean, reflecting the light instead of absorbing it. They were beautiful in a quiet way—unassuming, almost modest—resting as if they had always belonged there.
They did not move.
They did not demand attention.
They simply existed.
She looked at them for a long moment.
There was no panic.
No rush of emotion.
Only a still, uncertain awareness settling gently in her chest.
This body was different.
Not wrong.
Not broken.
Just unfamiliar.
Footsteps sounded beyond the door.
She turned.
Several figures entered the room and stopped short when they saw her standing. Their reactions came immediately—bows, lowered heads, movements filled with restraint and disbelief.
"My lady," someone murmured.
The words passed over her without meaning.
An older man stepped forward, gripping a silver cane. His gaze moved carefully, as though afraid she might vanish if he blinked.
"You're awake," he said.
She did not answer.
Before she could, the air in the room shifted.
She felt it before she saw him.
A presence settled quietly near the doorway—steady, contained. A man stood there, tall and still, dark wings folded neatly behind him. His expression was controlled, his gaze sharp but unreadable.
Her heart reacted.
Once.
Then again.
Faster than before.
She did not know why.
He looked at her for a moment too long, as if searching for something beneath the surface. The others were dismissed with a single gesture. The door closed, leaving the two of them alone.
"You're awake," he said.
His voice was calm. Even. It carried no warmth, yet no cruelty.
She nodded.
"You shouldn't be."
The words were simple. Final.
She did not understand them, but she felt their weight.
He turned away.
"Rest," he said. "We'll talk later."
Later.
The door closed behind him.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, hands resting quietly in her lap. Her heartbeat slowly steadied, the room returning to its pale stillness.
She looked once more at her reflection.
At the wings folded behind her back.
At the life that seemed to recognize this body, even if she did not.
For now, she did not question it.
She only remained—
standing inside a moment that had not yet asked her to understand.