Oh no.
Woosh.
The sound was sharp—too fast for my mind to fully catch up.
An arrow struck the leg of one of the horses at the front. The horse screamed, stumbled, and within seconds everything collapsed into chaos.
"Hold on!" someone shouted—I didn't know who.
The carriage lost balance. The wheels screeched. The body of the carriage lurched violently, and then—
CRASH.
We slammed into a massive tree.
The world flipped.
My body was thrown against the side of the cabin. My head hit something soft—maybe a seat cushion, maybe someone's arm. The sound of splintering wood, shattering glass, and panicked horses blended into one overwhelming noise.
Then… silence.
Not complete silence. The kind that makes your ears ring.
I opened my eyes slowly.
Sky. Leaves. Branches.
I was alive.
"Lady Grant!" George's voice was frantic, dangerously close. "Oh my God—are you okay?"
I blinked a few times before realizing I was lying on the ground, my baby pink gown covered in dust and dried leaves. It's not pink again. Were not supposed to talk about this right now.
"I… I'm fine," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
George knelt beside me, checking my arms, my shoulders, my face, as if I were fragile porcelain.
"Thank goodness," he muttered.
Not far from us, the guards were already moving. Mounted soldiers dismounted instantly, forming a defensive formation. Others rushed to check on Father—King Harvey—and Mother—Queen Sophia.
My father.
My mother.
The thought was still strange, but there was no time to linger on it.
"Are you both alright?" I asked quickly.
Mother nodded, pale but composed. Father stood tall, his cloak dirtied but his posture firm.
"Protect Their Majesties!" one commander shouted.
Within seconds, a circle formed. Father, Mother, and I stood at the center. Swords were drawn. Bows were raised. Every eye was fixed on the trees.
The forest that once felt beautiful now felt suffocating. Too quiet. Too perfect.
I swallowed.
This was it.
I knew this part.
My hand moved on its own toward the back of the overturned carriage. There—exactly where I remembered—were the archery tools. A smooth wooden bow. Strong. Polished. Arrows neatly arranged.
I took them.
My heart pounded violently, but this body—Elena's body—did not tremble.
I stood beside a knight who looked… trustworthy. Strong jaw. Focused eyes. Ready stance. I mirrored his posture, lifted the bow, and nocked an arrow.
"Stay calm," I whispered to myself. "You wrote this."
Woosh.
Something sliced through the air.
A small knife flew toward me—and missed.
It embedded itself into the tree trunk behind me, vibrating slightly.
Okay.
Now I was fully alert.
"Morgan," I said quietly.
The name left my lips without hesitation.
I remembered him. I wrote him carefully. Intentionally.
Morgan—the personal assistant of King Anthony of the Kingdom of Highstone. My father's sworn enemy. Or rather… Elena's father.
I never truly explained why they hated each other. I only wrote that they did. That the war between the Kingdom of Grant and Highstone had no clear beginning and no end.
That was my fault.
"Hahahahaha!"
Loud laughter echoed from between the trees, followed by slow, mocking applause.
"King Harvey…" the voice sneered. "Why hide like a fool? Ha ha ha. This time, we are not here to kill you…"
The figure stepped out from the shadows.
I frowned.
Wait.
He was tall. Very tall. Nearly two meters. Thin. His hair was gray—not white.Gray. i said gray, im sure. Small round glasses perched on a sharp nose. A gray suit with hints of purple clung oddly to his body, paired with checkered trousers that… hung strangely.
I stared.
"…wait," I murmured.
That wasn't the Morgan I imagined.
The Morgan I wrote was handsome. Charismatic. Shiny black hair. Broad shoulders. Always holding a small knife with cold elegance.
This one?
This one looked like a clown.
And it didn't stop there.
Behind him appeared eight figures.
Eight.
Short.
Very short.
They wore polka-dot shorts. All gray—except one. One was inexplicably… pink.
I nearly laughed.
This was ridiculous.
I didn't write this.
"Harvey," said this strange version of Morgan, "stop bowing like an idiot. I'm not here to kill you. His Majesty King Anthony wishes to propose a wager…"
He stepped closer.
Too close.
His hand lifted my chin.
Instinctively—
SMACK.
I slapped his hand away.
He laughed.
I glared at him in disgust.
"Lady Grant," he said smoothly. "The kind princess. Skilled in archery. Skilled in combat."
His fingers brushed my arrow.
I immediately aimed it at his face.
"Careful, Princess," he chuckled. "Ha ha."
The knight beside me reacted instantly. The tip of his arrow pressed against Morgan's forehead.
"What you gonna do, my darling?" Morgan grinned. "Kill me?"
Morgan pulled out a small knife from his pocket—if that could even be called a pocket—and pressed it against the knight's throat.
"I'll kill you first," he said, smiling crookedly.
The knight stiffened.
"Who's gonna go first?" Morgan continued. "I'm here with good intentions, you know."
Slowly, hesitantly, the knight lowered his weapon.
Morgan's sharp gaze returned to me.
"His Majesty King Anthony," he said, "invites you to duel his son."
The name echoed in my mind.
Spencer.
I remembered him.
I wrote him.
The boy. My age. Elena's age. Kind. Trapped in adult games. Forced to fight for his kingdom.
I knew what came next.
I knew the consequences.
I stared at Morgan, my bow still raised.
"Accepted," I said.
And at that moment, I understood—
The story was truly moving forward.
Dinner arrived sooner than I expected.
As soon as I returned to the palace, I realized one thing very clearly:
the dress I'd been wearing earlier was no longer fit to be called human clothing.
Dust clung to the hem, there was dirt smeared along the side, and for some reason, I could still smell something metallic—maybe from the arrow, maybe from the panic that hadn't fully left my body yet.
"Lady," Servant F said softly, "please allow us to assist you."
Servant R was already standing behind me, ready to undo the countless fastenings of a dress that was very clearly not designed to be removed alone.
I sighed.
"Okay. But slowly, please. It's heavy."
And it really was—heavy in a way that felt more emotional than physical. Like taking off the entire day that had clung to me. When the dress finally slipped away, I felt lighter. Not just in my body—but in my chest.
I stood in front of a wardrobe far too large for one person, and for the first time since arriving in this world, I chose my own clothes.
No rules.
No protocol.
No Lady Grant must wear this.
I picked a thin, light-blue dress. The fabric felt almost like air. No excessive embroidery, no unnecessary layers. Simple. Comfortable.
"I'll wear this," I said.
Servant F hesitated. "For a royal dinner, Lady…?"
"I don't want anything complicated this time," I replied.
They nodded and obeyed.
And honestly—I liked it.
It felt like reclaiming a small piece of control.
Dinner was quiet.
The table was far too large for only three people.
I sat on one side, Father—King Harvey—at the head, and Mother—Queen Sophia—on the other. Chandeliers cast warm light over polished silverware.
We ate slowly.
Too slowly.
"Elena, my dear," Mother finally spoke. "Why did you accept Anthony's offer?"
I stopped chewing.
"It's very dangerous, my child," she continued, her voice gentle but worried.
Father added, more firmly, "We all know Spencer's skills are no joke. That boy has been trained since childhood."
I nodded.
And strangely enough—I was getting used to calling him Father in my head.
"I'm confident," I said at last. "I know I'll win."
They looked at me.
"We'll win," I added, steadier.
Not because I was arrogant.
But because I knew this story.
Or at least… I used to.
That night, I changed again.
White sleepwear. Soft. Comfortable. Too comfortable for a life that was currently falling apart.
I lay down.
And without much thought—I fell asleep.
That was the strangest part.
I shouldn't have been able to sleep.
With a duel. With war. With a world that shouldn't even exist.
But I slept.
Deeply.
The next morning, Kingdom Highstone made an official announcement:
A duel between Prince Spencer and Lady Elena Grant.
The news spread quickly.
The people were restless. Worry filled the streets. I could feel it even from inside the palace.
And in Highstone—
Ah.
Morgan.
"Hello, my darlings," his voice echoed across the square, far too cheerful for the situation. "Excuse me, my darlings. Can you hear me? Attention, please."
Some people looked confused. Others looked tired.
Morgan stood on a small stage. His gray suit hung awkwardly on his thin frame. His small round glasses slipped down his nose.
"And—" he stopped, clutching his stomach.
Oh no.
"Anyway," he continued quickly, "there will be a confrontation—more precisely, an exciting duel between Prince Spencer and Elena—"
He paused again.
"I refuse to call her a princess."
The crowd fell silent. A few whispers spread.
"That's all," Morgan went on, shifting uncomfortably. "Prepare yourselves, because Elena will die, and we wi—"
His face twisted.
"Excuse me."
And then—
he ran. To the toilet.
Straight off the stage, holding his stomach, rushing toward the nearest building.
"Thank you, my darlings!" he shouted while disappearing. "Good morning!"
I covered my face with my hand.
I.
Did not.
Write.
This.
Meanwhile, in the Kingdom of Grant—
Someone stood tall before the people.
Her name was Lilian.
Oh—I haven't told you about her yet, have I?
Lilian is one of my favorite characters I ever created.
Pale skin scattered with freckles. Ginger hair, always neatly tied back. She doesn't talk much—and when she does, she never wastes words.
She's a soldier.
Not an ordinary one.
She's two years older than me. Two years older than Elena. She's twenty-three.
Oh—and Elena and I are the same age. Twenty-one.
Lilian doesn't wear dresses. She doesn't wear skirts either. She wears trousers. Only her. And somehow, that alone makes her look… different. Strong.
She stood on a small platform, facing the people without exaggeration.
"There will be a duel," she said plainly. "Between Prince Spencer of Kingdom Highstone and Lady Elena of Kingdom Grant."
No drama.
No embellishment.
Just facts.
I watched from a distance.
Remember her name carefully.
Lilian.
You'll be hearing it often from now on.
And for some reason, as I looked at her, one thought surfaced—
I wrote this world.
I wrote them.
But now…
they stand on their own.
And I'm no longer sure
who's in control anymore.
I grabbed Lilian's hand.
No warning. No explanation. Just like that.
She had just finished her speech—short, sharp, no drama—and before she could step down the last stair, I was already in front of her, pulling her toward the side corridor.
"Your Grace—?" Her voice caught, but she didn't resist.
That was very her.
I walked fast. Lilian followed without a question. Her steps were long, steady. I could feel the soldiers staring at our backs—confused, but too disciplined to react.
I still wasn't used to Lilian being here.
It felt strange.
She was one of my favorite characters. One of the most put-together ones. The most logical. The most… human.
Honestly, I think she's the most normal character I've ever written. Even more normal than George. George might sound normal—but if you really think about it, not really.
Lilian is different.
She isn't over the top. Not overly heroic. Not dramatic.
And the irony is—
in my old story, I was the one who taught her how to fight.
Well—Elena did.
Elena led the war between the Kingdom of Grant and Highstone.
Elena trained her young soldiers.
Elena taught Lilian how to survive.
And now—
Now I'm dragging Lilian along, asking her to teach me.
Funny.
Maybe this is what writer's karma looks like.
I took her to the back garden.
Beautiful.
Just like I imagined it.
Tall flowers, stone paths, shaded trees, air way too calm for a kingdom about to face a major duel. But I don't want to talk about the garden right now.
Just picture it. It's beautiful.
I stopped suddenly.
Lilian almost ran into me.
"Sorry, Your Grace," she said out of reflex.
I turned to face her. Looked at her calm face, the faint freckles on her skin, her ginger hair always neat—like she never runs out of time.
"Teach me how to fight," I said.
Silence.
I could already picture her reaction.
And sure enough—
"I'm sorry, Lady," she said softly, choosing her words carefully, "are you truly asking me to train you?"
She didn't sound like she was refusing. More like… checking if this was real.
I let out a small sigh.
"Yes," I said. "I know. I'm usually the one teaching you, right?"
She froze for a second.
I could see the confusion on her face.
"But this time," I continued quickly, before she could say anything, "I just want to get better."
I knew exactly what she was thinking.
Elena would never say this.
Finally, she gave a small nod.
"Alright," she said. "If that's… an order."
"It's not an order," I said.
She looked at me.
"It's a request."
She was quiet for a moment, then nodded again. "Alright. Then… let's start."
I thought we'd train in the garden.
Turns out, I was wrong.
"We're going to the cliff," Lilian said.
I stopped walking.
"…The cliff?"
"Yes."
I forgot.
I really forgot that I wrote this part.
Now imagine this—
No more pretty garden.
We were standing on a steep cliff. Below us, a river rushed by—not wild, but strong enough to drag anyone away if they fell.
I swallowed.
"Relax," Lilian said, like she could read my mind. "I won't let you fall."
Such a Lilian thing to say.
We started without weapons.
"You're half a second late on your step," she said.
"Half a second?" I protested. "That's really fast."
"In a fight," she said calmly, "half a second can be the difference between living and dying."
Wow.
My past imagination was brutal.
I almost slipped a few times. The cliff wasn't forgiving. My foot missed—
And suddenly, Lilian caught me.
Her hands were strong. Steady.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "Reflex."
I looked at her. "It's fine."
We kept going.
Next—swords.
Lilian handed me one.
Heavy.
Really heavy.
"Oh come on," I muttered. "Elena used to lift this with one hand."
"This time," she said, "you're not 'back then.'"
I scoffed, then—
"Wait. LILIAN!"
My foot slipped.
I fell.
Straight into the river.
"LADY!"
Cold water slammed into me. The current pulled hard. My breath caught. I was dragged—
And then that strong hand grabbed me again.
Lilian jumped in without hesitation.
She caught me.
I was gasping, soaked, hair stuck to my face. Somehow, my left hand was still holding onto that heavy sword.
I looked at her.
She looked back.
I laughed.
Crazy
No. I did not write this part.
My clothes were soaked.
We trained anyway.
Because why not?
The setting changed again.
Now we were somewhere… strange.
A forest behind the palace. Not a garden. Not a wild forest. Something in between.
Wide. Quiet.
Like my imagination.
And not.
A lot of things here are exactly how I imagined them. And also not. Like Morgan. That weird old man.
I don't feel like talking about him.
"Focus," Lilian said.
She started teaching me archery.
I pulled the bow.
Missed.
"Oh no."
I tried again.
Missed.
Lilian looked at me. Not mocking. Not surprised. Just understanding.
"The sixth one usually works," she said.
"How do you know that?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Instinct."
And she was right.
The sixth shot.
My arrow finally hit the target.
We moved on to the sling.
And honestly—
I was annoyed.
At myself.
At this world.
At the fact that I knew no one would die tomorrow, but my body was still exhausted.
I lowered the weapon.
"Tomorrow," I muttered.
Then I left.
Just like that.
Leaving Lilian standing there.
I knew she had to be confused.
Confused by me.
By Elena.
Or maybe… confused by a writer who suddenly had to live inside her own story.
I might be lazy.
I probably am.
But the truth is, the thoughts about fighting never really left my head. They stayed there, circling, repeating themselves like a broken melody. Sword angles. Footwork. Distance. Timing. Strategy.
Especially strategy.
I kept telling myself I was done for the day. That training was over. That I could rest.
I lied.
I practiced anyway.
In my room, first.
Slow movements. Careful steps. Imaginary opponent.
Then in the bathroom, because mirrors are cruelly honest.
Even during the royal orchestra—when everyone else was focused on violins and cellos and the elegance of it all—
All I could think about was how to survive a duel.
The hall was magnificent. Marble pillars. Chandeliers glowing like captured stars. Nobles dressed in silk and velvet, whispering behind gloved hands. The orchestra moved as one body, precise and beautiful.
At least no one knew I was fighting inside my own head.
I imagined Spencer standing across from me.
His stance. His breathing. His mistakes.
I knew them.
Because I wrote them.
No one knew what was going on inside my mind. Not as long as I smiled gently and clapped at the right moments. Not as long as I tilted my head and looked impressed.
"Marvelous," someone said behind me.
"Yes," I replied without turning. "Truly."
Another lie.
The visit to the Kingdom of Vardentia Galsephire was canceled.
Well—postponed.
Yes. I wrote that too.
When the orchestra finally ended, applause filled the hall like thunder. I stood when everyone else stood. Bowed my head when they bowed theirs. Played my role perfectly.
Back in my chamber, the silence hit me all at once.
It was only then that the realization landed properly.
"…Tomorrow."
I said it out loud.
Tomorrow was the duel.
Tomorrow was Spencer.
The boy I created. The boy I spared. The boy I forced into this just as much as Elena.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
"Oh," I muttered. "Right."
A knock came.
Three soft taps.
"Lady?" a voice called.
George..
"Come in."
He entered quietly, carrying a tray with food I barely touched earlier.
"You didn't eat," he said.
"I wasn't hungry."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're never hungry when you're thinking too much."
I sat up. "Am I that obvious?"
"Only to me," he said, placing the tray down.
That should have been comforting.
Instead, it made my chest feel tight.
"I'm fighting tomorrow," I said.
"I know."
I let out a short laugh. "That sounds about right."
He studied my face. "You don't look afraid."
"I'm not," I said quickly.
He tilted his head. "You don't look calm either."
I didn't answer.
"No one's going to die," I said instead. "It's written that way."
He frowned slightly. "Written…?"
I waved my hand. "Figure of speech."
I ask George to sat on the edge of the bed. "You keep saying that. Like it makes everything easier."
"It does," I insisted. "Spencer won't die. I won't die. Just a few bruises. A small cut on my left elbow. That's it."
He stared at my arm.
"…That specific?" he asked quietly.
I froze.
"Lucky guess," I said after a second.
He didn't look convinced.
"Even so," he said, reaching out to adjust my sleeve, "pain doesn't disappear just because you expect it."
I swallowed.
"You should sleep," he added. "At least try."
"I will."
He stood. "I'll come check on you in the morning."
"George," I said before he could leave.
"Yes, Lady?"
"If… if something feels off tomorrow—"
He smiled softly. "I'll be there."
When the door closed, the room felt too quiet.
I lay back down, staring into the darkness.
Tomorrow.
Spencer.
No deaths.
Just pain.
…
I didn't sleep much.
Dreams came and went, tangled and strange. Sometimes I was Elena. Sometimes I was Agnetha. Sometimes I was neither—just a voice watching everything unfold.
When morning came, it came too fast.
George was already there.
"You're awake," he said softly.
"Barely."
"You're quieter than usual," he said.
"I'm thinking."
"About strategy?"
"…About everything."
A knock came again.
This time heavier.
"Lady Elena," a guard announced. "Lady Lilian is requesting permission to see you."
My heart skipped.
"Send her in."
Lilian entered, posture straight as ever. Armor light but ready. Hair tied back neatly. Freckles visible even in the morning light.
"You asked to see me?" she said.
I stood. "I didn't. But I'm glad you're here."
She studied me. "You didn't sleep."
"I never do before big mistakes."
She frowned. "This duel—"
"I know," I cut in. "You don't agree."
"That's not—" she paused. "Actually, yes. I don't."
I smiled faintly. "At least you're honest."
"You're different," she said slowly. "Lately."
I met her eyes. "So are you."
She didn't smile.
"If something goes wrong," Lilian said, "I will intervene."
"You can't."
"I will."
I stepped closer. Lowered my voice. "Lilian… trust me."
She hesitated.
"…I do," she said. "That's the problem."
When she left, George exhaled. "She scares me."
"She should," I replied.
Time moved strangely after that.
Too slow. Too fast.
When the maids finally dressed me for the duel— sword balanced just right—I felt the weight of it all settle into my bones.
In the mirror, Elena stared back at me.
And Agnetha stared with her.
"You'll be fine," George whispered.
"I know," I said.
Because I wrote it.
Because I know.
And yet my hands were shaking.
As I walked toward the arena, the crowd noise swelling around me, one thought echoed louder than the rest.