Madeleine

"Your Highness, wandering around wearing your nightgown is not appropriate." His tone is perfectly neutral, the kind that leaves no room for protest—polite, yet sharp as a blade.

He does not offer any explanations, just steps forward with mechanical grace and gestures for me to follow. His eyes, though deep and oceanic, feel like still waters—beautiful but unreadable. Just who is this man, and why does he look at me like I am some fragile piece of glass he has been tasked to protect?

He silently escorts me back to my room. As the heavy doors open, I am startled by the sight of a line of maids already waiting inside. They bow in perfect unison, their expressions blank, but their movements swift and practiced.

Before I could even speak, they are already undressing me with delicate hands and guiding me to the grand bathtub carved from marble and gold-veined stone. Warm water envelopes me, and I nearly gasp at the unexpected luxury. One maid massages my temples, another kneads the tension from my shoulders, while others pamper my hands and feet with oils and scrubs that smell faintly of roses and something sweeter—like honey and expensive perfume.

I lie there, strangely detached from my own skin, as though I am watching a stranger's life unfold around me.

After the bath, they dress me in a dark, emerald gown—tailored precisely for this body. The fabric clings and falls in all the right places, elegant and regal without being overly ornate. As they fasten pearl buttons and lace the corset, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

And for a moment, I stop breathing.

This woman—Madeleine Ceres Habsburg—is stunning. Her reflection stares back at me, powerful and cold. Her beauty is cut from nobility and sorrow, with flawless skin like porcelain and hair the shade of spiced burgundy wine. But it is the eyes that capture me—deep, sunset-orange irises that seem to hold centuries of agony. Beautiful, yes, but utterly empty. Eyes that have seen too much and trusted too little.

The maids apply makeup to accentuate my features, while another selects jewels—emeralds to match the dress, hanging like droplets of forest on my ears and throat. I look like royalty. No—like a myth.

The more days I spend in this place, the more I understand who she was. Every night I sleep, her memories bleed into my dreams, haunting me like ghosts. I am not Madeleine, but somehow… I am living her life.

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"Lyle…" I say softly, seated in the study, still staring out the tall glass window where light pours like melted gold across the floor.

He steps forward, bowing slightly, as he always does. "Yes, Your Highness?"

"I want to go to the Capital," I say, glancing at the history book laid open on the desk. My fingers press lightly on a passage that mentions ancient magic—runes, temples, priests of old bloodlines.

"If anyone can understand what has happened to me, it must be someone from there."

His brows twitch in hesitation. "Your High—"

"I already have my father's written permission." I cut him off, lifting the letter sealed with imperial wax and handing it to him. He reads it quickly, then nods without another word.

My mind is in turmoil. Every morning I wake up, I remember her memories—Madeleine, the second princess of the Seira Empire. Labeled a villainess. Feared. Despised. Misunderstood.

The whispers in the palace say she tormented the First Princess, her half-sister Laura Iris. That she lashes out at servants, abuses her power. That she was cruel, bitter, and unstable.

But what I see in her memories… is a girl banished at birth to the Emerald Palace. A legitimate daughter, of royal blood, left to rot in a gilded prison.

She was brilliant—intelligent, witty, brave. A strategist. And yet, they chose to crush her brilliance with lies and manipulation.

I know the truth now.

I need answers. I need to find out what happened to my soul, and to hers. Did she switch with me too? Is she living in my body, lost in a world she does not know? Is she… okay?

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The Capital Temple looms in the distance, an architectural marvel of obsidian and gold, surrounded by snow-white spires that pierce the sky. It is beautiful… and suffocating.

Lyle walks beside me. Behind, my three ladies-in-waiting trail silently. People in the streets turn their heads as I pass. Some bow respectfully. Others glance and quickly whisper behind their hands.

The hatred in their eyes is not new. It is familiar. In my old world, I was hated too. Looked down on. Called a monster. At least here, I wear that label like a crown.

Inside the temple, high-ranking priests greet me with forced smiles, leading me through candlelit halls to a private prayer chamber. I stare at the statue of their god—carved of marble, wrapped in ivy and light.

As I went inside, Lyle and the high-ranking priest leave me inside the room.

I laugh under my breath. "Even if you are different from the god I once prayed to… you are still a god. Tell me—if I pray now, will you listen?"

The question tastes bitter in my mouth. The silence answers louder than any voice could.

"Ridiculous…" I whisper. "Even in this world, you ignore children left to suffer. Madeleine was just a child. Why did not you help her?"

There was no answer. Of course not.

I turn my back to the altar. "It was a mistake to come here," I say, voice cold now. "I would not beg for mercy that never comes."

As we leave, the whispers of the priests trail behind us like dust.

Outside, I stop in my tracks.

There she is.

Laura Iris.

Long golden hair that gleams like sunlight. Pale skin. Delicate features. A voice like silk and poisoned honey. The perfect image of grace… and the root of all Madeleine's torment.

My lips curl into a smile that does not reach my eyes.

"Ah, sister," she says, voice laced with mock concern. "What are you doing here? Have you finally seen the light?"

I tilt my head and force a chuckle. "Why? Am I not allowed to enter a temple now?"

She steps forward and grabs my hands dramatically, tears sparkling in her eyes. "Madeleine… are you finally choosing the path of redemption? Choosing to be... good?"

I slap her hands away—hard.

Gasps echo around us.

Her eyes widen, lips trembling as she stumbles back. Her mask slips—but just for a moment.

I lean close, whispering coldly, "You want me to play the role of the pitiful, helpless fool? Is that it?"

I smile wider, my voice turning to venom. "No, Laura. I will be the villainess you and your mother painted me to be. I will wear the mask you crafted for me—only now, I will do it on my terms. Be prepared."

And in that instant, I swear I saw fear flash behind her perfect, polished eyes.

Good. Let her tremble.

Because this game you started, dear sister… I intend to finish it.

ladyrihaveinlafoli