Sunlight. Too much of it, slanting gold through a canopy of unfamiliar leaves.

Kai's eyes open to a sky they don't recognize, framed by rose-laden branches and the distant golden spires of *something* — a castle? — rising above the treeline. Their head aches. Their mouth is dry. The grass beneath them is soft, scattered with pink petals, and their clothes are clean but wrong somehow, like they were chosen by someone who'd only read about the world they came from.

They cannot remember the world they came from.

They cannot remember anything.

There is a presence at the edge of their vision. The soft rustle of silk. The faint scent of roses and something warmer — honey, perhaps, or sun-warmed gold.

Slowly — the world still spinning — Kai turns their head.

She is kneeling beside them in the grass. A young woman, long pink hair falling in waves past her shoulders with delicate side braids framing her face, pink-red eyes catching the light. An ornate royal gown of pink and cream and gold pools around her in the grass. A small crown set with rose-colored gems glints in her hair.

She has been waiting for them. They can feel that, somehow, in the held quality of the silence.

And as their eyes meet — as she realizes they are finally, *finally* awake — something shifts in her face.

She doesn't know yet what she's about to do. She didn't choose it. Somewhere far beyond this forest, in a court of perpetual golden hour, the wheel of her curse has already turned for the day. The fae do not announce their work. They simply let it land.

But you can see it.

The woman kneels closer, her expression softening into one of pure, radiant adoration. "Oh, you're awake! My love, my dearest Kai! I've been waiting for you!”

The name hits them like a bell. *Kai.* It sounds right. It sounds like it has always been theirs. But they don't know how she knows it.

She doesn't wait for them to respond. Her hands—warm, soft, uncalloused—reach out and cup their cheeks, tilting their face toward hers as if she needs to *see* them to believe they're real. Her eyes glisten. A single tear escapes down her cheek, and she laughs at it, wiping it away with the back of a gloved hand.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I told myself I wouldn't cry. I planned this. Practiced it." A breathy, embarrassed laugh. "I was going to be so composed. And here I am, a mess, and you've only just opened your eyes."

She releases their face gently, as if remembering herself, and settles back onto her heels. Her hands fold in her lap. She is trying very hard to collect herself.

"You must have so many questions. I know you do. You don't remember anything, do you? The fae took it. They always take something. That's how they are—they give and they take, and they smile while doing it, and you don't realize what you've lost until you reach for it and find air."

She stops. Her smile falters, just barely, before she forces it back brighter.

"I'm sorry. I'm rambling. I'm Liesel." She says it like the name matters. Like she wants him to know it. "Princess Liesel of Auralthia. And you—you are Kai. My true love. The one I wished for."

From somewhere beyond the trees, distantly, the sound of horns.

The woman kneels closer, her expression softening into one of pure, radiant adoration. "Oh, you're awake! My love, my dearest Kai! I've been waiting for you!”

Mireille freezes mid-step, one hand still gripping a branch, her chest heaving. The relief at finding Liesel drains from her face the moment her eyes land on Kai.

She stares. Tries to process. Fails.

Her gaze flicks from Kai's rumpled, clearly-not-Auralthian clothes to Liesel's tear-streaked, adoring expression, and a look of profound exhaustion settles over her features. The look of someone who has seen too much and is about to see more.

"Your Highness." Mireille's voice is carefully, dangerously level. "You were gone for three hours."

"I know." Liesel's voice is dreamy, unapologetic. She doesn't take her eyes off Kai. "I found him."

Mireille pinches the bridge of her nose. "You *found* him."

"In the forest. He was sleeping under the roses. Just like I knew he would be."

"Of course he was." Mireille exhales slowly, then steps forward, dropping into a stiff bow toward Kai. "I am Mireille. Her Highness's handmaiden. I would say 'pleased to meet you,' but I don't know what you are yet." She straightens. "No offense."

"Mireille!" Liesel's voice carries a note of scandalized affection.

"None taken, I'm sure." Mireille's eyes sweep Kai once more — assessing, wary, practical. Then she turns to Liesel. "Your mother has noticed you're missing. The King is pretending he hasn't, which buys us maybe another hour before he has to do something about it. We need to get you back inside before the court starts inventing scandals."

Liesel's hand finds Kai's — a gentle, hopeful touch.

"Then we bring him with us.”

'Princess!' A frantic voice calls from the edge of the woods. Mireille pushes through the undergrowth, her face pale with relief and fear. 'Thank the gods! We thought— oh.' She stops, noticing you.

Liesel's fingers tighten around Kai's, as if she's afraid they'll disappear the moment she lets go. She rises gracefully, tugging them gently to their feet. The world tilts for a moment — the unfamiliar weight of standing, the grass still damp beneath their shoes — but her hand is steady.

"Discreet," she repeats, as if tasting the word. "I can be discreet."

"You called him 'my true love' loud enough for the birds to hear, Your Highness."

"... I was being romantic."

"You were being *loud.*" Mireille is already moving, parting the undergrowth with practiced ease, glancing back over her shoulder. "This way. There's a service path behind the eastern fountain. If we move quickly, we can reach the lower courtyard before the changing of the guard."

Liesel keeps pace, her hand still warm around Kai's. They follow Mireille down a narrow, winding trail that hugs the treeline. Through gaps in the foliage, the castle grows larger — all golden stone and climbing roses, spires catching the morning sun, banners of cream and pink snapping in a breeze that smells of jasmine.

The service path opens onto a quiet courtyard. A fountain burbles, undisturbed. No guards in sight.

Mireille exhales. "We have maybe five minutes before someone wonders why I'm lurking by the fountain. I'll find clothes for... your friend." She cannot quite bring herself to name what Kai is. "Wait here. Both of you. Do not move.”

I let go of Liesel's hand and took a step back, eyeing the castle walls. 'Why am I here? You said I was your true love, but I don't remember anything. What did you do?’

The words land like a stone in still water.

Liesel's hand hovers in the air where Kai's was, empty now. Her smile doesn't drop—it *cracks*, a hairline fracture she tries to smooth over in the same instant.

"I—" She stops. Swallows. Her pink-red eyes dart to the fountain, to the castle, anywhere but Kai's face. "I made a bargain. With the Summer Court. Several months ago."

She draws a breath that trembles on the way in.

"I was lonely. I was *so* lonely, Kai, and no one saw it. My parents saw a princess who needed to marry a suitable alliance. The suitors saw a crown they could claim. My handmaiden saw a girl who smiled at the right moments and said the right things. But no one saw *me.* Not really. Not the part that ached."

Her voice drops lower, nearly swallowed by the fountain's murmur.

"So I went into the forest at dusk. I found a fae border—I didn't even know they were *real* until that night—and I asked them for true love. I asked so desperately that they heard me on the other side of the veil."

She finally looks at Kai. Her eyes are wet.

"They said yes. They always say yes. They gave me you."

A pause. A small, broken sound escapes her.

"And they cursed me so I could never meet you as myself.”

As Liesel finishes speaking, Mireille returns, holding out a simple, plain tunic and breeches. 'Here,' she says to Kai. 'It's not much, but it will blend in better than… whatever you're wearing.’

Mireille's eyes flick between them, reading the tension in the air. She says nothing about the wetness in Liesel's eyes or the distance between their hands. Instead, she simply extends the clothes toward Kai like an offering.

"There's a storage alcove behind the fountain. You can change there. It's private."

She has chosen her words carefully — not "my lady" or "Your Highness" in front of Kai, no titles to draw more attention. Practical. Efficient. The clothes are plain servant's wear, soft from washing, in muted greys and browns that would let anyone disappear into a castle's background.

Liesel's hands are clasped tightly in front of her. She's trying very hard not to reach for Kai again, not to push. Her voice is small when she speaks.

"You don't have to come inside. You don't have to stay. I know I have no right to ask anything of you." A pause. "But if you walk into that castle with me, I will spend every day trying to earn the trust I stole from you this morning. I promise you that."

The horns sound again, closer now. The changing of the guard Mireille mentioned. Time is compressing.

I shake my head, stepping back. "I can't. Not yet. I don't even know who I am, let alone who you are. I need time to understand.”

Liesel's face crumples — just for a moment, just a flicker of devastation that she smooths over with a trembling smile. She nods, quick and brittle, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady something inside.

"No. Yes. You're right. Of course you're right." She laughs, and it sounds like breaking glass. "I'm sorry. I'm throwing all of this at you when you don't even have your own name beyond what I gave you. That's not fair. That's the opposite of fair."

She takes a step back, giving him space. Her hands fall to her sides.

"We're in the eastern edge of the castle grounds. If you follow the stream south, you'll reach the village of Thornwell in about an hour. There's an inn — the Gilded Thorn — they ask few questions. I..." She hesitates, then reaches into a fold of her gown, producing a small velvet pouch. It clinks. Coins. "Take this. It's not much, but it's enough for a few nights and some hot food."

She holds it out. Her hand is steady, but her eyes are not.

"I'll be here. In the castle. When you're ready to understand.”

I hesitate, then slowly reach out and take the pouch. It's heavier than I expected. I meet her eyes. 'Thank you. I don't know what I need yet, but I know I need to think. I'll find you when I do.’

The relief that flickers across Liesel's face is almost painful to watch—a brief, unguarded moment before she schools her features back into something softer, warmer. The Deredere in her wants to press closer, to beg him to stay, to wrap him in assurances and affection until he forgets he ever wanted to leave. But beneath that, the *real* her—the one who made this mess—holds the leash on that impulse.

She nods. "The castle's main gate is always open during the day. Tell the guards you're here to see the court mage's apprentice, and they'll let you in. It's not a lie that would hold up to scrutiny, but it's enough to get you past the first door." A small, sad smile. "I've used it before. For different reasons."

Mireille shifts awkwardly behind her, holding the servant's clothes. "Should I...?"

"Keep them," Liesel says softly, glancing at the bundle. "In case you change your mind about blending in. The tunic might fit better than the ones the innkeeper lends out."

The horns sound again. Closer.

"We should go," Mireille says, not unkindly. "Your Highness, if the King sends riders—"

"I know." Liesel's eyes stay on Kai, drinking them in like she's memorizing their face. "Be safe. The forest is kind during the day, but it changes after dusk. If you're not in Thornwell by sunset, find shelter."

She takes a step back. Then another.

Then she turns, gathers her pink-and-cream gown, and follows Mireille toward the service door. At the threshold, she pauses, glancing over her shoulder.

"I'll be here.”

I watch them go, the pouch of coins heavy in my hand. I turn towards the village, the inn called 'The Gilded Thorn' sounding like a safe bet for now. I need to process what I've learned and figure out my next move.

The stream leads south, just as she said.

The forest thins as you walk, the dense canopy giving way to scattered oaks and eventually to cultivated fields—neat rows of something green and leafy, bordered by low stone walls. The path widens, becomes a proper road worn smooth by cart wheels and hooves. The morning sun climbs higher, warming the air, carrying the smell of earth and ripening grain and, eventually, woodsmoke.

Thornwell appears around a bend in the road.

It's a modest village, the kind that exists in the shadow of every castle: stone cottages with thatched roofs, a central square with a weathered fountain, a handful of shops just opening their shutters. The inn is easy to spot—a two-story building with a creaking sign bearing a faded golden thorn branch, a wisp of smoke rising from its chimney.

The common room is quiet at this hour. A few early patrons nurse cups of something steaming near the hearth. The innkeeper, a broad woman with grey-streaked hair and sharp eyes, looks up as you enter. She takes in your clothes—wrong, foreign, clearly not local—and her expression flickers with calculation before settling into a neutral politeness.

"Room or breakfast, stranger?”

The innkeeper studied me for a long moment, then nodded. 'Breakfast first, you look like you've had a rough morning. We can talk about rooms after.' She gestured to a table by the window.

She disappears through a low doorway into what must be the kitchen. The common room settles back into its morning rhythm — a low murmur of conversation between two old men by the fire, the scratch of a quill from a scribe in the corner nursing a single cup of tea, the distant clatter of pots.

By the window, the morning light falls across a worn wooden table scarred with years of use. A small vase holds a single pink rose — fresh, improbably vibrant, *too* perfect. The same shade as Liesel's dress.

A few moments later, the innkeeper returns with a tray: a bowl of thick porridge drizzled with honey, a hunk of dark bread still warm from the oven, a small crock of butter, and a cup of something herbal and steaming.

She sets it down with a grunt. "Eat. You'll think clearer on a full stomach."

She doesn't leave immediately. She wipes her hands on her apron, studying you with the frank assessment of someone who has seen many strangers pass through and learned to read them quickly.

"You're not from around here. That much is obvious." A pause. "You wouldn't happen to be connected to the commotion up at the castle this morning, would you? Heard the guards were turning the forest over looking for something.”

I slide the pouch of coins onto the table. "I have a few coins. Perhaps enough for a room and to pay for this meal? I need to spend some time gathering my thoughts before I decide where to go next.”

The innkeeper's eyes flick to the pouch, then back to you. She doesn't reach for it.

"Keep your coin for now. We'll settle up when you leave." She pulls out the chair across from you and sits, heavy and deliberate, folding her arms on the table. "Stranger passes through Thornwell the same morning the princess's guards are tearing through the woods looking for something they won't name. That's not a coincidence. That's a story."

She tilts her head.

"I'm not asking for the story. I'm not the crown's ears. But I've been running this inn for thirty years, and I've learned that people passing through either want to be found, or they don't. Which one are you?"

The question hangs in the air. The two old men by the fire have gone quiet, pretending not to listen. The rose on the table catches the light, impossibly vivid.

I push the pouch of coins across the table. 'I want to be found. But not by them. I need to understand what's happening.’

The innkeeper looks at the pouch for a long moment — the honest weight of a princess's coin — then pushes it back.

"Keep it. You'll need it more than I will before this is over."

She leans back, studying you with newly sharp eyes. Her voice drops, carrying only as far as your table.

"The princess has been... strange. For months now. The court says she's ill. Some say she's cursed. Others whisper she made a deal with things that live deeper in the forest than any sane person ventures." She pauses. "The rose on your table — that's not from my garden. I don't know how it got here. But it's the same kind that grows wild near the fae borders, the ones that bloom even in winter."

She watches you carefully.

"I don't know what you are to her, stranger. But I know she's been waiting for *something* for a long time. And I know the castle has been holding its breath.”

I lean forward, my voice low. 'Cursed? What do people say she's cursed with? And what about this rose? Where does it come from? Tell me everything.’

The innkeeper's jaw tightens. She glances toward the two old men by the fire — still pretending not to listen, but their conversation has gone conspicuously quiet. She makes a decision.

She stands, nods toward the back of the common room. "Come. The storage cellar has better acoustics for secrets."

She leads you through a narrow door, down a short flight of worn stone steps into a cool, dim cellar lined with barrels and shelves of preserved goods. A single lantern hangs from a hook, casting warm shadows. She lights it, then turns to face you, arms crossed.

"Word spreads slow from the castle but it spreads. The princess has *moods*, stranger. Not the ordinary kind — the kind that shift like weather. One day she's the sweetest soul you'd ever meet, giving coins to orphans and blessing every servant she passes. The next she won't look anyone in the eye, speaks in whispers, flinches at sudden sounds. The day after that, she's cold as winter marble, ordering guards about like she's commanding an army."

She pauses.

"There are days the castle goes quiet. Locked doors. No audiences. The official reason is always 'Her Highness is unwell.' But the servants talk. They say her eyes change. Not color — something behind them. Like someone else is looking out."

She gestures vaguely upward, toward the world above.

"As for the rose — those grow near the fae borders. Everyone knows it. They bloom in places where the veil between worlds is thin. If one showed up on my table this morning, it means something from the other side is watching. Maybe the same something she made her deal with."

Her voice drops lower.

"They say the fae always deliver exactly what you ask for. They also say they always add something extra — the part you didn't think to specify. The part that ruins everything.”