Visna sat bolt upright, chest heaving, sweat cold against her skin. For a moment, she couldn't breathe—not from fear, but from the certainty that she had just died. Her hands flew to her throat. No blood. No shard. No iron crushing her lungs.
The sheets smelled of roses.
It had been a dream.
A terrible, perfect dream.
But her body wasn't convinced. Her skin tingled with the memory of splintered glass, her ribs still ached from phantom weight. She looked around the room. Nothing was broken. Nothing was wrong. And yet the air felt wrong. Thick. Expectant.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood, moving stiffly, as though her bones remembered the impact. Her breath came shallow, her ears buzzed. It was just a dream, she told herself. Just—
A knock.
"Milady?" Lina's voice. Gentle. Harmless.
But Visna flinched as if struck.
The door creaked open. Lina stepped in with a tray, careful, balanced, just like every morning. Her face was the same. Pale. Quiet. Safe.
Visna didn't see safety.
She saw a shadow in motion, a figure in the corner of a dream she hadn't survived.
She moved.
Fast. Too fast.
The edge of her nightgown fluttered as she bolted across the room, shoulder slamming into Lina without meaning to—without apology. The tray fell with a crash, tea splashing across stone, porcelain cracking in wet pieces. Lina gasped, stumbled, hit the floor hard.
Visna didn't stop.
She was at the door. One hand on the cool brass handle. She didn't open it all the way—just enough. Just a slit.
Enough to see.
And what she saw turned her blood into iron.
Across the hall, partially hidden by the curve of the corridor, two noblemen stood beneath the great chandelier. One knelt beside the base of the chain, tools in hand. The other watched the hallway, glancing left and right like a thief. Visna didn't breathe. The metal links in the chandelier chain glinted in the morning light—except where one had already been half-sawn through.
They were tampering with it.
They were going to drop it.
She blinked, hoping she was wrong, praying the nightmare was just that. But this wasn't sleep. And the men weren't figments.
They were real.
And so was the danger.
Visna closed the door without a sound, pressing her back to the wood, heart pounding harder than it ever had in the fields or the courts or even the wedding hall. The dream hadn't been just a dream.
It had been a warning.
And it was already coming true.
Visna stepped back into her room and turned the lock behind her with a soft click. She stood still for a moment, staring at the door. Her fingers lingered on the cool metal of the bolt, pressing it down again, even though it was already locked.
This was real.
This was still real.
She had died. She had felt it. The crushing weight. The silence afterward. The blood. It hadn't been a nightmare. Nightmares didn't leave bruises on your throat or the sound of shattering glass lodged behind your eyes like splinters.
But here she was. Breathing. Whole.
She backed away from the door like it might explode.
Her hands shook, but her mind didn't. Not anymore.
She had seen what they were planning. She had seen the chain, the angle, the nobles watching her like an execution instead of a breakfast.
And Lina—
Lina had come in, kind and quiet, like she always did. Offering to brush her hair.
Visna had told her to go eat.
Take her place.
"Sit at my spot. Tell them I gave you permission."
No apology. No explanation. Just those words.
And Lina had obeyed.
Now Visna stood in the center of her room, listening.
The hallway was quiet at first. Then footsteps. Then the distant creak of a chair. The clink of silver. Muffled voices.
She waited.
Pressed herself against the wall.
Held her breath.
Then it happened.
Crack.
One sharp, final sound—metal snapping like a gunshot.
Screams followed.
One short and high—Lina's, she was certain. It vanished as quickly as it came.
Then the roar. The unmistakable collapse of iron and crystal, a chandelier falling, glass erupting, chaos tearing across a polished floor.
Voices shouting.
A woman sobbing.
A man's voice yelling something about blood.
Visna stayed still.
Frozen.
She didn't move toward the door. She didn't unlock it.
She closed her eyes instead and pressed her palm flat against the wall, as if it could hold her upright.
And then—
A sound rose in her throat.
Small.
Sharp.
A laugh.
It escaped before she could stop it.
Not loud. Not wild.
Just… real.
It broke in her mouth like a secret dropped too early.
She pressed her hand over her lips, tried to force it back, but it came again—softer this time, tinged with disbelief, almost like a child stifling joy.
Except it wasn't joy.
It was survival.
It was madness.
It was horror turned inside out.
Lina was dead.
Lina, who had done everything right.
Lina, who had never hurt anyone.
Lina, who had worn Visna's place like it belonged to her, just long enough to die in it.
They had killed the wrong girl.
Visna slid down the wall, her knees folding under her.
Her shoulders shook.
She wasn't crying.
Not yet.
But she wasn't only laughing either.
She was something in between.
Something too dangerous to name.
Eventually, the laughter died.
Visna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her fingers were cold. Her eyes were dry. Her heart still beat like a war drum, but the rest of her… was quiet.
Fine.
Fine enough.
She stood up.
Not slowly. Not carefully. Just up. As if nothing had happened.
She crossed to the wardrobe and chose a plain cloak—the soft gray one with the hood that could cover half her face. No jewels. No crests. No silk.
A servant's daughter could wear this and not be stopped.
She didn't bother with gloves.
Didn't fix her hair.
Didn't check the mirror.
She unlocked the door, stepped into the corridor, and walked past the blood still drying between the tiles of her memory.
No one stopped her.
No one looked twice.
The manor was silent now, like it always was after death.
She passed two servants scrubbing the floor outside the dining hall. They didn't look up. One of them had blood on his cuffs. She kept walking.
Out the front. Down the steps. Through the gate.
No guards called after her.
No one said her name.
The air outside was sharp, full of early sun and city dust.
She pulled the hood over her head and blended into the morning traffic. Carts. Bread smells. Children shouting. Life.
Just life.
She walked past fruit vendors and spice stalls. Past a man yelling about oysters and a woman stringing up dead hens by their legs.
She stopped at a stall with small, overripe peaches.
Picked one up.
Held it in her hand.
The softness of it was a little like flesh.
She set it down again and bought apples instead. Firmer.
The merchant smiled at her. She didn't smile back.
She paid in silence and moved on.
Her feet led her nowhere. Or maybe somewhere. She wasn't sure yet. The important part was that they moved. That the blood in her body kept circulating. That her face stayed still.
Because Visna had died that morning.
And no one noticed it wasn't her under the chandelier.
She passed a row of hanging herbs and dried citrus. Lavender. Sage. Blood-orange peels curling like old parchment. The smells tugged at her—sweet, bitter, familiar.
And still… distant.
Her hands gripped the edge of her basket too tightly. The apples pressed into each other like bones in a shallow grave.
She turned a corner. Another stall. Cheese this time. A boy with crooked teeth offered her a sample. She shook her head.
Her breath came shorter.
What was she doing here?
Buying fruit?
Walking?
Living?
The market buzzed around her—feet on stone, laughter, vendors shouting prices—but her own voice whispered under it all.
"I'm not under the chandelier."
Her lips barely moved.
"I'm not under the chandelier," she said again, a little louder.
No one noticed. The wind caught her words and scattered them.
But she kept speaking.
"I'm not under it. I'm here. I was under it. I saw it fall. I felt it—"
Her throat caught.
She stared at the bruised apple in her basket.
The breath shuddered out of her lungs.
"I'm not dead," she whispered.
Then louder: "I'm not dead."
A pause.
People turned.
"I'M NOT DEAD!"
Everything stopped.
A man holding a fish blinked at her. A woman dropped a fig. A child clutched her mother's skirt.
Visna stood in the middle of the cobbled square, eyes wide, hair falling from beneath the hood, chest heaving.
Everyone was looking at her.
No one said a word.
And then—
She looked down.
Her jaw locked.
She adjusted her cloak, turned her face away, and muttered, "I need carrots."
Her voice was steady again.
She moved to the next stall like nothing had happened. Picked up a turnip. Felt its weight. Nodded.
Behind her, the crowd lost interest.
The world moved on.
But her heartbeat didn't.
She chose the carrots carefully, one by one. Not too thin. Not too soft. Orange as firelight, with greens still curling like ribbons. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, but her eyes—
They shifted.
Not much. Just enough.
A glance to the left.
A weight on the air.
Someone was watching her.
She didn't know how she knew. But she did.
The kind of knowing that wasn't born in the eyes, but in the spine.
It slithered between her shoulders. A thread pulled taut. A breath that didn't belong to her.
The market was full, loud again. Wheels creaked. Voices haggled. The scent of fried dough drifted from a cart near the square's edge. Nothing unusual. No one stared. No one followed.
And yet—
Something stuck.
A ripple beneath the surface.
The carrots felt colder in her hands.
She turned to pay. The vendor gave her change with a crooked smile, already looking past her at the next customer.
She didn't look back.
She wouldn't give it form.
Sometimes, when you looked straight at a shadow, it smiled wider.
So she walked.
Past baskets of plums, honey jars, bolts of dyed silk. The rhythm of her steps steady, too steady, like someone pretending not to run.
Behind her—
Nothing.
No sound out of place.
No voice calling her name.
But the air still pressed differently against her back. Like it was being pushed. Bent. Disturbed.
She adjusted her basket.
Lifted her chin.
If it was paranoia, it was wearing very good shoes.
If it was fear, it had her scent.
She didn't stop walking.
Didn't look over her shoulder.
She simply turned down a narrower street, where the walls rose higher and the light thinned.
The silence followed.
Her feet moved, but her breath stuttered.
"The sun is going dark," she whispered.
Again. And again. As if saying it might stop it.
"The sun is going dark... I'm going to die again. I can feel it."
The words came in a rhythm that wasn't hers anymore—like someone else was winding the key in her spine and letting her speak on borrowed time.
"Will this be the last?" she whispered. "Is this my final chance? Or just another turn in the wheel?"
The shadows on the wall twisted as she passed.
"I'll wake up again, won't I? Or... not?"
She blinked toward the sky. The sun had not vanished. But it felt gone. Its warmth refused her skin.
"What happens if I don't wake up this time?" Her voice shook. "Was Lina supposed to die instead of me?"
The name cracked in her throat.
"Maybe I was the wrong one. Maybe I deserved it."
She looked down at her hands.
They didn't look guilty. But guilt could hide in pretty skin.
"I wasn't good," she muttered. "Not really. Not always."
Her voice rose, strange and thin.
"I was cruel."
The cobblestones echoed her steps.
She paused.
No one stood behind her.
And still—she felt it.
She turned her head, just slightly. Not enough to see. Just enough to offer the neck.
The blade was thin. Quick. Precise.
It kissed her throat like a secret and opened it like a mouth.
No scream.
Just a wet gasp. A stagger forward. Blood misting the air in soft red arcs.
The whisper still clung to her lips—"The sun is... dark..."
Then nothing.
Her body folded. The basket rolled. Carrots spilled like offerings.
And behind her, a figure with no name, no sound, no face, stepped backward into the crowd and vanished.
She would not wake up this time.
Not yet.