Page 3 of Revert (The Royal Chronicles #4)

SECOND TIMELINE

I blinked through the fog engulfing my senses.

Where was I? Disoriented thoughts came in broken fragments.

My mind throbbed, every detail blurred like a once-vivid painting left too long in the rain.

I forced myself to push through the smothering nothingness , struggling to stitch meaning from the frayed threads of memory until I formed an incomplete tapestry.

A night draped in shadows. A labyrinth of silent corridors.

An enchanted door etched in glowing script.

Flickering torchlight cast against a predator’s sharp, handsome profile.

Descending into darkness. A sword encrusted with blood-red rubies.

Prince Castiel’s cold eyes as he raised the blade.

The rush of heat and pain as blood soaked my gown.

The complete and endless darkness that followed.

A moment of death.

A raw and jagged scream tore from my throat in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own—the cry shock had stolen in the moment, now unleashed in the moment of waking. The sound ripped through my chest, scraping past each ragged breath, as if trying to claw its way back to that final instant.

Through my haze of confusion and that chilling sound I scarcely heard the frantic voices of my attendants, distant and distorted, like echoing calls from the other side of a dream. Slowly, their words managed to cross the turbulent sea that separated me from the shore of full awareness.

“Princess Bernice?”

The world gradually sharpened into focus, and the faces of my maid and guards swam into view, summoned by my scream.

Alarm filled their widened gazes, concern etched into every line of their expressions.

No wonder—I had always been the model of composure, an obedient princess who carried out her duties quietly and properly in the background, as survival in Thorndale required, nothing like the woman shaking and gasping for breath before them now.

My vision cleared, allowing me to better discern my surroundings.

I found myself not in the shadowy dungeon with its damp stones and the flickering torchlight that had witnessed my death, shadows that I thought had been my gravesite, but back in the familiar, elegant chambers that had been my gilded prison for years.

Rather than the sickening warmth of my own blood, sunshine poured through the windows in a golden sheen, the morning sun catching on crystal and silk to paint warmth across the trembling body that should have been lifeless.

No blood, no pain. Only the quiet tremble of breath and the hammering of my frantic heart, such a contrast to the darkness that had been the last thing I had seen.

I stared at the shimmers of golden light, half-expecting them to flicker out like a candle and vanish like a mirage conjured by my dying mind.

Perhaps I had already perished, though surely heaven wouldn’t bear resemblance to the imperial court I despised.

The light didn’t fade, but remained bright and unbelievably real.

My hand flew to my chest where the blade had struck, searching for a wound. But my fingers found nothing—no puncture, no searing ache, only the rapid thrum of my heartbeat, each pulse a testament. This wasn’t some imagined mercy at the moment of death—I was impossibly and miraculously alive.

My fingers fumbled for the edge of the duvet, needing something to tether me to this strange new reality.

The soft velvet beneath my fingertips; the comforting sunlight soaking into my skin; the waft of floral perfume from the vase of fresh blooms adorning my night stand; the curtains fluttering softly, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of late spring.

Each tangible detail was real, utterly at odds with what I had last known.

“Are you alright, Princess?”

I couldn’t immediately answer. I lay still, staring up at the soft lilac, gold-trimmed folds of my canopy that I’d seen every morning of the five years I’d spent surviving behind silk and stone. The familiar color anchored me, pulling me further from my memory of the all-consuming blackness.

For a long moment, my only measurement of time was each shallow breath, focusing on each inhale and exhale. I counted one hundred and eleven before my disoriented thoughts untangled enough to speak. “What happened?” My voice cracked, still raw from screaming. “How…how did I get here?”

“You had a nightmare,” my maid explained.

“A…nightmare?”

Despite it being the most plausible explanation, the word felt unnatural on my lips, inefficient to explain what I’d just endured. And yet, what other explanation could there be, considering I was here and unharmed? Of course it must have been a nightmare; no other scenario was possible.

There was comfort in the thought. A nightmare, only a nightmare . I let out a trembling breath, trying to allow the relief settle over me, but it did little to dispel the haunting recollection — not the drifting strangeness of a dream, but the sharp clarity of lived experience.

I replayed the moment again and again, pressing a hand to the place where the sword had pierced me, finding nothing but a frantic heartbeat that refused to slow. Its details had felt so vivid, as if I were recalling not an illusion conjured in my sleep, but a memory that just transpired.

I wanted to believe it had all been a horrible dream, its realism woven from the anxieties of my mission drawing ever closer to its conclusion, a manifestation of the outcome I feared. And yet…something was off, though I couldn’t pinpoint what .

My handmaiden, Liora, who usually kept a respectful distance, leaned closer than was customary, her brow creased with uncharacteristic concern. “Are you unwell, Princess? Shall I summon a physician?”

I mustered enough strength to shake my head.

A physician meant a report, and reports carried the risk of reaching the king; the last thing I wanted was for the king to learn that the future queen had lost her composure over a mere dream.

In Thorndale, even the smallest weakness could be taken as proof of uselessness, or worse—a danger to the kingdom.

In this court of blood and intrigue, people were disposed of for far less.

She hesitated, clearly unconvinced. With a murmured apology, she pressed the back of her hand to my clammy brow. “You don’t appear to have a fever.” But doubt lingered in her eyes, betraying her own uncertainty.

I stiffened at that familiar look—the one that echoed my own fears that I wasn’t strong or capable enough to accomplish what I’d come here to do.

That very sense of inadequacy helped me seize my faltering composure and I sat up, forcing a smile as I kicked off my covers.

“I’m fine,” I said with practiced calm. “Just unsettled from the nightmare. It won’t hinder me from today’s duties. ”

In truth I wasn’t fine, not even close. Even as I slipped into the motions of my morning routine, the nightmare clung to me like smoke.

It was after the guards had resumed their posts and I began preparing for the day that the first cracks pierced the fragile assurance that all was well.

Liora had just helped me into my pale blue silk day dress, her fingers moving with gentle precision, when she paused.

“Forgive me, Princess, but where did you get that scar?”

The question pulled me from the confusing fog of my still-tangled thoughts away from the labyrinth of uneasiness in which they’d been wandering with no clear path forward. “Scar?”

She hesitated, then gestured towards my chest. Horror stole my breath as I turned to my reflection and pulled down my chemise.

An ugly red scar cut across my skin just above my heart, jagged at the edges, bearing the appearance of having healed some time ago, even though I was certain the stab wound hadn’t been present yesterday.

I stared as if the mirror had played some cruel trick, willing it to vanish. But it remained, stark and undeniable, exactly where I remembered the crown prince’s sword striking.

Liora frowned at my growing pallor. “Are you certain you’re well? Perhaps you should rest. I’m sure His Majesty will understand—” Her voice faltered before she hastily caught herself and forced a empty smile. “His Majesty is always just and fair.”

Her eyes darted around the room, checking for potential eavesdroppers that would report potential disloyalty. The guards stood just outside. By all appearances we seemed to be alone…but we both knew the walls could talk in Thorndale.

My fingers trembled as I traced each jarring line of the wound from a death that had supposedly never happened. “I…don’t know how I got this.” I willed my voice not to tremble.

Liora blinked in astonishment. “You don’t know ? Then where did it come from? I’m certain you didn’t have that scar when I tended to you last night.”

There was no excuse I could offer to counter her understandable incredulity; I couldn’t pretend she had simply missed such an memorable detail while helping me prepare for bed the night before; in a court full of enemies, I had to do my part to maintain whatever allies I still had.

I chose my words with care; I couldn’t afford another crack in my careful composure, especially after my emotional display earlier, which had undoubtedly already aroused suspicion.

I bestowed one of my well-rehearsed smiles, the delicate one I wore when appeasing foreign dignitaries or slipping past suspicion.

“I had a clumsy moment and used a healing potion from Myrielle that closed the wound, but I suppose it left a mark.” My home kingdom specialized in the healing arts, so my plausible lie eliminated the possibility of her checking my story with the royal physician.

Her frown deepened as she examined the scar, as if searching for some trace of deception hidden in the shape of the wound. “I suppose that explains it,” she said slowly. “But what were you doing out of bed so late?”