Chapter Text
Hunger came first.
Not as an idea, not as a memory—hunger as a physical presence, a closed claw in her stomach that wasn't hers but was the only thing that felt real. Then warmth. Then the smell—sweet and floral, mixed with dust and old stone. Then the sounds. Voices that didn't form words, only tones. Rhythms. Patterns.
She didn't remember being born.
She was grateful for that.
Light fell through gaps in the ceiling—golden, thick, almost liquid. It drew stars and polygons on the walls, shapes that belonged to no one but seemed to wait for someone to read them.
The ceiling was so high she could barely see it.
An ocean of gold and blue curved above her, its edges lost in shadow. The walls—white marble with veins of silver that flowed like rivers on a map. Horseshoe arches, repeated obsessively, pulling the eye further, deeper, toward rooms she couldn't yet see.
Her crib was bigger than any bed from her previous life.
In her previous life, she had lived in a cramped apartment with a landlord who never fixed the dripping faucet. She had eaten instant noodles for weeks. She had owned exactly one piece of furniture that cost more than fifty dollars—from a thrift store.
This—this massive carved wooden bed, the purple silk curtains hanging like walls, the ceiling that belonged in a cathedral—
What the hell kind of baby gets a room like this?
It was a thought that would have made her laugh, if she had known how. But her body didn't know how to laugh yet. Her body only knew how to cry and sleep and stare at things with eyes that didn't quite focus.
So she stared.
Hands lifted her.
A woman leaned over her—close enough for the baby to see the fine wrinkles around her eyes and the streak of silver in her hair. She was smiling. The same smile as an hour ago. As yesterday. Warm, professional, repetitive. As if she had said the same thing a thousand times.
The baby didn't understand the words.
But she understood the tone—a soft song, almost a lullaby, that asked nothing in return.
"—...princess...—"
The sound repeated. Princess.
She didn't know what it meant in this language, but the shape of it was familiar.
Typical. You die and get reincarnated, and you can't even pick the genre.
The thought was sarcastic—the kind of thought she would have had in her previous life—and it made something in her chest feel lighter. She was still there. Underneath the hunger and the confusion and the overwhelming strangeness of being a baby again, she was still there.
The woman carried her, and the world swayed gently.
Footsteps on marble. Footsteps on rugs so thick the sound was swallowed. They passed a tall window, and the light shifted—from gold to white, blinding.
Garden. Beyond the stone grilles: small trees in large terracotta pots. Red and yellow flowers. A fountain in the center, water falling with a constant sound.
Beautiful.
And enclosed.
Guards at every entrance, every corner. Armor that creaked slightly with each movement. Eyes that watched everything—not her, but the space around her. Who might enter. What might leave.
A gilded cage. How original.
But the thought was hollow.
Because she knew, even then, that she wouldn't escape this. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She didn't know where she was or who she was supposed to be. She only knew that she was small and helpless and completely dependent on the hands that held her.
They passed a side corridor.
Narrow. Dark. The woman hurried past, almost as if she didn't want to see.
But the baby saw.
People on their knees. Washing the floor with damp cloths, in silence. Simple clothes, brown and gray, against the silk and gold around them. No one looked at them. Not even the woman looked at them, though she passed within arm's reach.
Present. But unseen.
Her heart beat faster.
This is what it looks like.
The thought came cold, clinical—the kind of thought from a mind trying to protect itself from feeling too much. It didn't work. Something in her chest tightened, a sharp ache that had nothing to do with hunger.
They were people. On their knees. Washing a floor that would be dirty again in an hour.
The woman hurried past, almost as if she didn't want to see. But the baby saw. She saw the way their shoulders curved forward, the way their heads stayed down, the way their hands moved in the same rhythm—wet cloth on stone, over and over.
And no one was looking at them. Not even the woman looked at them, though she passed within arm's reach. Present. But unseen.
This is what it looks like.
The corridor ended. The woman turned into another room. The light returned. The slaves disappeared.
But the image remained, a burn on the retina—people on the floor, heads bowed, hands wet.
This is what it looks like.
Later—or earlier, time still made no sense, yet—she was fed. Warm hands. The smell of milk and honey. A feeling of safety that her mind didn't fully accept. Then she was placed back in the crib.
The silk curtains swayed slightly. No wind.
The light outside had changed—from gold to orange, then pink, then a deep blue that promised darkness.
The woman left. Another came. They spoke in low, rapid tones.
A word repeated.
"—...princess...—"
Then another.
"—...the girl...—"
Then a third, softer, almost swallowed by the rustle of silk. A name she didn't catch.
But something in her mind stirred. As if she had heard it before, in another life, in another language. It meant nothing. And yet it felt like it should mean something.
She tried to file it away, somewhere in the back of her mind—but the thought slipped, like water through fingers. It would come back. Later.
When she woke, it was dark.
Candles burned in the corners—small, trembling flames, throwing shadows on the walls. The patterns on the ceiling danced. The stars and polygons seemed to move, to breathe, to wait.
She lay there, in the silence, and listened.
Footsteps. Distant. Close. Distant again.
Her heart beat in their rhythm.
Where am I?
The thought came clear, crystalline, like a shard of glass in murky water.
Who am I?
She didn't know. She couldn't remember a name, a face. She remembered only sensations—hunger, warmth, light too bright, the feeling of falling that had never ended.
But she knew she had been something else.
Before this—before the warm hands and the silk curtains and the words she couldn't understand—she had been someone else. She knew this with a certainty that needed no proof.
I had a name once. A life. Friends, or family, or someone who would have noticed if I disappeared.
She wasn't sure about the last part.
Maybe that was why she was here. Maybe that was why she had been given a second chance.
Or maybe I just got unlucky. Again.
The thought was bitter, but it made her feel more like herself—the self she had been before, the self she was still becoming.
Outside, the ocean beat against the cliffs below.
She couldn't see it. She couldn't hear it. But she could feel it—a pressure in her chest, a pull in her stomach. Something waiting.
She had always loved the ocean. In her previous life, she had lived near the coast for a few years. She remembered the sound of waves at night, the smell of salt and sand, the feeling of being small against something vast.
This was the same. But the ocean here was different. Older. More patient.
I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. But I will find out.
And when I do—
The thought stopped. She didn't know what came after. Not yet.
But the ocean knew. The ocean was waiting.
The silk curtains swayed. No wind. A candle flickered.
And in the darkness of her nursery, surrounded by gold and marble and silence, the girl waited—and somewhere beyond the walls, in the depths of the night, something waited too.