At some point I must have fallen asleep, and someone must have lifted me off the floor, because I wake up in a wide, strangely soft bed. The sensation is still disorienting: everything feels larger from inside this lighter body, as if gravity itself had changed.
I notice the young woman moving around the room, silent and efficient, as if she'd been trained not to exist. She's the same woman from yesterday; she has brought fresh food and is taking away the dishes I didn't touch last night.
"Excuse me… don't leave. Can you tell me what's going on? Who am I?" I ask with a hoarse, childish voice that feels like an echo coming from someone else's throat.
She looks at me as if I've said something forbidden. Her eyes open too wide, almost bulging, and for a moment she seems torn between running away or fainting.
"M–my… lady?" she stammers.
"Yes. Who am I? Where am I? What's happening?" I insist, trying to sound firm even though inside I feel as unstable as this unfamiliar body.
"I don't know if… I should say anything," she whispers. Her gaze flickers between the floor and the walls, avoiding my eyes as if they burned.
"Are you forbidden from telling me? At least tell me my name," I say, a knot tightening in my chest. If I can't even know who I am, what do I have left?
She swallows hard.
"Your name is Laila Mallory," she finally says, her voice trembling as if trying to hide it. "You're at your father's summer villa, Regent Mallory's villa."
The name feels like a memory I never had. Laila Mallory. She believes I'm that person. I… am not.
"Do you know why I can't remember anything?"
Her fingers press together until the knuckles turn white.
"You had an accident. You fell into the lake without knowing how to swim and hit your head."
The answer lands stiff and rehearsed, as if saying it incorrectly might earn her punishment.
I notice her impeccable uniform, her tightly pinned bun, and the rigid way she holds herself. And yet, it isn't exactly fear I see—more a mechanical obedience, as if she were taught never to be anything else.
The smell of the food surprises me with a stomach growl. I move to the table, take the hot soup and the crusty bread. As I eat, I feel the woman's stillness behind me, fixed to one spot as if her existence depended on not moving.
"If you're going to stand there, then at least tell me more about myself," I say, losing my appetite under the tension. "And look at me when you speak."
Her mouth opens, but only a strangled sound comes out.
"I… I don't know how to speak about you, my lady…"
Frustration rises in my throat. I try to control it. She isn't at fault.
"You may leave," I say at last.
She nearly stumbles on her way out, as if she'd been holding her breath the entire time.
Alone again, I begin exploring the room. Luxury surrounds me, but none of it feels like mine. Jewelry, dresses, shoes, fine furniture… everything looks carefully chosen for a child who no longer exists. I am not her. And this body isn't mine.
A portrait catches my attention: a woman who resembles the girl I saw in the mirror—beautiful, wearing an elaborate gown, her expression proudly composed. Behind it: "Lauricia Maktub, Day of Ascension 6783."
I also find a small book: Etiquette and Feminine Manners to Uphold the Excelso Honor. I flip through it. Rules for breathing, greeting, walking, existing. All in the name of a god and ancestral colonists. But if they were space colonists, why does everything here look so old?
No answers. Only more questions.
When the next meal of the day arrives, the two women I saw earlier enter together. The younger one hides behind the elder as if I were some unpredictable beast.
"I don't care about your job," I say, tired. "I want your real names. I'm not calling you 'chamber servant One' and 'Two.'"
They exchange a confused, almost frightened look.
"The Order named me Magdia," the older one says after hesitating. "And… the young one is Eleni."
Eleni seems to shrink into herself at the sound of her own name.
"See? It's not that hard," I say, trying to ease the atmosphere.
Mistake. They both widen their eyes as if I'd insulted their god.
"That is… unacceptable!" Magdia trembles but stands her ground. "We are mere Subvivientes. We are not worthy of being addressed by a common name by an Excelso."
"Subviviente." A word heavier than anything they've said so far. A title I don't understand, but it reeks of hierarchy, inequality… and something broken.
"What exactly does being a Subviviente mean?" I ask.
"I cannot explain it," Magdia whispers, barely trembling. "It would be sacrilege. A certain punishment… or worse."
I try to apologize, but both flinch at the thought, so I change tactics.
"Then bring someone who can explain it," I order.
They bow with clear relief.
Hours later, Magdia returns carrying a white-bound book, handling it with almost sacred reverence. She sets it in front of me without a word and leaves.
I run my fingers over the cover. I don't expect it to answer my questions, but something about this house, this body, and these people… doesn't fit.
And if no one intends to explain it to me, I'll have to uncover it myself.Because something tells me this place is far more dangerous than it seems.