All fragments of the past moved in reverse, swiftly—like the wheel of fate slipping down a slope, unable to be stopped.
Until, at last, everything faded.
Lyria awoke.
She stared blankly at the room—not the chamber she remembered, nor a place she had ever expected. Its stillness was too composed, too far removed from anything she could call her own.
For a moment, she did not move.
Beside her, a maid stirred awake with a sharp intake of breath. Sweat clung to her temples, like the remnants of a dream that had yet to fully fade.
With slightly trembling hands, the maid quickly reached for a cloth and approached carefully.
"My lady…"
She gently wiped Lyria's temples, as though afraid of disturbing something fragile within her mistress.
Lyria remained silent.
Her eyes were still empty, yet no longer fixed in the same place as before.
She tried to understand the state surrounding her.
She should still be on the journey to the northern castle—the silent forest, the halted road, and the nameless attack that came without warning. All of it still lingered, like an echo that had not yet fully died within her mind.
But this room was far too calm to be a continuation of that memory.
Too intact.
Too uninjured.
Beside her, the maid sat with a pale face, her breathing not yet fully steady. The hand that had just wiped Lyria's temple still held the cloth, hesitant to move any further.
And something felt wrong.
That face.
Too young to carry the weight of time that should have already passed in Lyria's memory.
Lyria did not speak immediately. Instead, she rose slowly, her movements calm, and walked toward the large mirror in the corner of the room.
The reflection did not hesitate.
A girl stood there—younger than she remembered, with eyes that had not yet fully carried everything they should have already endured.
She lifted her hand slightly.
There was no wound.
No trace of anything that should have remained as proof of something faintly remembered.
As though certain parts of her had not yet been written.
Lyria stared for a long moment before finally speaking, her voice flat yet careful.
"What year is it?"
The maid turned quickly, as if to confirm the question had truly been directed at her.
"1309, my lady."
The number was not unfamiliar.
Precisely because of that, it felt out of place.
Lyria did not respond immediately. Her gaze lowered slightly, like someone trying to rearrange pages that no longer followed their original order.
The maid spoke again, softer this time, more cautious.
"Since Master Hazel passed away a few days ago… you have not spoken much, my lady. You have also not been resting well."
She paused briefly, then lowered her head further.
"The funeral will be held tomorrow. If you are still unwell, I can inform the head maid."
That name did not strike like lightning.
It was more like a stone sinking slowly into water that was too still—disturbing nothing on the surface, yet altering the depth beneath.
Hazel van Orness.
A name that, in her memory, had already reached its end—
yet here, it still stood in the middle of the story.
Lyria fell silent for a long time.
Not because she did not understand, but because parts of this world no longer connected the way they should.
Like a book whose pages had not merely been turned—
but rearranged without permission.
At last, she turned her head slightly.
"There is no need," she said briefly. "I wish to be alone."
The maid hesitated for a moment, then bowed obediently. Her footsteps retreated, followed by the soft sound of the door closing behind her.
The room returned to silence.
Only Lyria remained—along with the mirror, and something she could not quite name.
As though she herself had just been placed at the beginning of a story she had already lived through to its end.
Lyria did not accept this situation as something to be contemplated slowly.
She moved quickly back to the bed, then without hesitation threw herself onto it.
The motion was not graceful, nor planned—more like someone testing whether the world would still respond to her presence.
Her face pressed into the pillow, lingering there until her breathing felt muffled. As though by shutting out sight and sound, she could test whether everything around her would disappear as well.
But nothing changed.
She pulled back slightly, then pressed down again—harder this time, more certain, as though she were arguing with her own body.
Still the same.
Lyria remained in that position for a moment, her breathing gradually returning to a steady rhythm, though her thoughts had not.
Only then did she slowly sit up.
Her hand touched the fabric beneath her, feeling its texture—cool, real, unwavering.
As though confirming through touch what she could not yet grasp through memory.
And for the first time since she awoke, she did not try to seek an answer.
She only confirmed that she was still… somewhere that could not simply be denied.
She had turned back time.