Saanvi sat on the edge of the grand bed, her fingers twitching over the embroidered fabric of her lehenga. The softness of the silk was unfamiliar, but not more than the identity she now wore. The air smelled of jasmine, incense, and something else—ancient, heavy, like history pressing in from all sides.
It had been a day since she woke up in this strange world, inside the body of someone called Adira.
Everywhere she turned, people called her “My Lady.” They bowed, obeyed, and spoke of customs and rules she didn’t understand. The language was familiar, but the behavior was straight out of a historical drama. She wanted to believe this was a dream—a vivid, exhausting dream. But the pain she felt when she bit her lip, the warmth of the sun on her face, the taste of the food—it was all too real.
She had asked for a mirror.
The reflection staring back at her was not the woman she had known. The face was younger, softer—large doe eyes, a gentle mouth, and a faint scar above the brow. The scar struck her. It wasn’t hers. It belonged to Adira.
The maid Davi—quiet and obedient—answered only what she could. “My lady was unwell… the fall left everyone worried. But you are better now.”
What fall?
Saanvi dug through the little information she could gather. Adira was a concubine. One of three being sent to the king. The eldest, Mayuka, came from the same family. The third, Meera, was from another noble house. But Adira… Adira was the quiet one. The forgotten one. And now she was dead.
And Saanvi was in her place.
The realization came like a wave crashing down her chest. Someone had died—maybe been murdered—and she was now wearing their skin. It was horrifying.
“I need answers,” Saanvi whispered to herself, standing up.
She had to be careful. She couldn’t risk exposing herself as someone else, not until she knew the rules of this world. If people believed she’d lost her memory—or worse, her mind—she might be locked away or worse. From what little she gathered, the palace was not kind to the weak.
She wandered toward the large terrace. The view of the palace grounds was breathtaking—tall white stone walls, courtyards bursting with marigolds, guards marching in formation, concubines walking in silent grace, and peacocks strutting across the inner garden.
Below, she saw Mayuka. Dressed in bright orange, surrounded by maids, laughing as if the palace belonged to her. She was alive and thriving—unlike the frightened girl Saanvi imagined from Adira’s memories.
Did she do it? The question burned in her mind.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the sheer curtains. Saanvi turned sharply, her body still tense, still foreign.
Tomorrow, she was told, she would be presented before the king.
And she would finally see the man whose world she had been thrown into.
But tonight, she would stay quiet, observe, and survive.
Because whoever killed Adira might still be watching.
Saanvi sat on the edge of the grand bed, her fingers twitching over the embroidered fabric of her lehenga. The softness of the silk was unfamiliar, but not more than the identity she now wore. The air smelled of jasmine, incense, and something else—ancient, heavy, like history pressing in from all sides.
It had been a day since she woke up in this strange world, inside the body of someone called Adira.
Everywhere she turned, people called her “My Lady.” They bowed, obeyed, and spoke of customs and rules she didn’t understand. The language was familiar, but the behavior was straight out of a historical drama. She wanted to believe this was a dream—a vivid, exhausting dream. But the pain she felt when she bit her lip, the warmth of the sun on her face, the taste of the food—it was all too real.
She had asked for a mirror.
The reflection staring back at her was not the woman she had known. The face was younger, softer—large doe eyes, a gentle mouth, and a faint scar above the brow. The scar struck her. It wasn’t hers. It belonged to Adira.
The maid Davi—quiet and obedient—answered only what she could. “My lady was unwell… the fall left everyone worried. But you are better now.”
What fall?
Saanvi dug through the little information she could gather. Adira was a concubine. One of three being sent to the king. The eldest, Mayuka, came from the same family. The third, Meera, was from another noble house. But Adira… Adira was the quiet one. The forgotten one. And now she was dead.
And Saanvi was in her place.
The realization came like a wave crashing down her chest. Someone had died—maybe been murdered—and she was now wearing their skin. It was horrifying.
“I need answers,” Saanvi whispered to herself, standing up.
She had to be careful. She couldn’t risk exposing herself as someone else, not until she knew the rules of this world. If people believed she’d lost her memory—or worse, her mind—she might be locked away or worse. From what little she gathered, the palace was not kind to the weak.
She wandered toward the large terrace. The view of the palace grounds was breathtaking—tall white stone walls, courtyards bursting with marigolds, guards marching in formation, concubines walking in silent grace, and peacocks strutting across the inner garden.
Below, she saw Mayuka. Dressed in bright orange, surrounded by maids, laughing as if the palace belonged to her. She was alive and thriving—unlike the frightened girl Saanvi imagined from Adira’s memories.
Did she do it? The question burned in her mind.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the sheer curtains. Saanvi turned sharply, her body still tense, still foreign.
Tomorrow, she was told, she would be presented before the king.
And she would finally see the man whose world she had been thrown into.
But tonight, she would stay quiet, observe, and survive.
Because whoever killed Adira might still be watching.
Saanvi sat on the edge of the grand bed, her fingers twitching over the embroidered fabric of her lehenga. The softness of the silk was unfamiliar, but not more than the identity she now wore. The air smelled of jasmine, incense, and something else—ancient, heavy, like history pressing in from all sides.
It had been a day since she woke up in this strange world, inside the body of someone called Adira.
Everywhere she turned, people called her “My Lady.” They bowed, obeyed, and spoke of customs and rules she didn’t understand. The language was familiar, but the behavior was straight out of a historical drama. She wanted to believe this was a dream—a vivid, exhausting dream. But the pain she felt when she bit her lip, the warmth of the sun on her face, the taste of the food—it was all too real.
She had asked for a mirror.
The reflection staring back at her was not the woman she had known. The face was younger, softer—large doe eyes, a gentle mouth, and a faint scar above the brow. The scar struck her. It wasn’t hers. It belonged to Adira.
The maid Davi—quiet and obedient—answered only what she could. “My lady was unwell… the fall left everyone worried. But you are better now.”
What fall?
Saanvi dug through the little information she could gather. Adira was a concubine. One of three being sent to the king. The eldest, Mayuka, came from the same family. The third, Meera, was from another noble house. But Adira… Adira was the quiet one. The forgotten one. And now she was dead.
And Saanvi was in her place.
The realization came like a wave crashing down her chest. Someone had died—maybe been murdered—and she was now wearing their skin. It was horrifying.
“I need answers,” Saanvi whispered to herself, standing up.
She had to be careful. She couldn’t risk exposing herself as someone else, not until she knew the rules of this world. If people believed she’d lost her memory—or worse, her mind—she might be locked away or worse. From what little she gathered, the palace was not kind to the weak.
She wandered toward the large terrace. The view of the palace grounds was breathtaking—tall white stone walls, courtyards bursting with marigolds, guards marching in formation, concubines walking in silent grace, and peacocks strutting across the inner garden.
Below, she saw Mayuka. Dressed in bright orange, surrounded by maids, laughing as if the palace belonged to her. She was alive and thriving—unlike the frightened girl Saanvi imagined from Adira’s memories.
Did she do it? The question burned in her mind.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the sheer curtains. Saanvi turned sharply, her body still tense, still foreign.
Tomorrow, she was told, she would be presented before the king.
And she would finally see the man whose world she had been thrown into.
But tonight, she would stay quiet, observe, and survive.
Because whoever killed Adira might still be watching.
Saanvi sat on the edge of the grand bed, her fingers twitching over the embroidered fabric of her lehenga. The softness of the silk was unfamiliar, but not more than the identity she now wore. The air smelled of jasmine, incense, and something else—ancient, heavy, like history pressing in from all sides.
It had been a day since she woke up in this strange world, inside the body of someone called Adira.
Everywhere she turned, people called her “My Lady.” They bowed, obeyed, and spoke of customs and rules she didn’t understand. The language was familiar, but the behavior was straight out of a historical drama. She wanted to believe this was a dream—a vivid, exhausting dream. But the pain she felt when she bit her lip, the warmth of the sun on her face, the taste of the food—it was all too real.
She had asked for a mirror.
The reflection staring back at her was not the woman she had known. The face was younger, softer—large doe eyes, a gentle mouth, and a faint scar above the brow. The scar struck her. It wasn’t hers. It belonged to Adira.
The maid Davi—quiet and obedient—answered only what she could. “My lady was unwell… the fall left everyone worried. But you are better now.”
What fall?
Saanvi dug through the little information she could gather. Adira was a concubine. One of three being sent to the king. The eldest, Mayuka, came from the same family. The third, Meera, was from another noble house. But Adira… Adira was the quiet one. The forgotten one. And now she was dead.
And Saanvi was in her place.
The realization came like a wave crashing down her chest. Someone had died—maybe been murdered—and she was now wearing their skin. It was horrifying.
“I need answers,” Saanvi whispered to herself, standing up.
She had to be careful. She couldn’t risk exposing herself as someone else, not until she knew the rules of this world. If people believed she’d lost her memory—or worse, her mind—she might be locked away or worse. From what little she gathered, the palace was not kind to the weak.
She wandered toward the large terrace. The view of the palace grounds was breathtaking—tall white stone walls, courtyards bursting with marigolds, guards marching in formation, concubines walking in silent grace, and peacocks strutting across the inner garden.
Below, she saw Mayuka. Dressed in bright orange, surrounded by maids, laughing as if the palace belonged to her. She was alive and thriving—unlike the frightened girl Saanvi imagined from Adira’s memories.
Did she do it? The question burned in her mind.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the sheer curtains. Saanvi turned sharply, her body still tense, still foreign.
Tomorrow, she was told, she would be presented before the king.
And she would finally see the man whose world she had been thrown into.
But tonight, she would stay quiet, observe, and survive.
Because whoever killed Adira might still be watching.
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