Chapter 5

At dawn, before the castle had fully awakened, Lyria was taken from the room in silence and brought to the Avelaine family’s country estate—a discreet residence surrounded by high gardens and far from prying eyes.

There, within walls that guarded old secrets, the lessons began.

Hidden from the rest of the staff, the young noblewoman and the usurper stood face to face, separated only by fate, repeating gestures, words, and silences under the knight’s strict supervision. Day after day, Lyria learned to walk like a lady, to hold a gaze without defiance, to incline her head with the exact measure of respect, while Elinor corrected every mistake with urgency and barely concealed nerves.

And over time—much to everyone’s surprise—Lyria began to move through the estate as if she had always belonged there.

She walked the corridors with quiet confidence. Sat at the table with natural grace. Returned greetings with a gentle ease no one questioned.

The maids, accustomed to obeying without asking, did not seem to notice the change… or perhaps, without understanding why, they accepted that the girl with the soft smile was, without a doubt, the lady of the house.

⸻

The water was hot.

Not warm. Not merely pleasant.

Truly hot.

Lyria went still as she was lowered into it, up to her waist, her eyes wide, lips parted slightly—as if her body did not yet know whether this was a gift or a trap.

“My lady?” one of the maids asked, concerned. “Shall we lower the temperature?”

“No,” Lyria answered almost immediately. “It’s… it’s perfect.”

It wasn’t.

It was too much. The heat climbed her skin like an unfamiliar embrace, but she didn’t want it taken away. Never in her life had anyone cared about the temperature of water for her.

Steam drifted through the air, fogging the mirrors. The scent of perfumed oils tickled her nose, making her head feel light. She closed her eyes carefully, afraid that if she opened them, it would all disappear.

“It’s like…” she murmured. “Like stepping into a dream.”

The maids exchanged glances. One frowned slightly.

“My lady,” she said cautiously, “you must mind your words.”

Lyria opened her eyes at once.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“It is not proper to express yourself that way.”

“Oh…” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ll try… to speak less.”

She lowered her gaze, embarrassed, sinking her hands deeper into the water to hide the faint tremor in her fingers.

It wasn’t just fear.

It was the feeling of walking on thin ice, unsure where it might break.

Lady Elinor.

That was who she was now.

She could not forget, not even for a moment, that the name did not belong to her.

A maid stepped behind her with a ceramic pitcher.

“Please tilt your head.”

Lyria obeyed, and when the warm water flowed through her hair, a small sigh escaped before she could stop it.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It won’t happen again.”

“You have done nothing improper,” the woman replied, though her tone remained stiff.

As gentle hands washed her hair, Lyria thought of the river. Of the freezing water that stole her breath every winter. Of beating clothes against stone. Of cold seeping into her bones.

This was… another world.

“Is it always…” she dared to ask, “always like this for ladies?”

“Like what, my lady?”

“With warm water. Perfumes. People who help.”

An awkward silence followed.

“Yes,” the maid answered at last. “It is normal.”

Lyria smiled faintly to herself.

Then normal is wonderful, she thought.

⸻

When she stepped out of the bath, wrapped in soft fabrics, she barely felt her feet touch the ground. The cool air made her shiver, but they surrounded her immediately—drying her, brushing her hair, speaking in low voices as if she were made of glass.

They led her to a large chest.

When it was opened, Lyria pressed a hand to her chest.

Dresses.

Dozens of them.

Colors she had never seen together. Fabrics that shimmered like sunlight on water. Embroidery so delicate it looked woven from light.

“All of them…?” she asked, unable to finish.

“They belong to my lady,” a maid replied.

Lyria let out a small, nervous laugh.

“I think I would need another lifetime just to try them all.”

No one laughed with her.

She bit her lip.

“I’m sorry. I forget I shouldn’t joke.”

They dressed her carefully. The corset stole her breath for a moment, and she nearly asked them to loosen it—but remembered that a lady did not complain.

When the gown was secured—pale blue with silver threading—Lyria turned to the mirror.

The girl staring back at her did not look like a peasant.

She looked… important.

“Is that really…” she whispered. “Is that me?”

A maid cleared her throat.

“My lady is beautiful.”

Lyria lowered her gaze, flushed.

“Thank you.”

They placed simple but elegant jewelry upon her. Styled her hair with care. Every movement was slow, deliberate—like crafting something sacred.

“You must take shorter steps,” one instructed. “Do not swing your arms.”

“Like this?” Lyria tried, stepping too wide.

“Smaller.”

“Like this?”

“Slower.”

A small laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

“It’s harder than carrying grain sacks,” she murmured.

“My lady?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing important.”

Hours passed.

She learned to sit without collapsing, to incline her head instead of lowering it completely, to keep her hands still. Each correction was a small wound to her nature—but she accepted them with a careful smile.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

But because she wanted to survive.

⸻

When the knight finally entered, the air seemed to tighten.

Lyria was practicing a curtsy when she saw him in the mirror. She turned at once.

“Is this right?” she asked. “I think I didn’t fall this time.”

He watched her.

For a long time.

His eyes traced the dress, the posture, the hair… and then her face.

The same face that belonged to another.

“It works,” he said at last.

Lyria released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“I’m glad,” she said softly. “I was afraid that… I wouldn’t be enough.”

“You are,” he replied neutrally. “As long as you remember your place.”

She nodded.

“I will try.”

⸻

That night, she was alone.

The room was vast. The bed too large for one person. The sheets smelled faintly of dried flowers. Lyria sat carefully, touching everything as if afraid it might break.

She was afraid.

Of the king.

Of morning.

Of saying the wrong thing.

Of forgetting who she was supposed to be.

But she also thought of the bath. The dress. The food she had tasted without guilt for the first time.

“Maybe…” she whispered into the quiet, “maybe I can find good things here.”

She lay back, staring at the high ceiling.

“If I have to be someone I’m not…” she closed her eyes, “I’ll try to do it well.”

She smiled—though her eyes were damp.

Lyria the peasant.

Lyria the false lady.

She did not yet know…

that her smile would be the most dangerous thing she would bring to court.