Chapter 1: The Reflection.

She felt the morning's damp chill prickle her skin — not unlike the sudden bite of a plucked lute string. Ninka stepped out of the pinewood and into the clearing that ringed the lake. She walked to the water's edge, glancing about to make sure no one was watching — aside from the birds, who were too caught up in their chorus to notice.

What she sought to hide was known to two people. She intended to keep it that way.

She filled the buckets she'd brought and set them down. Then she crouched beside the water, her gaze locking on her reflection. The girl in the lake smiled faintly, crooked teeth showing, and untied her ponytail. Her blue hair — the unmistakable mark of her people — spilled over her shoulders like ink in water.

For a moment, she traced the shape of her features in the rippling surface, trying to commit them to memory. Then she closed her eyes and summoned her mother's image. A shiver passed through her, and for a moment, a heat welled up inside her like the glow of a forge — only to vanish, leaving a hush of cold in its place.

Maybe I'll get used to this eventually, she thought.

She remembered the first time the sensation had struck her — the panic, the short breath, the conviction that she was dying. Somewhere between the dread and the outrage, she had clung to her mother's face like a prayer. That was when she had discovered the Celestial's gift.

Just like that time, the face reflected now was no longer her own, but that of a grown Elisian woman: sleek violet hair, vivid scarlet eyes, elegant features shaped by the old blood of the imperial south. Ninka studied her mother's face in the lake, looking for traces of herself — and found few. Her own nose was softer, her cheeks rounder, her expression less poised. She didn't consider herself ugly, just... ordinary. Nothing about her face demanded a second glance — aside from her bright blue hair, which shouted her ethnicity louder than her mouth ever could. Still, she was grateful for the part that came from her father — his pragmatism, his sense of measure. That, at least, was something she could use.

Enough of this, she thought, brushing the notion away like cobweb. It's foolish.

She braced for the return of the sensation. There was no other way — she had to endure it to return to her form. Once again, she scanned the woods, then shut her eyes.

"Curses and bedbugs!" she hissed as the shift wracked her.

Her limbs trembled, her stomach churned, but she held. Her father used to say that pain, repeated often enough, became background noise. Maybe there's truth to that, she thought.

Just as she steadied herself to rise, something struck her hard between the hip and lower back. She yelped and fell forward, face-first into the lake. Mud closed over her hands like a hungry mouth. She groped and kicked against the sludge, finally surfacing with a gasping breath, soaked and sputtering, her hair plastered to her face like wet ropes.

And there he was. Ivan, the blacksmith's brat, laughing his rust-colored head off, red all over and proud of it. For a heartbeat, she wasn't sure if her vision had gone crimson from rage, or if it was just the sun catching his flaming hair. His father, Sivant, was Hellanian — once enslaved by the Elisians, freed through merit, and now serving as assistant to the blacksmith of Lord Ivanove's estate. The Hellanios, desert-born and hard-scarred, stood apart from the far-skin toned people of Rājmir with their sun-darkened bronze skin and flame-bright hair.

Ninka flung a wave of water into Ivan's face with a sharp flick of her fingers. As he sputtered, she lunged. In moments, she had him on the ground, straddling his chest and delivering a series of furious, uncoordinated punches to his ribs and shoulders.

But Ivan, older and sturdier, recovered quickly. He grabbed her wrists and rolled, pinning the scrawny girl to the grass with infuriating ease.

"Twig! Rabbit teeth!"

he snarled, one eye already swelling.

"Rust-head! Idiot!"

she spat back, mud-streaked and wild, thrashing beneath him.

"You two should probably get married first,"

a voice called gently.

They both froze, heads snapping toward the speaker in perfect synchronicity. The fight evaporated like mist in morning sun.

"Would you mind lending me my friend for a few minutes?" said the young woman with a teasing gleam in her eye.

"You can resume your... courtship later."

"I— I mean, of course, m'lady,"

Ivan stammered, flushing darker than ever.

He scrambled to his feet, eyes fixed dutifully on the ground, though they flicked upward once — and only once — toward the noblewoman.

It wasn't just rank that turned boys into stammering fools around Lady Vasilissa Ivanove. At seventeen, her name had filled more proposal scrolls than any temple recordkeeper could count. Her beauty wasn't just rare — it was whispered about. Her hair and brows bore the soft pink hue of flower petals, a trait seen only in the southernmost lands of Novam Domum — south of Helleim. Among Elisians, Rajmirians, and Tirnoguish, it appeared as rarely as albino fawns in the high woods. Her father, Lord Andrej Ivanove, was legendary for rejecting suitors with such aggressive flair that he'd insulted half the eligible nobility.

Ninka rose, watching Ivan fumble his way off. She couldn't help but marvel at the way people moved around Lissa — not just with deference, but with awe, as if they feared the very air around her would remember their clumsiness.

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With a spark of mischief and taking advantage of Ivan's temporary confusion, Ninka swiftly slipped her thin legs between his and shoved him into the lake. The cold water swallowed him with a muffled splash, but Ninka didn't wait to see him resurface. Instead, she turned to Lissa with a sly grin.

"Shall we?"

Lissa, momentarily surprised, let out a soft laugh before replying,

"You first."

Still chuckling, the young noblewoman picked up one of the water buckets to help her friend.

The two walked together across the plains leading to Ninka's modest cabin, nestled at the edge of the forest where she lived with her mother.

"It's impressive, really—your power to mesmerize people with those big, pale eyes of yours. Even if, my lady, weren't of noble birth, you would still have loyal subjects."

Ninka's voice carried a teasing lilt as she dipped into an exaggerated bow.

"Not this again!"

Lissa groaned, looking down with a half-smile, her cheeks tinged pink.

"I've told you before, that's nonsense. You should hear how the other noble girls speak to me,"

she added, a hint of indignation creeping into her voice.

Ninka stopped walking, set the bucket down, and crossed her arms to fend off the morning chill.

"If it were anyone else, I'd say you were playing dumb. But since it's you, I know you're just innocently clueless. They treat you poorly because they envy you—your beauty. They know that if any suitor they desire ever turned his attention to you, they wouldn't stand a chance."

She spoke with conviction, despite never having dealt with noble girls other than Lissa. But she had heard enough stories from her mother, filled with tales of aristocratic scheming and pettiness.

"You didn't see them,"

Lissa countered, furrowing her brows.

"They're all beautiful, dressed in fine foreign silks, gliding when they walk, always knowing everything that happens in the Elisian Empire. Besides, they don't need to worry about me. There's only one person who has truly caught my interest. And that's what I came to talk to you about."

Ninka narrowed her eyes, intrigued.

"Now, that's new! Someone finally managed to catch your interest... and your father's approval?"

"Only the first one, unfortunately,"

Lissa sighed, a hint of resignation in her voice.

"He's just a hunter."

"What do you mean, 'just a hunter'?"

Ninka asked, tilting her head slightly, as if searching for another meaning in the words.

"Oh, Ninka! A hunter—what else is there to understand? A hunter, just like your father was. His name is Numa, and he lives in Kustovka."

"I thought you liked your family. Do you really want to be disowned that badly?"

Lissa sighed, set her bucket down, and took a few steps away. She walked to a nearby tree and leaned against it, arms crossed behind her back. For a few seconds, she stared at her shoes before finally speaking.

"I'm in love. Do you understand what that means?"

"No,"

Ninka replied flatly.

"I've heard about it for a while now, and it doesn't sound like a good thing."

"How can you say that!?"

Lissa frowned, genuinely shocked.

"I mean, your parents loved each other, right?"

"Well, my father used to say he loved my mother, but he also said he wasn't in love with her. To him, those were two different things... something I never understood. As for my mother... it's hard to say. I remember a time when she seemed to care about him and about me, but I don't know if it was real or if I dreamed it."

Lissa lowered her gaze, visibly affected by Ninka's words.

"That's so sad,"

she said softly.

"Do you really believe your mother doesn't care about you?"

"Maybe. But not in the way you imagine."

"Then how?"

"She cares about not being embarrassed by me. If I leave home, she doesn't lose sleep worrying about my safety. But she does wonder what I might be doing to bring more shame and judgment upon her."

A long silence followed. Lissa stared into the distance, gripping her own shoulder as if seeking some kind of comfort.

"I... I don't know what to say."

"Then don't,"

Ninka replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Just tell me what you came here to talk about."

Ninka's firm tone put an end to the awkward pause. Lissa took a deep breath, as if gathering courage, then lifted her gaze, determined to finally say what had brought her there.

"I want you to take my place at the Harvest Festival,"

she blurted out, as if forcing the words out before they could gain too much weight.

"What?" Before Lissa could answer, Ninka had already put the pieces together.

"You want me to take your form and pretend to be you while you run off to meet your beloved. Are you planning to elope with him?"

"No!"

Lissa shot back, flustered.

"I just want to see him, that's all!"

"And then what? What's your plan? You can't sneak off to meet him in secret for the rest of your life."

"I don't know! I don't have a plan—I haven't thought that far ahead,"

she admitted, turning her gaze away, defensive.

"You haven't thought at all."

"True, I haven't. I felt. Which, let's be honest, is far more meaningful and deeply satisfying."

Lissa was now smiling, clearly pleased with her own logic.

"Deeply foolish, if you ask me,"

Ninka muttered, her expression filled with disapproval.

"Oh, Ninka, don't be so harsh with me. I'm a friend in need, asking for your help."

Lissa stepped closer and wrapped her arms around Ninka from behind, her warm smile brimming with ulterior motives. Meanwhile, Ninka's face twisted in sheer distaste, as if her friend's touch was even more unbearable than the cold wind, her damp clothes, or the bruises from her fight with Ivan.

"You're a friend who's never known need, digging a hole for yourself and asking me to throw dirt over you."

"Well then!"

Lissa released her and struck a dramatic, authoritative pose.

"I suppose I'll have to invoke my position as the noble heir to these lands."

An unexpected laugh burst out of Ninka, the first in a long time.

"Oh, Lissa, we both know you couldn't harm a fly,"

she said between chuckles.

"And let's be honest, there's no threat you could make that would scare me more than whatever your father and mother would do to me if they found out I helped you with this madness."

Lissa swallowed hard and sighed, leaning back against the tree, her gaze lost in some uncomfortable void.

"Fine. Maybe I can't bring myself to hurt others,"

she admitted.

"But you're not the kind of person who could just stand by and let something bad happen to me, either."

She turned to face Ninka, her voice filled with quiet determination.

"Tomorrow, I'm meeting my dear Numa, no matter what. I'll leave a dress in the abandoned hut at the edge of the village. If you don't want me to be disowned—like you just said—you know what to do."

She studied Ninka for a moment, as if trying to etch her reaction into memory, then turned on her heel and ran off the way they had come, leaving no room for argument.

And there Ninka stood—cold, drenched, disheveled, bruised, and now, more than ever, irritated and confused.

"Why must they be so irrational?"

she thought, adding her mother to the list.

"Father, I finally understand why you enjoyed solitude so much."