Chapter 3
Abigail's POV
The voice pierced through the darkness like a lifeline thrown into deep water, soft and warm, accompanied by a gentle pressure on my shoulder that felt almost unbearably real.
"Miss, wake up. Miss, wake up, it's time for breakfast."
My eyes snapped open, heart pounding so hard it hurt. What should have greeted me was the cold, oppressive stone ceiling of the dungeon—but what I saw instead were dark wooden beams carved with familiar patterns. Sunlight poured through gauze curtains, painting everything in soft gold.
I sat up abruptly, the motion so fast my vision went black for a moment, hands instinctively clutching the sheets beneath me—silk. Smooth, delicate, not the rough prison straw that had scraped my skin raw. My fingers trembled slightly as they moved slowly across the fabric, testing its reality. Then I saw her.
"Orchid?"
The name left my lips as barely more than a breath. She stood beside my bed, wearing that simple gray dress she always wore for morning duties, her dark hair braided perfectly. Her face—gods, her face—lit up with that familiar gentle smile, the one I'd thought I'd never see again.
"I'm here, miss," she said softly, reaching for the cup of water on the bedside table. "Would you like some water? You look very pale."
I could only stare at her, my mind shattered into a million pieces.
Orchid—the Orchid who'd been accused of theft three months before my eighteenth birthday. The Orchid I'd found hanging from a beam in her room the next morning, her neck broken, her eyes still open.
I remembered how I'd screamed until my voice gave out, how I'd searched through every ledger, every corner, trying to find proof of her innocence. And then failed.
"Miss?" She frowned, taking a concerned step forward, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. "Are you feeling unwell? Should I fetch the healer?"
My hand shot out before I could control it, almost lunging forward, gripping her wrist tightly. Her skin was warm, her pulse beating steadily beneath my thumb. She was real, flesh and blood, standing here alive, looking at me with those soft brown eyes, the worry in them growing heavier with each passing second.
What kind of afterlife is this?
The thought spilled from my lips almost automatically, my voice so hoarse I barely recognized it: "So this is... what the afterlife looks like. At least I get to see you again."
"Miss?" Orchid's other hand lifted, gently touching my forehead, her palm cool and tender. "What are you saying? Are you still dreaming? You're speaking nonsense."
Her voice sounded muffled in my ears, as if wrapped in cotton, because I'd already lowered my head, staring fixedly at my own hands, turning them over and over in the morning light. The skin was smooth, delicate, no trace of the burns that should have been there, no blistered flesh, no charred fingertips.
I raised my left hand and pinched hard at the soft skin on the back. Pain exploded instantly, forcing tears from my eyes.
"Miss, stop!" Orchid gasped, grabbing my wrist and pulling my pinching hand away. "Why would you hurt yourself like that?"
"How old am I?" The question burst from my chest, urgent to the point of rudeness. I grabbed her shoulders, feeling my fingertips trembling with the force, unable to control it. "Orchid, tell me—how old am I right now?"
She was clearly startled, blinking, but still answered obediently: "Seventeen, miss. You just celebrated your birthday last month. Don't you remember?"
The laugh that erupted from my throat sounded half-mad even to my own ears, mixed with wild joy, disbelief, and some kind of tearing relief that made my chest ache. I released her and covered my face with both hands, my fingertips touching clean, smooth skin.
Seventeen. Not dead. Not burned to charcoal. Not a half-phantom soul caught between life and death.
I came back.
The realization hit like a hammer blow to the chest, nearly knocking the breath out of me. Somehow, impossibly, I'd been given a second chance.
I looked up at Orchid again: the small scar above her left eyebrow from a childhood fall; the way her right hand would unconsciously smooth her apron when nervous; the gentle patience in her eyes that had made me feel safe my entire life.
She was alive.
If she was alive, if I'd truly been thrown back to before everything went wrong—then maybe, this time, I could save her. Maybe I could save myself too.
But I had to be careful. Whatever had brought me back—absurd magic or divine intervention—I couldn't waste it on recklessness and impulse.
I forced myself to take deep breaths, letting my racing, chaotic thoughts slow down bit by bit.
"I'm sorry," I finally spoke, forcing what I hoped looked like a merely shaken smile. "I had a nightmare. A really terrible one. I think I'm... still not quite recovered."
The tension on Orchid's face instantly softened, concern slowly melting into sympathy. "Oh, miss." She sighed gently. "No wonder you look so frightened. Here—"
She picked up the cup from the bedside again and pressed it into my hands: "Drink some water. You'll feel better."
I took the cup, my fingers still trembling slightly, and brought it to my lips. The water was cool and clean, without any strange taste. I drank in large gulps, almost greedily feeling it slide down my throat, as if it could wash away the phantom taste of char and smoke that lingered on my tongue.
When I lowered the cup, I noticed Orchid watching me with that "she wants to say something but is hesitating" expression.
"What is it?" I asked, my voice much steadier now.
"The Luna asked me to tell you she's coming to see you this morning," Orchid said carefully. "She said she made some pastries especially for you."
A suppressed bitterness rose to the root of my tongue. Those pastries, the poison that had been slowly devouring me throughout my past life.
Anger surged in my chest, hot and sharp. I could feel it almost burning through my veins. "How thoughtful of her," I said, tasting the faint ashen bitterness in my words.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor made my body instantly tense, every muscle rigid with instinctive alertness. Orchid immediately stood up, nervously smoothing the creases in her apron, moving toward the door: "That must be her now, miss. Should I—"
Before she could finish, the door was gently pushed open, and there she stood.
Evelyn wore a deep burgundy silk gown today, the color of old congealed blood, with exquisite gold embroidery at the collar and cuffs that glinted in the morning light. Her dark hair was arranged in an impeccable updo, secured with jeweled pins.
Everything about her silently proclaimed wealth, status, and—the perfect image of a considerate, family-loving Pack Luna.
When she saw I was awake and sitting up in bed, her face immediately broke into that warm, gentle smile. She lifted the small basket covered with white cloth in her hand: "Good morning, darling. I heard you didn't sleep well last night, so I specially made your favorite honey cakes. I thought they might cheer you up."
I looked at her, feeling something slowly tear open in my chest. This woman had raised me. She'd fed me, dressed me, taught me how to smile, how to curtsy, how to become a "proper Pack lady."
When I fell, she wiped away my tears. When I was sick, she held me. When I woke from nightmares, she sang me lullabies.
And she had been slowly poisoning me all along.