Witchland

WITCHLAND

CHAPTER 1

The pearlescent shades of my scar reflected the sunlight.

That mark on my wrist was the indelible memory of my first time riding a bicycle.

While my mother held me by the shoulders, I felt safe. But when she let go, panic seized me: I found myself disoriented, unable to react. The bike—or perhaps I was the one—swerved, and I fell. Don't ask me how, but I got that scar right there.

Ever since my mother died, I often caught myself staring at it, and sometimes I found myself touching it for no real reason. Her death was the reason I was in the woods that day, hiking. I had decided to set off on an adventure of my own: crossing Europe on foot, with little money and no precise plan.

My father had approved of the choice, calling it brave. My two sisters, on the other hand, had asked me if I was crazy.

Fuck them both.

I left.

I had been walking for hours by then and had finally found the right rhythm. Small shivers ran down my arms and spine; I blamed the sensation on the cool air against my sweaty skin.

I stopped to drink when something caught my attention.

In the middle of the forest, a tree bent into a perfect circle and wrapped in lush ivy had formed a natural moongate.

My mother and I used to build similar ones, and every time we passed through them, pretending they would take us to other places, other dimensions.

Lost in the memories, I approached that masterpiece. For a moment, after so many years, I allowed myself to become a child again… and I walked through it.

The air suddenly grew denser. The sounds of nature intensified, and the forest seemed to change before my eyes: darker, more lush, alive in a way that was familiar to me and yet not entirely. “What the fuck…” I whispered. My hand instinctively went to the scar, as if searching for an anchor of protection. Everything around me seemed the same, and yet changed: the tree crowns were thicker, the green leaves shinier, the moss-covered trunks gleamed in the light filtering through the branches, and the damp air carried with it the intense scent of earth and wet leaves.

A distant rustle, then the clatter of hooves and shouting broke the silence.

A tingling along the back of my neck made me shiver: that tingling I always felt before danger. I crouched behind a bush, muscles tense, breathing short, heart pounding in my chest.

The forest seemed to be watching me, ready to reveal what was coming.

Immense figures emerged from the wilderness: horses.

But they were no ordinary horses—black as pitch, with sharp teeth protruding from their jaws and white, empty eyes, cold as ice. Their heads were lowered, their ears alert, their steps silent yet threatening, as if they were sniffing every breath in the air. Instinctively, I looked up and had to cover my mouth with both hands to keep from screaming.

On their backs were terrifying riders: dressed in worn, dirty clothes, with sagging skin that was almost decomposing, and white, malicious eyes identical to those of their horses. Some carried swords attached to belts of worn leather, others spiked maces, while still others carried bows and arrows.

A freezing shiver ran down my spine as they slowed and advanced slowly, one step at a time; the forest seemed to hold its breath along with me.

The horse of the man in front stopped where I had been moments before.

It lowered its muzzle and insistently sniffed the air, scraping the ground with its front hoof.

The man in the saddle yanked on the reins.

The horse snorted, annoyed, and took a step forward.

For a moment I hoped it had sensed only the scent of a wild animal.

But that hope shattered when it raised its head and its sharp teeth appeared just inches from my face.

My heart leapt into my throat.

My breath stopped in my chest.

A scream escaped my lips.

The horse neighed and thrashed, as if something were forcing it to move.

Behind it, the men emitted guttural, low, disordered sounds. Not words. Sounds.

They moved.

The swords were drawn with stiff, uncoordinated movements.

One of the grunts was louder than the others, and the others answered almost immediately.

I stumbled backward blindly, lost my balance, and rolled down the slope.

I landed on my side, the pain in my ribs knocking the air from my lungs.

I got back up unsteadily and started running, without knowing where I was going.

The trees blurred before my eyes, all alike, all wrong.

I threw myself behind a huge pine and crouched down, my hands trembling as I tried not to make a sound.

I heard them approaching.

Heavy footsteps.

Low sounds answering one another in the darkness.

I closed my eyes, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.

The footsteps passed beside me.

Then beyond me.

I remained motionless for a long time, unable to move.

When I finally opened my eyes again, the forest was silent once more.

I peeked out from my hiding place.

I saw no one.

I moved forward slowly, careful not to snap branches or dry leaves, and climbed over the brambles with clumsy movements, my hands trembling. The silence weighed on me more heavily than the noises before.

I wondered what those creatures were.

The thought slipped away immediately, smothered by fear.

A dark shadow suddenly appeared in front of me.

A black horse emerged from between the trees, so close that I had to stop abruptly. It raised its head, and its sharp teeth glittered in the light filtering through the branches.

My breath caught in my throat.

I spun around to run…

and realized there was no room. Shadows everywhere. Too close.

Something touched my back.

The cold metal pressed between my shoulder blades.

I slowly raised my hands, my arms rigid, my body tense as though one wrong movement might break me. “Okay… I’m not moving,” I murmured, my voice thin, my mouth dry.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, unable to stop trembling. “Who are you?”

A guttural sound rose behind me.

Then another.

Low, distorted sounds that made me shiver.

The horse stamped its hoof. Around me, the figures moved, tightening the circle. I felt hot breath on the back of my neck, an acrid smell that turned my stomach.

I tried to speak again, but no one answered.

An arm rose in front of me.

The blade flashed for an instant.

Panic exploded in my chest.

I instinctively shielded myself, pulling my arms in front of my body, eyes closed, ready for the blow.

The metallic clang of one blade striking another broke the silence with a sharp, threatening sound.

I opened my eyes and saw, incredulously, that the zombies had been stopped by a man: they fought furiously, blows making the sword recoil, hooves and claws scraping the ground.

My heart leapt into my throat. I didn't know who he was, but my only certainty was that, for a moment, I was no longer alone.

The newcomer held out against the zombies' attacks, but you didn't need an expert eye to understand that he would soon be overwhelmed.

He turned toward me, advancing with determined steps.

“Let's go!” he shouted.

His voice pulled me out of my panic. Adrenaline exploded inside me, and together we started running as fast as we could.

We jumped over trunks, dodged branches, took sudden shortcuts, every step a risk, every leap a gamble for our survival.

Then, suddenly, a sharp pain pierced my shoulder like a burning blade.

My arm stiffened, my skin burned, and a living fire spread along the entire nerve, making me double over for a moment. My breathing became short, my heart pounded, and an involuntary moan escaped my lips.

“Fuck!” my savior swore. “Come on, come on! We'll deal with it later!”

He grabbed my hand firmly, and the contact was a mixture of warmth and strength. His grip tightened around mine, taking some of the weight of the pain away, and for a moment the burning sensation became bearable, replaced by a shiver that ran down my back, from my neck to my fingertips. My heart was still racing, but I felt the steadiness in his hand: he was my anchor, the only certainty in that chaos.

He dragged me through the forest without hesitation. Every step was torture, the pain pulsing and vibrating with every movement, but with his hand holding mine I felt incredibly grounded, capable of moving forward.

My heart pounded in my ears, my throat burned, and my eyes filled with tears.

After a run that seemed endless, he finally stopped.

“Come,” he whispered, pointing to a hidden corner among the bushes.

Behind them was a crack in the rock, barely wide enough for one person to pass through.

We entered.

Darkness wrapped around us like a heavy cloak.

We remained still, waiting for the zombies to reach us, but the silence remained.

When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could make out the walls of the cave: not huge, but not suffocating either. It was enough to hide us and catch our breath… at least for now.

“Can you hold on for a moment?” he asked in a whisper, referring to my shoulder.

“I think so… yes,” I answered, trying to sound strong, even though every fiber of my body screamed in pain.

The air inside the cave was cool and damp, filled with the smell of rock and moss. While we waited, I tried to divert my mind from the constant burning and assessed the situation: I had escaped from disturbing monsters, been saved by a stranger, and was now sitting with him in a dark cave, who knew in what remote forest.

“We lost them,” the man sighed, his voice low but firm. “We'll stay here a little longer. I'll get some wood for the fire and some herbs to treat you.”

“Okay… but who were those things?” I asked, trying to remain calm.

“I'll explain later. Now sit down and…”

The sentence remained unfinished. Maybe I didn't really hear it. A wave of weakness overwhelmed me, my knees gave way, and the world suddenly seemed far away.

I lost consciousness.

When I woke up, the cave was lit by a small fire a short distance away from me.

I tried to sit up, but a mental fog kept me from moving with any coordination.

“No,” the man stopped me. “Don't move quickly, avoid exertion. If your heart rate increases, the poison will spread faster and the antidote isn't ready yet.” He pointed to a bowl filled with steaming liquid.

“Poison?” I squeaked, my voice trembling.

“Don't worry. It will be over soon.”

Despite my still-blurred vision, I managed to focus on the stranger. His short hair curled into black ringlets like the night, his expression serious, his blue eyes catching the flickering glow of the flames and returning it intensified, hypnotic.

And yet it wasn't only his presence that made me tremble. A strange sensation ran across my skin: like a slight tingling, a sudden, mischievous warmth that seemed to come from him. It wasn't pain or fear, but something subtle and powerful, a shiver that made me tremble from the top of my neck down my spine. The air around him seemed dense, alive, charged with a tension I couldn't define, and yet I perceived it clearly, instinctively.

“I'm Drake.” He introduced himself in a calm voice.

“Sam,” I replied, trying to maintain control. “Thank you for saving my life… That monster was almost going to kill me.”

Drake watched me with intense curiosity, his head tilted slightly to one side.

“You're welcome… but I haven't saved you completely yet,” he finally said, glancing toward the arrow.

I lowered my eyes to my injured shoulder. The arrow was embedded halfway, its broken shaft protruding from the flesh. Blood had already stained much of my shirt, sticking it to my skin in an unsettling way. I hadn't forgotten about it: the constant, throbbing pain was more than enough of a reminder of its presence.

I looked around, still shaken. “Who… who were those monsters? And where are we?”

“Those creatures,” Drake began in a low voice, “are beings infected by the sorcerer's power. A powerful mage who is creating chaos on Witchland.”

“Witchland?” I repeated, confused.

Drake remained still for a moment, thoughtful, then spoke: “The planet you're on… is Witchland.”

“I can start removing the arrow,” Drake continued immediately.

He bent slightly and pulled clean bandages and a small cloth from a leather pouch fastened to his belt. Then he moved closer to me.

My heart leapt into my throat. “Wait…” I pleaded, my voice more fragile than I would have liked. “Please, try not to hurt me.”

His lips curved slightly, in a hint of a dangerously mischievous smile. “I have gentle hands,” he said softly.

My face heated instantly. A sudden warmth slid along the inside of my thighs, unexpected, out of place. I swallowed, confused and embarrassed. It must be the poison, I told myself. It had to be. It couldn't be anything else.

I slowly removed my shirt, careful not to move my injured shoulder too much. Drake froze for a moment, then moved closer again.

His gaze was rigid, focused exclusively on the arrow embedded in my flesh, as if nothing else existed. And yet I felt every inch of his closeness. His scent reached me clearly: warm skin, leather, burning wood… something clean and wild at the same time. It was a masculine smell, reassuring and terribly attractive, that made my head spin slightly.

For a moment I thought I saw his hands tremble. Only for a moment. Then he composed himself.

“Breathe slowly,” he murmured.

He began to pull the arrow out slowly, with controlled movements. The pain exploded, sharp and piercing. A moan escaped me before I could stop it.

Drake paused slightly. “When you do that… you distract me,” he said quietly.

I blushed even more and clenched my teeth, trying to suppress every sound. The pain was unbearable, but I didn't want to be the reason he hesitated. After a few endless seconds, I felt a sudden relief.

The arrow was out.

He immediately pressed the cloth to the wound, then cleaned it with quick but careful movements. Taking a thick substance with a pungent smell from the now-lukewarm bowl, he began spreading it over the wound.

It burned.

A living, fierce fire that made me flinch.

“It's normal,” Drake said calmly. “If it burns, it means the antidote is working.”

I nodded, breathing with difficulty, while he continued until the entire area was covered. Finally, he took the bandages and carefully wrapped my shoulder, tightening them enough to stop the bleeding without hurting me too much.

When he finished, he stepped back slightly.

And only then did I realize how close he had been.

And how painfully aware my body had been of it.

To avoid his gaze, I turned away, and only then noticed that Drake had prepared two makeshift beds from leaves and intertwined branches.

How out of it must I have been not to notice them before? I thought.

“Sam, you need to rest now,” he ordered me. “The antidote won't work immediately, and you're very likely to develop a fever.”

He stood up, remaining slightly hunched forward. He was tall—at least six feet—and the cave couldn't quite contain his height. As for me, I could have jumped and still not come close: beside him, I looked tiny.

“I don't need to rest,” I retorted, almost offended. “I need to find a way home.”

I tried to stand, but my legs betrayed me without mercy. I remained seated, huffing.

“You can't move,” Drake pointed out calmly. “You're injured and poisoned. Besides, it's dark, and even for me it would be difficult to move through the forest.”

“Okay. Fine,” I replied, halfway between irritation and resignation.

I lay down on the bed of leaves with my arms crossed. I didn't feel tired—in fact, I felt strangely lucid, energized, as if my body were fighting something.

Shortly afterward, however, the pain in my shoulder returned. More muted than before, but constant, persistent. My eyelids began to grow heavy and I tried to resist for a few more minutes.

Then I gave in.

And darkness took me with it.

I woke in the middle of the night with a moan I didn't recognize as my own.

My body was heavy, limp, as if it no longer belonged to me. My thoughts came muffled and distant, and my head throbbed with a dull pain. My skin was on fire and my mouth was dry, yet I was shivering.

Cold.

I was terribly cold.

Violent shivers ran through me, shaking me from head to toe. My teeth began chattering uncontrollably. I tried to move, but my body didn't respond. A whimper escaped my lips.

“Sam?”

His voice came immediately, tense and alert. I heard footsteps approaching and then a warm hand on my forehead.

“Hey… look at me.”

Drake leaned over me, his eyes filled with concern. He gently lifted my head. “How do you feel?”

“I’m… cold,” I murmured, my voice broken. Another shiver ran through me, stronger than the previous one.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

I watched him pull off his shirt without hesitation. Then he carefully helped me turn onto my side, making sure my injured shoulder wasn't under any pressure, my face turned toward the fire.

He settled behind me.

He slipped one arm beneath my head, supporting it carefully, while the other wrapped around my waist, slowly drawing me against his chest. The contact was immediate.

Warm.

Safe.

“Like this,” he whispered near my ear, “you'll warm up in no time.”

His body was a barrier against the cold that was devouring me. The warmth spread slowly, steadily, melting the shivers one by one. The trembling subsided, my breathing slowed.

I could feel his heartbeat behind me, strong and steady, and that single sound was enough to make me feel safe.

My eyelids grew heavy.

I let myself go completely while his arm remained firm around me and the warmth continued to hold me together.

And I fell asleep like that, protected, supported, sheltered from the darkness.

I woke slowly, as though my body had no hurry to return completely to reality.

CHAPTER 2

Drake was still there, behind me. His hold was firm, warm, protective. The antidote had worked: the pain in my shoulder had eased, my head felt lighter, the fever a distant memory. I felt better. Enough to realize how good I felt there.

I didn't get up.

I didn't move.

I remained still, enjoying that contact that should have felt foreign to me, and yet had something inexplicably familiar about it. His presence gave me a calm I couldn't rationalize.

My thoughts slowly returned.

Witchland. A planet. Magic.

The day before, I had been too dazed by the poison to investigate further, and he hadn't seemed willing to think about anything other than keeping me alive. Now, however, those words rose to the surface again, heavy and unbelievable.

Behind me, Drake moved. He drew me even closer to him, with an instinctive, almost unconscious gesture. His face nestled into my hair and I felt him breathe in its scent, slowly, deeply.

My heart skipped a beat.

I moved then, pretending to wake at that exact moment.

Drake stiffened and immediately pulled away from me. That sudden distance caused an unexpected ache in my chest. Not a physical one. Something different.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice low and attentive.

“Better,” I replied. “My head still spins a little, but… I’m okay.”

He nodded. “Good.”

He got up with a fluid movement and added, “We'll leave soon. We have a couple of hours' walk to reach our kingdom.”

I turned slightly toward him.

“During the journey,” he continued, “I’ll explain everything to you.”

And for the first time since I had crossed that damned moongate, I understood that the answers were coming.

When we left the cave, the sunlight hit us full in the face. I squinted for a few seconds, blinded, breathing deeply in the cool morning air.

I followed Drake as he walked between the trees, still a little stiff in my movements because of my shoulder.

“Well…” he murmured, as if speaking more to himself than to me. “Where do I start…”

He walked confidently, as if the forest belonged to him.

“Witchland is a planet,” he finally said. “It is governed by witches. Here, humans and witches live in harmony.”

I stopped dead.

“Wait.”

I stared at him. “Witches?”

Drake turned, patient. “Yes.”

I burst into a nervous, brief laugh. “Okay. Perfect. Yesterday I was in a European forest, today I'm on another planet ruled by witches. Sure.”

I started walking again, shaking my head. “Tell me I'm still under the effects of the poison.”

“You're not,” he replied seriously.

The path narrowed between tall ferns and exposed roots. The silence between us was dense, broken only by our footsteps.

“Witches didn't always rule,” he continued. “A long time ago, Witchland was divided. Human tyrants ruled through force, exploiting stolen magic and innocent blood.”

“Let me guess,” I said quietly. “It ended badly.”

“Very.” Drake nodded. “The witches rebelled. They fought, defeated the tyrants, and freed the humans. At first there was distrust, fear. Then… balance.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now a sorcerer is breaking that balance.”

I instinctively brought my hand to my wrist, brushing the scar. That gesture always calmed me.

Drake noticed. His gaze lingered on my hand for a moment, then returned to the path.

“Okay,” I said after a while. “Let's say all of this is true. How did I end up here?”

He slowed. “That… I don't know.”

I looked at him. “You don't know?”

He shook his head. “But tell me something. Before you found yourself in that forest… did anything strange happen?”

I thought back to the previous day. The hike. The exhaustion.

Then the perfect circle of wood and ivy.

“The moongate,” I whispered.

Drake stopped completely. “A natural portal.”

“So that's what it was,” I said, feeling a thread of relief. “Then I can go back. I just have to cross it again.”

The silence that followed was the answer.

“No,” he finally said.

My heart dropped into my stomach. “Why not?”

“Because creating a moongate requires dark magic.”

I stopped again. “Dark magic… what kind?”

Drake inhaled slowly. “Blood magic. Sacrificial. Forbidden.”

He started walking again and I followed him, breathing shallowly.

“It consumes whoever uses it,” he continued. “It wears them down, empties them. In the end… it kills them.”

A shiver ran through me. “And why would anyone use it?”

“Because the power it grants is enormous.”

I tightened my fingers around the scar. “And the witches?”

“They live like humans,” he explained. “They are born, grow, age, and die. But a witch, after death, reincarnates. She is born again.”

I looked at him sharply. “Born again?”

“Yes. And when she is ready, she recovers the memories of her previous lives.”

Then he lowered his voice. “But if a witch uses black magic… she never reincarnates again.”

I swallowed. “Why were those… zombies… looking for me?”

Drake sighed. He stopped and turned toward me, more serious than I had ever seen him.

“What I'm about to tell you is heavy,” he said. “And you may not believe me.”

I crossed my arms. “Try.”

“You are a witch of Witchland.”

I burst out laughing. An incredulous, almost hysterical laugh. “No. Absolutely not.”

Drake didn't smile. “Yes. You are.”

“No,” I repeated. “I'm a normal girl. I come from Earth and I have zero magical powers.”

“And you also have a kingdom waiting for you after many years,” he added calmly. “A kingdom without its rightful queen.”

The world seemed to tilt.

“We need to understand,” he concluded, “why in this life you didn't reincarnate here.”

I remained silent. My hand returned to the scar, searching for something I couldn't define.

The sound of my footsteps on the wooden drawbridge echoed too loudly, or perhaps it only felt that way to me. Knock. Knock. Every plank creaked beneath my weight, vibrating up into my bones, as if the castle itself were announcing my arrival before I was ready to face it.

My heart beat irregularly in my chest. Agitated, yes. But curious too. A vivid, uncomfortable curiosity that had been digging into me ever since Drake had spoken those words. You are a witch. You have a kingdom.

I hadn't decided whether I truly believed him yet, but a part of me—the part I couldn't explain—was reaching forward, as if it were returning home before I was.

During the journey we had barely spoken. The silence had stretched between us like an invisible path, thick with things left unsaid. And yet I had felt it on me the entire time. Drake's quick sideways glances, never too obvious. As if he wanted to make sure I was still there. Or perhaps that I wouldn't fall down another cliff, real or metaphorical.

I looked up. The castle walls loomed above me, solid, ancient, indifferent to the storm inside me. I swallowed and kept walking.

Whatever was waiting for me beyond that bridge… I could no longer turn back.

“Here is your castle,” Drake stated, with a note of pride he didn't even try to hide. “To the south, the city stretches out.”

I didn't answer.

Not because I didn't want to, but because my brain seemed to have refused to cooperate.

Everything in front of me was new—and yet terribly familiar. Like a place visited in dreams a thousand times and recognized only now, while awake. The towers, the walls, the way the light slid across the stone… everything gave me a strange feeling of déjà vu, making my head spin more than any poison.

I felt like I was on a school trip that had gone terribly wrong. No children, no teachers. Just me, an enormous castle, and a man as handsome as paradise whom I'd met the day before casually telling me I was the queen of all this.

Every time the thought crossed my mind, I felt a hysterical laugh rising inside me.

Me? Queen?

I shook my head slightly, as if that could put things back where they belonged. “You do realize, right,” I finally murmured, without taking my eyes off the walls, “that this sounds completely insane.”

“It is inherent to human nature to consider something mad or dangerous when we don't understand it,” Drake stated. “I think I would find some of your customs impossible too.”

I thought about it.

It made perfect sense.

I imagined Drake on Earth, trying to use a smartphone. The thought made me smile to myself.

When we fully crossed the threshold, the castle opened onto a large square. The paving was beige tuff stone, in perfect harmony with the walls. Small paths leading to the various areas branched out all around, bordered by low, meticulously maintained hedges. In the center, an imposing and silent protagonist, stood an enormous fountain that sent sprays of water several meters into the air.

Everything was clean. Ordered. Cared for.

“This place doesn't look like it needs a queen,” I joked.

Drake tilted his head slightly.

“When a witch dies and reincarnates, time passes before she grows and regains the memories of her previous lives. That is why a substitute ruler is appointed, who will give the position back to the rightful queen when she proves that she has regained her memories.”

“A sort of caretaker government, then.”

“Caretaker government?” he repeated, frowning.

“Never mind,” I cut him off, dismissing the subject with a wave of my hand.

Then I stopped.

“Wait. You said this is my kingdom, right?”

“Right.”

“And how does it work in my case?” I asked. “I don't have any memories of previous lives.”

Drake stopped a few steps away from me.

“Perhaps your time here will help you remember.”

I stared at him.

“Why do I get the feeling you don't believe that either?”

He inhaled slowly. “Because the fact that you reincarnated on another planet is… anomalous.” He hesitated for a moment, as if the words weighed heavily in his mouth. “I'm afraid your memories may take time. Or struggle to return. Or…” He stopped. “Or perhaps never return.”

Previous lives.

In that moment I felt as though a fundamental part of me had been lost. I had no memories to miss, and yet knowing that I should have had them—and that they might be gone forever—made me feel suddenly alone.

“Do I have to reclaim my kingdom?” I finally asked, looking for something solid to hold on to.

“Yes.”

His tone was firm, unshakable. “Now that you're back, everything will return to the way it was.”

His eyes settled on mine. They were certain, determined. They seemed to know with certainty something I still couldn't even imagine.

And, inexplicably, they gave me a strange sense of trust.

I joked then, more to draw attention away from him than because I truly meant it:

“Well, Houston… we have a problem,” I said, realizing too late that Drake wouldn't understand the joke.

“What kind of problem?” he asked seriously.

“You said a witch can regain the throne only when she remembers,” I replied, panic beginning to creep in. “And what if those memories stay blocked? How am I supposed to rule a kingdom? I'm not capable. I'm not qualified.”

Drake stiffened slightly. It wasn't anger, nor true annoyance, but something subtler. As if those words had struck a point that was obvious and untouchable to him.

“You're not capable?” he repeated softly, incredulous.

He took a step toward me, his gaze steady. “You have already ruled this kingdom. You have already made decisions, you have already protected your people. The fact that you don't remember it now doesn't erase what you were.”

I swallowed, not knowing what to say.

“Your soul knows,” he continued. “Power can sleep, memories can be lost… but what you are does not disappear.”

His tone softened slightly without losing its strength.

“You learned once. You'll learn again.”

He said nothing more.

He simply turned and gestured for me to follow.

We crossed the main entrance of the castle and finally went inside the building. I found myself immersed in a continuous succession of corridors, stone arches, and large rooms illuminated by towering windows. Every step echoed across the floor as if the place itself wanted to remind me that I wasn't a simple guest.

During the journey, many people stopped when Drake passed. Armored warriors, servants, busy-looking men and women. They all nodded to him, greeted him respectfully, some even offering a sincere smile.

It was obvious that he was known and respected.

I, on the other hand, attracted a different kind of attention.

Eyes widening, hands freezing in midair, mouths opening without a word coming out. Some simply stared at me as though they were looking at a ghost; others quickly lowered their eyes, almost intimidated.

I felt a strange weight in my chest.

This is how they see me, I thought.

Not as Sam. Not as a confused girl with a still-painful shoulder.

But as something they had believed was lost.

I met the gaze of an elderly woman standing along the wall. She watched me with tear-filled eyes, one hand pressed against her chest. When our eyes met, she slowly bowed her head.

I swallowed.

I continued walking beside Drake, trying to ignore the increasingly insistent feeling that this castle… recognized me.

My mind tried to reject it, to categorize it as suggestion, but my body seemed to disagree: it responded on its own, sending electric shivers along my spine and beneath my skin.

We passed enormous rooms and endless corridors, where every step echoed against the cold stone, amplifying the silence and suddenly making me feel out of place. At last, we stopped in front of a door.

Drake placed his hand on the smooth wooden surface.

“This is your room…” he began. His voice cracked slightly. “It has remained just… just as it was the last time.”

Even though I had known him for less than a day, I sensed something moving inside him. An ancient, layered pain, like anguish dragged through years without ever finding peace.

For a moment our eyes met. I allowed myself to remain anchored in his eyes, just for a moment, long enough to feel that weight inside me too. Drake stiffened, then looked away and pretended to clear his throat.

He opened the door and stepped aside.

Letting me enter first.

I entered.

The room was enormous, yet it didn't overwhelm me. It was as if it had been designed to welcome me, not impress me. The bed occupied the central part, large and solid, with a dark solid-wood frame that seemed to have witnessed more than one lifetime. The sheets were light, simple, pulled tight with a care that wasn't ostentatious.

On the opposite wall, a large fireplace dominated the space. Unlit, but alive. The kind you imagine burning even when it isn't, capable of warming a room simply by being there.

The outer wall was almost entirely occupied by tall, arched windows, stretching upward as if they wanted to chase the sky. Light entered generously, filtered through light curtains, making the air soft. In the center, a matching French door opened onto a large balcony running the entire length of the room, promising space, breath, silence.

I moved slowly, as if afraid of disturbing something.

There was a desk, not imposing but lived-in. On it, pens neatly arranged beside an inkwell, sheets yellowed by time, some folded, others worn at the corners. The chair wasn't simply a chair: it was an armchair. Comfortable. Welcoming. The kind you don't sit in to write two lines, but to stay for hours.

I imagined myself in that room, in another time. In front of the mirror, getting dressed for an important event. Steady hands, familiar movements. No hurry, no hesitation. As if I knew exactly who I was and what awaited me beyond those doors.

I looked more closely at the objects around me. There were precious details, yes, but they didn't dominate the space. The rest was made of things chosen for what they meant, not for how much they were worth. Small objects, books, fabrics, silent memories.

That detail struck me more than anything.

I recognized myself.

And without realizing it, I brought a hand to the scar.

I continued walking, brushing my fingers over the surfaces, the wood, the stone, the fabrics. I searched for a memory, just one. But only sensations came: a knot in my stomach, goosebumps along my arms, that unsettling familiarity that couldn't explain itself.

Only then did I realize Drake had remained in the doorway.

He stood there, motionless. His gaze fixed on me, so full of melancholy that he seemed on the verge of breaking beneath my eyes. For a moment I truly thought he was falling apart.

Then he composed himself abruptly.

“How… how do you feel?” he asked. His voice was hoarse, betrayed by emotion.

“You mean whether I have any memories?” I replied, turning toward him.

I shook my head. “No. Nothing. Just… sensations.”

He nodded slowly. Then he pointed to two doors on either side of the room.

I opened the first.

It was a large, orderly walk-in closet, organized with the same logic as the bedroom. Lavish clothes made of fine fabrics, clearly intended for ceremonies and important events. Beside them, more understated cloaks, but heavy with meaning, that spoke of rituals, long nights, and ancient power. There were also trousers, T-shirts, and sweaters, simpler, well-worn clothes, alongside sturdy boots and shoes of different styles, some elegant, others clearly designed for walking long distances.

I ran my fingers over the fabrics. Velvets, wool, embroidery. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining myself choosing what to wear, aware of the weight of every choice. I felt a shiver run down my spine.

I opened the other door.

The bathroom opened before me, large and bright, lined with pale stone. Two sinks stood side by side along one wall, while an enormous bathtub was set in farther, surrounded by smooth surfaces and carefully arranged candles.

And then I saw it.

I leaned out of the bathroom, sticking my head just far enough toward the bedroom.

“…Do you have a toilet?” I asked incredulously.

Drake, still standing in the doorway, blinked.

“The… bathroom.”

“Oh.” I nodded seriously. “The bathroom. Okay.”

A suspended silence. Then I had to hold back a laugh.

I slowly returned to the room, back to the center.

Everything was there.

And yet I wasn't there yet.

“I won't introduce you to the king yet,” Drake said firmly but calmly. “First you need to process everything you've discovered.”

“But I can handle it perfectly well!” I protested, crossing my arms.

“No.” He cut me off without taking his eyes off me. “For now, I'd rather take you outside the castle.”

I felt an irritating flash of annoyance. I hated the way he decided what was best for me.

We left the inner walls and found ourselves in a world maintained with almost obsessive precision: green, perfectly trimmed lawns, hedges shaped like sculptures, immaculate paved roads. Every detail spoke of the pride they took in their kingdom.