The Chick of the Hollow

The kingdom had long been governed by two forces.

White magic ruled openly, sanctioned by the crown and interwoven with law, healing, and order. It shaped the visible world: the gleaming spires of the capital, the sigils carved into courthouse doors, the soft glow that followed priests as they walked among the sick. White magic was taught in academies, regulated by councils, and celebrated in public festivals as proof of the kingdom’s righteousness.

Black magic, by contrast, existed in the margins.

It was unregulated, uncelebrated, and unnamed in polite company. Where white magic sought harmony and restoration, black magic was said to twist, corrupt, and consume. Its practitioners lived outside the kingdom’s favor—criminalized, feared, or quietly erased. If white magic belonged to daylight and banners, black magic belonged to shadow and rumor.

The kingdom told itself this division was absolute.

Among the white mages, two figures stood above all others.

Lyon, commander of the White Knights, was renowned not only for his martial skill but for the rare gift bestowed upon him at birth: the ability to read a person’s essence. With a single glance, he could discern whether a soul was pure or corrupted, untouched or tainted by forbidden forces. His judgment was final, his word trusted as truth itself. In matters of magic and morality, Lyon was the kingdom’s blade.

Beside him stood Viviana.

She was gentle where Lyon was stern, radiant where others dimmed. A white magician whose healing miracles had saved countless lives, Viviana was beloved by the people and revered by the clergy. Where she walked, the wounded rose. Where she prayed, despair retreated. Songs were written of her kindness, and children were named in her honor. The kingdom called her the Saint.

She was also Lyon’s fiancée.

Together, they embodied everything white magic claimed to be.

It was therefore unthinkable when the Saint was nearly killed.

The attack came without warning—a surge of foreign magic during a public blessing, sharp and violent enough to tear through even her formidable defenses. Viviana survived, but only barely. The city reeled. Panic spread. And the question echoed through every hall of power:

Who would dare raise a hand against the Saint?

Suspicion fell swiftly upon Rosenvell.

Born into one of the most powerful noble families in the kingdom, Rosenvell had wealth, influence, and magic in equal measure. She was known for her intelligence, her pride, and her refusal to soften herself for anyone. Court gossip painted her as sharp-tongued and difficult, a woman too ambitious for her own good.

She had also loved Lyon.

Not quietly. Not briefly. And not successfully.

When Lyon chose Viviana, Rosenvell’s affection curdled into something darker—at least, that was the story the kingdom preferred to tell. Envy, many claimed, had driven her to desperation. Jealousy had led her to forbidden studies. Bitterness had bloomed into betrayal.

When traces of black magic were discovered near the site of the attack, the conclusion was immediate.

Rosenvell was arrested.

She did not resist.

The trial that followed was swift and unforgiving. Evidence was presented. Witnesses spoke. Whispers filled the gallery. And at the center of it all stood Lyon, silent and unyielding, as he was asked to read Rosenvell’s essence.

He did not hesitate.

He declared it corrupted.

With that single judgment, Rosenvell’s fate was sealed.

She was stripped of her title, her wealth, and her protection. Branded a traitor who had raised black magic against the Saint, she was sentenced to death by hanging. The gallows were erected in the capital square, and the date was set.

The kingdom breathed easier.

Justice, it believed, had been served.

Rosenvell was placed in a stone cell beneath the capital, cold and bare, lit by a single torch that burned day and night. She was allowed no visitors. No appeals. No hope.

Time passed.

And on the night before her execution—when the guards had grown complacent and the city slept—Rosenvell did the only thing left to her.

She cast a forbidden summoning.

It was a magic outlawed even among black mages, a ritual so dangerous that most considered it theoretical rather than practical. The spell required immense power, precise intent, and the ultimate cost.

Her soul.

The summoning circle ignited, etched lines glowing with unnatural light. The air twisted. The torch guttered and died. And in that moment, Rosenvell’s soul vanished entirely—consumed by the spell she herself had cast.

Her body remained.

But whatever had once animated it was gone.

The summoning succeeded.

Something answered the call.

The entity meant to take her place arrived, drawn across worlds by a spell it did not understand, into a body it did not recognize, carrying memories it did not earn.

Which is where the narrative, unfortunately, becomes complicated.

Because the summoned entity was not a demon, nor a vengeful spirit, nor an ancient horror sealed beyond the veil.

It was not even particularly magical.

It was me.

Yes. Me.

And before anyone asks—no, this was not part of the plan. Not hers. Certainly not mine.

Imagine waking up from what you assume is a very vivid, very unpleasant dream, only to realize three things in rapid succession: one, you are not in your body; two, you are wearing chains; and three, the helpful mental slideshow playing in your head consists entirely of someone else’s life, crimes, and extremely public execution schedule.

Imagine also discovering that said execution is scheduled for tomorrow morning.

By hanging.

Publicly.

With a crowd.

I would like to say I handled this realization with dignity.

I did not.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Then I thought I was hallucinating. Then I considered the possibility that I had finally snapped under stress and invented an entire medieval legal system in my head. None of these explanations held up particularly well when I tried to stand and nearly fell over because—surprise—I was malnourished and shackled to a wall.

That was when the memories fully settled in.

Rosenvell’s memories.

Her childhood. Her lessons. Her magic. Her resentment. Her loneliness. Her discovery of something deeply, horribly wrong with the Saint’s miracles. Her desperate, final decision to cast a spell she knew would erase her.

I knew all of it.

Which raised a very pressing question.

If I had inherited her entire tragic backstory, political enemies, and death sentence—why, exactly, had I lost mine?

I knew my name. Chiara. I knew that much. Everything else was… static. Blank space. As though my life had been erased to make room for hers.

Frankly, this felt unfair.

Gods, if I had to possess another person’s life, did it truly have to be this one? Could I not have possessed someone obscure? A baker? A librarian? Astrid from Crazy Rich Asians, perhaps? Someone whose problems involved family drama and couture, not gallows and national betrayal?

But no.

Instead, I had been summoned into the body of the kingdom’s most infamous woman, one day before her execution, with nothing but her memories and none of her power.

Which meant that by morning, unless something miraculous happened, I was going to die for crimes I did not commit—using knowledge I did not ask for—in a body that came preloaded with enemies.

So yes.

That is the situation.

And that is how my story began.