Ivoyn awoke without a sound.
There was no breath drawn, no shift of the body—only the slow opening of her eyes as the faint light of morning settled across the room. The ceiling above her was still, unchanged, marked by a thin crack running along the wood.
She stared at it.
Time passed quietly.
Then her gaze drifted.
To her side.
The sheets were disturbed.
Not by much. Just enough to notice.
An indentation.
Wrinkled fabric.
Empty.
Her hand moved, brushing against the space beside her. The surface was cold—completely cold. No trace of warmth remained.
Her fingers lingered there.
Still.
Something was wrong.
A feeling pressed faintly against her chest, distant and unclear. Not pain. Not fear.
Just absence.
Her fingers curled slightly into the sheet.
A memory surfaced.
Fragmented.
A girl.
Brown hair, soft, resting past her shoulders.
No face.
Only a shape where one should have been.
And yet—
A voice.
"Find me again, Ivoyn."
The words echoed faintly, like something carried from far away.
Her lips parted.
"…Who…"
The word fell apart before it could fully form.
Silence followed.
The feeling faded, slipping back into something unreachable.
Ivoyn sat up.
The motion was slow, deliberate, as if guided rather than natural. Her body followed, but not with ease—each movement quiet, controlled.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the wooden floor.
Cold.
She did not react.
Across the room, the mirror stood still.
Waiting.
Ivoyn looked at it for a moment before rising to her feet.
She approached in silence.
Step by step.
The floor creaked softly beneath her, the sound quickly swallowed by the stillness around her.
She stopped in front of the mirror.
Looked.
The girl in the reflection stood as she did—upright, unmoving.
Whole.
At a glance.
But not up close.
Stitches traced along her cheek, uneven and dark against pale skin. More wrapped around her neck, disappearing beneath her collar, binding her together where something had once come apart.
Her eyes remained fixed on the reflection.
Quiet.
Her hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing against her cheek. She followed the line of thread without hesitation.
There was no pain.
Only awareness.
Her fingers moved to her neck, resting lightly against the stitches there.
Still nothing.
She lowered her hand.
For a moment, she remained still.
Watching.
Waiting.
"…I'm here."
The words were soft.
Uncertain.
They did not change anything.
The reflection remained the same.
Ivoyn turned away.
---
The cloak rested near the bed.
She picked it up, slipping it over her shoulders. The fabric fell into place, heavy enough to conceal, familiar enough to wear without thought. The hood followed, shadowing her face, hiding what should not be seen.
She adjusted it once.
Then stepped toward the door.
---
The inn below was already alive.
Voices overlapped, laughter echoing between walls, the clatter of dishes blending into a steady rhythm. Warm air carried the scent of food and fire, filling the space with something she could not feel.
Ivoyn descended the stairs quietly.
No one looked at her twice.
Just another traveler.
She moved through the noise without disturbing it, settling into a corner where the light barely reached.
A meal was placed before her.
She looked at it briefly.
Then began to eat.
Slow.
Measured.
Not out of need.
Out of memory.
"…You always pick the darkest corner."
The voice came easily.
Warm.
Familiar.
Ivoyn did not look up immediately.
Roi had already taken the seat across from her.
He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over it, watching her with a relaxed ease that did not belong to her world.
"You know," he continued, glancing around, "there are better spots. Windows, sunlight… people."
No response.
Ivoyn continued eating.
Roi smiled faintly.
"Still ignoring me. That's fine."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin in his hand.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Silence.
He tapped the table lightly with his fingers.
"No guild work today," he said. "Figured I'd take a break."
He paused, watching her.
"…Thought I'd spend it here."
Ivoyn's hand paused briefly before continuing.
Roi noticed.
His smile remained.
"I heard something," he added. "About the royal family."
A slight shift.
Almost nothing.
But enough.
"The second princess," he said. "Sylia Revon."
The name lingered.
"She's been showing up in strange places. Slipping past guards. People don't know how she's doing it."
He shrugged lightly.
"Some think she's just reckless."
A pause.
"Others think something's wrong."
Ivoyn's movements slowed.
"They say she has brown hair," Roi added, his tone casual. "Hard to miss."
Brown hair.
The words echoed quietly.
And with them—
A voice.
Find me again, Ivoyn.
Her hand stopped.
For a moment, the noise around her faded into something distant.
A figure.
Close.
Gone.
Ivoyn lowered her gaze.
"…Ivoyn?"
Roi's voice softened slightly.
She blinked once.
The feeling slipped away.
"…Nothing."
Roi watched her.
For a moment longer than usual.
Then he exhaled, leaning back again.
"You always say that," he said lightly.
His tone lifted again, as if nothing had changed.
"But hey, if a mysterious princess with brown hair shows up and changes your life, I'm taking credit."
Silence.
A pause.
"…You won't," Ivoyn said quietly.
Roi blinked.
Then laughed.
"There it is."
He shook his head slightly, smiling.
"Guess you are listening."
Ivoyn said nothing.
Roi continued talking, filling the space with small things—stories, passing thoughts, things that didn't need answers.
He didn't stop.
He never did.
And Ivoyn listened.
Quietly.
The food in front of her remained unfinished.
And somewhere deep within the hollow space of her memory—
Something stirred.
Not fully.
Not clearly.
But enough.
Waiting.