The moment Lady Media Eastward opened her eyes, I knew something was wrong.

  I had seen her sick before—when she had fevers as a child, when she sulked for days after losing the prince’s attention, when she threw tantrums after failing to impress her father.

  But this was different.

  I had served Lady Media since she was eight years old. I knew her moods, her habits, her every demand. She was spoiled but clever, impatient but sharp—a noble lady raised to believe she would one day rule beside a prince.

  And yet, as she sat up in bed, her green eyes held something foreign.

  Not sleepiness. Not annoyance.

  Fear.

  She didn’t recognize me.

  Not in the way a person forgets a servant’s name, but in the way someone wakes up in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers.

  "My lady, are you feeling unwell?" I asked, stepping closer.

  She blinked, eyes darting toward me. Her fingers dug into the silk sheets, gripping them so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

  "What… day is it?" she asked.

  I hesitated. That was not a normal question.

  "The ninth day of Lumina, year 920, my lady," I answered cautiously.

  She stiffened, her breathing slow and deliberate.

  For a long moment, she just sat there, silent.

  Lady Media was never silent.

  ---

  I expected my lady to act normal soon after, to shake off whatever strange thoughts she was having.

  But she didn’t.

  When she finally left her bedroom, her movements were too careful, too hesitant.

  The way she walked—as if memorizing every step, every corner of the estate.

  The way she stared at the paintings in the hallway—ones she had passed a thousand times before.

  The way her fingers trailed along the marble columns, like she had never touched them before.

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  Lady Media always moved with confidence. When she walked, it was with pride, her heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm that announced her presence before she even spoke.

  Today, she walked like a guest in her own home.

  Like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin.

  I watched her closely, my stomach twisting.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  ---

  I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

  As we passed through the halls, the other servants took notice.

  "Did you hear? Young mistress woke up weird today." one whispered behind me.

  "She looks… different."

  "She hasn’t insulted anyone today. That’s new."

  It was true.

  Lady Media was known for being demanding.

  If a dress had a single wrinkle, she would complain. If a dish was too hot or too cold, she would send it back. If a maid took too long to lace her corset, she would snap.

  Today, she hadn’t complained once.

  She wasn’t sulking. She wasn’t scowling.

  She was watching. Listening. Calculating.

  As if she is a different person

  And that, I realized, was far more terrifying.

  ---

  Dinner that evening was silent and heavy.

  Lady Media sat at the long dining table, shoulders tense, her gaze carefully controlled.

  At the head of the table, Duke Edric Eastward sat with his usual unreadable expression.

  He was a man of power and calculation, his dark green eyes sharp enough to cut through lies and half-truths.

  "Media." His voice was deep, steady.

  Lady Media looked up immediately. "Yes, Father?"

  I felt the weight of the pause that followed.

  The Duke studied her, his gaze flickering ever so slightly, like he had caught something off about her response.

  "Your engagement is an alliance between House Eastward and the royal family," he continues. "You must ensure the prince sees your value. This is not about feelings—this is about securing power."

  Normally, Lady Media would light up at this news.

  She would sit straighter, smirk with pride, and gloat about how she would one day become the future queen.

  This time, she only stared at her plate.

  I saw her fingers tighten around her fork.

  "I understand," she said finally.

  Her voice was even, measured.

  The Duke’s wife brows lifted slightly.

  Across the table, the step wife sips her wine delicately, watching her with a curious glint in her eyes.

  "You seem quieter than usual, dear," she muses. "I expected more excitement from you about your engagement."

  She offers a small, polite smile and replies."I am simply tired from today."

  That wasn’t an answer.

  Duke Edric Eastward was a ruthless man, one who believed in power and legacy above all else. He did not care for his daughter’s emotions, only her usefulness.

  And yet, for the first time in my years of serving him, I saw something flicker behind his cold gaze.

  Suspicion.

  --

  Duke Pov

  The dinner continued, but the mood had shifted.

  Lady Media was speaking less. She was listening more.

  And every time she answered a question, the Duke watched her like a man piecing together a puzzle.

  It wasn’t just her behavior.

  It was the way she held herself. The way she chose her words carefully, as if afraid to misstep.

  The way she avoided looking at him directly.

  For the first time, he did not see his arrogant daughter sitting across from him.

  He saw a stranger.

  And Duke Edric Eastward did not trust strangers.

  ---

  Maid Pov

  After dinner, I followed Lady Media back to her chambers, my mind racing.

  She moved differently. She spoke differently.

  She even breathed differently.

  And in those quiet moments, when she thought no one was looking, her expression would darken.

  She would stare at her hands. At the mirror. At the moonlight streaming through her window with a look that I could only describe as grief.

  Why?

  What was she mourning?

  It was as if she had lost something.

  As if she knew something the rest of us did not.

  For all the years I had served her, this was the first time she truly terrified me.

  Because I realized something—

  Lady Media Eastward is not the same girl she was yesterday.

  And whatever changed her…

  She isn’t telling us.