The bells of Yangola rang like a blessing.

Golden petals drifted through the air, sunlight kissed polished armor, and the temple shimmered with banners sewn for peace. Princess Kira of Yangola stood at the heart of it all—crowned, laced, painted in a thousand-year tradition. A bride, bound by duty.

And somewhere deep in her skull, voices were screaming.

“When she turns eighteen, she will awaken…”

“When she turns eighteen, she will awaken…”

They came out of nowhere—loud, cold, and impossible to ignore. Kira flinched. The floor under her heels suddenly felt unsteady. Her fingers trembled around her bouquet.

She turned to her groom, Prince Jared of Yazuma—perfect posture, perfect hair, the perfect political match. His lips moved, but the voices drowned him out.

“When she turns eighteen…”

“Kira?” Jared asked, confused.

She shook her head. “I… I just need a moment. Please.”

He stepped toward her, but Kira had already turned away, her silks trailing behind her like spilled water. She didn’t wait for permission. She just ran—past the nobles, past the guards, through the echoing halls of the palace, until she reached her chambers.

Nora, her handmaiden, was already waiting with a worried frown. “What’s wrong? Are you—?”

Kira didn’t answer. The voices were getting louder. Her vision blurred. She pressed both palms to her temples.

And then everything went dark.

⸻

Nora’s scream was the first thing she heard when she woke.

The second was her own heartbeat—loud, foreign, heavy in her chest.

Kira opened her eyes slowly. She was lying on the floor of her room, silk skirts twisted around her legs, crown knocked sideways. No—wait.

No crown. No skirts.

No her.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. Her hands looked wrong. Her arms, her chest, her voice when she asked, “What happened?”—none of it belonged to her anymore.

She ran to the mirror. Stared.

A young man stared back.

Same eyes. Same hair. Same birthmark on her neck. But everything else was different. Sharper jaw. Broader shoulders. Deeper voice.

Nora had backed into a corner, one hand covering her mouth. “Oh gods. Kira… you—you’re a boy!”

Kira stumbled back from the mirror. “No. No, this is a dream. Or a spell. Or something—this isn’t real!”

But the rough edge of her voice, the weight of her body, the cold marble beneath her bare feet—they all screamed the same truth.

⸻

“We have to fix this,” Nora said, already digging through drawers, spellboxes, anything she could find. “It’s got to be magic. A curse. A prophecy—something.”

“I heard voices,” Kira muttered. “In the temple. They said… when I turned eighteen, I would awaken.”

“Awaken into this?”

Kira laughed, but it was sharp and hollow. “Happy birthday to me.”

Nora suddenly picked up a thick old book. “Maybe if we knock you out again, you’ll change back.”

“Are you serious?”

“I mean, it’s not a bad idea—”

“It’s a terrible idea. That book could kill someone.”

“Okay, but what if it works?”

⸻

While they argued in panicked whispers, the ceremony beyond unraveled.

“She left?” Prince Jared snapped. “She just left?”

“No one’s seen her since,” a guard whispered. “She never returned from her chambers.”

King Haruko of Yazuma stood seething, his eyes narrowing into slits. “This was not a wedding. This was a disgrace. A national insult.”

Queen Reina of Yangola stepped forward, hands raised. “There must be an explanation—”

“There is,” Haruko growled. “Cowardice.”

He turned his back on the court. “This alliance is broken. And Yangola will pay for its dishonor.”

⸻

Meanwhile, in a forgotten storage room behind a sealed hallway, Kira sat curled in a cloak two sizes too big.

“I was supposed to unite two nations today,” she whispered. “Now I’m hiding in my own palace—wearing boots that don’t fit—trying not to have a breakdown.”

“You’re still you,” Nora said gently. “Just… trapped in a mystery.”

Outside, the guards searched every corner of the castle.

Inside, a lost princess with a stolen face tried to understand who—or what—she had become.