Chapter 2: A Character Who Ahould Be Dead

Nyra kept her movements steady, but her thoughts whirled like a storm behind her eyes.

The gown clung too tightly, the corset felt unnatural, and the corridor outside her room was a gilded nightmare of symmetry and silence. Velvet carpets muffled her footsteps as she wandered, pretending to know where she was going. Every passing servant bowed or curtsied with rehearsed precision. No one questioned her presence—not yet.

But she questioned it.

She didn’t belong here. She was supposed to be dead.

In A Crown of Silver and Flame, the character Nyra Veilborne had a single scene at a royal luncheon—quiet, forgettable, poisoned by accident when a cup meant for the heroine had been misdelivered. Her death sparked a series of protective measures around Elira, the beloved protagonist. No one mourned Nyra. No one remembered her.

She had read that chapter three times to be sure. There had been no ambiguity.

But here she was, alive, and worse—she could feel the weight of existence in this place. The marble underfoot. The dry scent of ancient books behind the closed doors. The faintest pull, as if the world was testing her, trying to decide if it should accept her.

A knock at her door earlier had brought with it a maid named Alis, who, although polite, seemed almost unnerved by her presence.

"You’re… feeling better today, my lady?" she had asked hesitantly.

Nyra had nodded, unsure how the original Nyra Veilborne behaved. “I believe so.”

Alis’ eyes darted away. “That’s… good. The steward will be expecting you in the south drawing room shortly.”

“Why?”

Alis had hesitated. “To discuss your travel arrangements. You’re due at the Royal Academy in two days.”

The blood drained from Nyra’s face. The Academy? In the book, she never made it that far. She died before the carriage ever left the estate.

She was already off-script.

Now, walking through the manor’s vast hallways, she tried to recall the book’s layout. The Veilborne estate had only been mentioned once, briefly. No map, no detailed description. Just vague references to an old bloodline fallen from favor. A noble house no longer politically relevant.

So why am I still alive?

She turned a corner and found herself in a dim hallway where sunlight broke through stained glass, casting fractured colors onto the stone. A mirror hung on the far wall—one she hadn’t seen before.

Her reflection stared back, but something was wrong.

Just for a breath of a moment, the image flickered. Her own face blurred, and another took its place: older, prouder, silver runes curling over pale skin like ink come alive. A woman she had never seen before—but felt like she knew.

Her breath caught.

And then the reflection returned to normal.

She reached out with trembling fingers, touching cool glass. “Who am I really?” she whispered. “And why did they erase me?”

No one answered.

But somewhere deep in the house, a grandfather clock struck once—loud, echoing, final.

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