The first sensation was breath – a ragged gasp drawn into lungs that felt tight, unfamiliar, followed by the franticvrhythm of a heart hammering against ribs. Darkness receded not into the soft familiarity of her royal chambers, but into a harsh, grey light filtering through eyelids that felt heavy, gritty. Consciousness returned like a plunge into icy water, shocking and disorienting.
"Where... where am I?" Valerie whispered, the sound rough and unused in the cramped, unfamiliar space, barely audible over the frantic beating of the heart she now inhabited.
"Vera! Vera, you're awake!" A woman's voice, thick with emotion, broke through her daze.
A wave of dizziness washed over Valerie as she turned her head slowly, trying to focus on the face leaning close – work-worn, tear-streaked, utterly unknown. She pushed herself upright, the straw pallet beneath her scratching against unfamiliar skin. She instinctively pressed a hand to her forehead – a hand that was calloused, nails chipped, entirely unlike the smooth, cared-for hands she remembered as her own.
A dream, she thought, a desperate, clinging hope forming even as the squalid reality pressed in. It must be a dream. That awful pain… the assassin… Sylvia… Clara… The images were vivid, terrifyingly real, yet they swirled with the unreality of a nightmare.
Beside the woman, a man, equally weathered, his face etched with worry that was now giving way to overwhelming relief, stepped forward.
"My child! My brave girl!" the woman cried, sinking to her knees beside the pallet, her calloused hand reaching out to touch Valerie's cheek. "We thought we'd lost you, we truly did! The fever… it was so fierce."
"A miracle," the man rasped, his voice thick. "The healer said there was no hope, but look at you! Sitting up! Talking!"
Valerie stared at them, her mind reeling. These people… she didn't know them. Their clothes were coarse, their small dwelling – a single, cramped room with earthen floors and a smoky fire pit – was a world away from the gilded chambers of Eldoria Castle. "What happened?" she managed again, her voice still weak.
"You're home, Vera, child. Home with your mother and father," the woman said gently, stroking her hair. "You've been so sick, burning with fever for two days. We feared the worst."
"Vera?" The name felt alien on her tongue, a costume she was being forced to wear.
"But… my name is Valerie. I am… I am Queen Valerie." The words sounded absurd even to her own ears in this setting, looking at these kind, impoverished strangers.
The woman and man exchanged a worried glance. "Hush now, child," the man said softly, his brow furrowed with concern. "The fever must still be addling your wits. You're Vera. Our Vera. Always have been."
"No!" A surge of panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her confusion. "This isn't right! I remember… a dagger. Poison. My study…" She looked down at her hands again, the rough peasant smock she wore. "This isn't my body! These aren't my clothes!" Her voice rose, tinged with hysteria. "Where are Sylvia and Clara? I need them!"
"Shhh, shhh, Vera, dearest," her supposed mother cooed, trying to soothe her. "It was just a bad dream, the fever dreams. So vivid, they can be. You need to rest now. Rest and get your strength back."
"But it wasn't a dream!" Valerie insisted, tears welling in her eyes. "It was real! I was… I was attacked!" The memory of the searing pain, Ainsworth's face… it was too clear, too visceral to be a mere figment of a fevered imagination. Yet, here she was, in this hovel, in this strange body, with these people claiming her as their own.
"You need to lie back down, child," the man said firmly but kindly. "The healer said plenty of rest. We'll get you some broth when you're stronger."
Distress warred with an overwhelming exhaustion. Her new body felt weak, drained. The memories, so sharp and royal, felt like they belonged to someone else, yet they were hers. With a sob of confusion and despair, she allowed them to gently push her back down onto the straw. Sleep, or perhaps unconsciousness, pulled at her, and the strange, terrifying reality faded once more into darkness.
The next morning, Vera awoke to the smell of woodsmoke and something else… something vaguely rotten. Sunlight, thin and grey, filtered through a small, grimy window. The small, one-room hut was even more stark in the daylight. Poverty clung to every surface: the cracked clay pots, the threadbare blankets, the rough-hewn, unsteady table.
Her "mother," whose name she learned was Martha, was tending a small, sputtering fire, stirring something in a dented pot. Her "father," Jon, was mending a fishing net by the doorway, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Ah, you're awake, Vera," Martha said, turning with a tired smile. "Feeling a bit stronger today, child?"
Vera sat up slowly, her body aching. The memories of the previous night, her confusion, the insistent claims of these strangers, rushed back.
"I… I still don't understand," she said, her voice hoarse. "Why am I here? How did I get here?"
Martha sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. "You collapsed in the market square two days ago, child. Burning with fever. Jon carried you home. We've been nursing you ever since." Her eyes were filled with a genuine maternal concern that only confused Valerie further.
"The market square?" Valerie frowned. She had never been to a common market square unattended in her life. "But… my life is in the castle. I am the Queen."
Jon looked up from his net, his expression patient but weary. "Vera, child, we've been over this. The fever did a number on your mind. You live here, with us. Always have. You help your mother with the washing for the inn, and sometimes you sell wildflowers by the fountain when they're in bloom."
Valerie scoffed, shaking her head vehemently. "Washing? Wildflowers? That's… that's absurd! I attend council meetings, sign trade agreements, inspect the Royal Guard! I don't scrub linens for pennies or peddle weeds by some fountain!"
Jon sighed heavily, setting aside his net for a moment, his gaze deeply troubled. "Vera, listen to yourself. A fever makes people see strange things, yes, maybe monsters under the bed or hear voices on the wind. But how does a fever make a simple fisher's daughter believe she's Eldoria's Queen? It makes no sense, child. It's just... madness talking. Please," he added, his voice lowering, laced with worry, "don't say such things again. It's not right. It worries your mother sick, and... well, it's best not to draw attention with such wild talk, especially now, with things being how they are."
Martha exchanged another worried look with Jon before turning back to Valerie, her tone gentle but firm. "Vera, please, you're frightening us. Council meetings? Guards? That's just the fever talking, like tales from a bard. Remember helping me fold the sheets just last week? And how proud you were of the silver coin you earned selling those cornflowers near the west gate?"
Valerie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to reconcile the conflicting realities. "Sheets? Cornflowers? No! I remember the weight of my crown, the feel of silk gowns against my skin, the scent of beeswax candles burning late in my study... not this!" She gestured wildly at the rough hut around her.
Martha brought over a wooden bowl filled with a thin, greyish gruel and a cup of murky-looking water. "Here, child. You need to eat. Get your strength back. Maybe then these strange notions will pass."
Valerie looked at the bowl with undisguised revulsion. The gruel smelled faintly sour, and she could see bits of unidentifiable grit floating in it. The water in the cup looked as though it had been scooped from a puddle.
"I… I can't eat this," she said, her stomach churning. "This water… is it clean?" In the castle, she drank clear, cool spring water, ate freshly baked bread, roasted meats, delicate fruits.
Martha's face fell. "It's all we have, Vera. The rains have been scarce, and the well is low. And food… well, Lord Ainsworth's new taxes hit us poor folk hard. This is good grain, mostly."
"Lord Ainsworth?" Valerie's head snapped up. "He… he is on the throne?" The implication hit her like a physical blow. If Ainsworth was levying taxes, it meant… it meant they thought she was dead. He had succeeded.
"Took over right quick after the Queen… well, after she passed," Jon said grimly, not meeting her eye. "Sad business, that. She was a good Queen, they say. Not like this one."
Valerie felt a cold dread seep into her. Passed? They thought she was dead. This body, this life… it was all that was left of her. She looked at the offered food again. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, a raw, peasant hunger she had never known. Swallowing her disgust, driven by a primal need to survive, to understand, she took the bowl.
She brought a spoonful of the gruel to her lips. The taste was as bad as it smelled – bland, slightly sour, the texture gritty. She managed one swallow before her stomach revolted, and she leaned over the side of the pallet, retching violently.
Martha rushed to her side, patting her back. "Easy, child, easy. Your stomach is still weak from the fever."
Once the heaving stopped, Vera – she had to start thinking of herself as Vera, if only to navigate this nightmare – wiped her mouth with the back of her unfamiliar hand.
"Tell me," Vera said, her voice weak but determined, looking at Martha and Jon. "Tell me everything. About… Vera. About this place. About what has happened in the kingdom. I need to understand."
She had to grasp any piece of information, any clue that could help her make sense of this impossible, terrifying new reality.