The Devil's Duchess

Marcella sat up abruptly, the weight of the heavy quilt falling away from her. She blinked, her mind reeling as she took in her surroundings. The grand bed, the polished wooden furniture,—- it was all exactly as she remembered it from her youth.

Her hands flew to her stomach, expecting to feel the sticky warmth of blood or the jagged tear of her gown. But there was nothing.

She swung her legs off the bed and rushed to the mirror. The sensation sent a shiver through her body. Everything felt real. Too real.

"No," Marcela whispered, her voice trembling. "This isn't possible."

The reflection staring back at her wasn't the fallen queen she remembered. It was a girl.

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the edge of the polished glass, as if afraid of what she might see.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to look.

The girl in the mirror was a stranger.

Marcela reached up, touching her cheek as if to confirm the reflection was hers.

Her face was soft, smooth and unblemished, with a youthful glow that she had long since lost. Her cheeks were fuller, her lips naturally rosy, unpainted by the heavy rouge she had once worn as a queen.

Her silver hair tumbled over her shoulders in soft curls, unbound and free, unlike the elaborate braids and jeweled tiaras she had once adorned. Even her purple eyes—once sharp, calculating, and guarded—now seemed wide and innocent, framed by long lashes.

She took a step closer, her breath catching as she studied the girl in the mirror. This was her—Marcella Valemont. But this wasn't the queen who had worn fine silks and brocade, who had ruled with manipulation and deceit.

Tears stung her eyes as she took in the reflection. She was younger, yes, but she was also softer. 

The memory of her final moments surged to her mind—the throne room, the blood, the anguished cries of the dying. And him. Duke Berith, with his cold obsidian eyes, his strong arms wrapped around her as he plunged the dagger into her stomach.

Marcella squeezed her eyes shut, her hands clutching the edge of the mirror as her knees threatened to give out. The phantom sensation of the dagger's blade burned in her stomach, so vivid it made her gasp.

Suddenly, the ringing of a bell broke through her thoughts. It was the church bell, its familiar chime marking the morning prayers.

Marcella turned toward the window, the sound grounding her in the present. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped toward the large, arched window. The pale curtains fluttered gently in the breeze as she pushed them aside, her gaze falling on the world outside.

It was alive.

The sprawling gardens of her father's estate stretched out before her, bursting with vibrant greenery. The cobblestone paths were lined with blooming roses, their red and pink petals glistening with dew in the morning sun. Servants moved about with purpose, carrying baskets of fresh produce and linens, their laughter drifting up to her window.

Marcella pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her chest tightening as a single thought consumed her. "How…?" she murmured, her breath fogging the glass as she whispered. "How could something so ridiculous… so impossible… happen in this world?"

The thought was too much to bear. She needed to be sure. She needed to know if this world was real or if it was some cruel trick of her imagination.

Without thinking, Marcella spun on her heel and ran toward the door.

She descended the stairs of the manor in a flurry of silk and bare feet, her nightdress trailing behind her. The polished wood of the banister blurred as she gripped it tightly, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Milady! Wait!" A voice called from behind her, but Marcella didn't stop.

The heavy oak doors of the manor creaked loudly as she pushed them open, the cool morning air rushing to meet her. Her feet hit the cobblestones of the courtyard as she sprinted toward the capital.

The gates of the estate loomed ahead, flanked by two confused guards who exchanged startled glances as she passed. "Milady?" one of them called, but she ignored him, her focus fixed on the bustling streets ahead.

Her nightdress billowed around her as she reached the capital. Her bare feet striking the stone roads.

The city was alive with movement—vendors arranging their wares, carriages rattling through the streets, townsfolk chatting and laughing as they went about their business.

Her head spun as she took it all in. This was the capital as it had been in her youth, before the rebellion, before the bloodshed. It was so different from the chaos she remembered—the dark, crumbling city during the rebellion, where fear and death clung to every corner.

Marcella stumbled to a halt in the middle of the square. Her vision blurred as tears pricked at her eyes.

"It's real," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the noise of the crowd. "It's all real."

"Milady!"

Marcella turned to see her maid, an old woman with dark braids and a worried expression, pushing her way through the crowd. Her name was Verona.

The maid reached her, her face flushed from exertion. "Milady, what are you doing out here like this?" she asked, "You're in your nightdress! This is highly inappropriate—especially for someone of your status!"

Marcella barely heard her, her thoughts still spinning as she clutched Verona's arm. "What year is it?" she demanded, her voice urgent and unsteady.

Verona blinked, startled by the question. "Milady?"

"What year is it?" Marcella repeated, her grip tightening.

"It's the year 1712, milady," the maid replied, her brows furrowing in concern. "Have you forgotten?"

Marcella's knees nearly buckled beneath her. 1712. That was the year she had turned eighteen—the year Berith had arrived in the capital, and everything had begun to unravel.

She released the maid's arm, her hands trembling as she pressed them to her temples. Her head felt as though it might split in two, the memories of her first life colliding with the reality of her second.

"Milady," Verona called again, softer this time. She glanced around nervously, noticing the curious stares of the townsfolk who had stopped to watch.

"What is she doing out here like that?"

"Isn't that the High Priest's youngest daughter?"

"Running through the streets in her nightdress… How scandalous!"

"Milady, we must return to the manor," Verona urged, her voice low but firm. "People are watching, and this is no place for you to be dressed like this. Please."

Marcella struggled to calm herself. Slowly, she nodded, her legs still unsteady as the maid guided her back toward the estate.

The whispers followed them but Marcella barely noticed. Her thoughts were consumed by a single, unshakable truth: She was back.