You wake to the weight of fine sheets pressing against your skin, the scent of polished wood and faint lavender filling the air. Light spills through tall, arched windows, warming a chamber so large it feels more like a hall than a bedroom. The walls are lined with tapestries, rich fabrics depicting battles and proud victories you do not remember. Someone is moving outside the door—soft footsteps, deliberate. A distant voice calls your name, polite but measured, and something in the tone makes your stomach tighten. You sit up slowly, your hands brushing against unfamiliar rings, unfamiliar clothing folded neatly on the bed. Every detail—the smoothness of the floor, the heavy drape of the curtains, the faint chill in the stone beneath your feet—feels foreign, yet startlingly real. Voices echo through the hall, closer now: whispers, clipped conversations, the soft clatter of servants preparing for the morning. A woman’s voice floats in first, careful and smooth, speaking words you do not understand fully but which carry the weight of authority. A boy’s laugh rings out—bright, innocent, and tinged with caution. Another voice, deeper and rougher, gives a short order, sharp but controlled. All of them—strangers, yet somehow intimately tied to you—move around in a rhythm you cannot place. You rise unsteadily, noticing the reflection in a polished mirror: your hair, your face, your hands—they are not yours. Panic claws at the edges of your mind. You reach out, brushing your own cheek, and the realization hits like a cold blade: you are here, in a body that is not your own, in a place that belongs to others, and yet somehow, everyone is waiting for you. The world hums with expectation. Every shadow in the hall, every muted footstep, every whispered word—they are all tuned to you. And suddenly, you understand: you have been given a life that is already full of meaning, of duties, of eyes watching every move. The question lingers in the air, heavy and immediate. What will you do now?