Trapped In a World I Created

"I need to find a way to figure out where I am," Elle muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper as she heard the wooden door creak shut behind her.

She glanced around the room. The dim lighting made the shadows dance along the cracked walls, while the few candles that burned on a tarnished tray were melting into rivers of wax. Her gaze fell on the tiny bed shoved into the corner—small and stiff, with a thin blanket that looked like it hadn't been washed in years. Did they really keep someone in a place like this? she wondered, her lips curling in disgust. Servant quarters? Or worse—slave quarters? Elle felt her stomach churn.

"These women…" she muttered under her breath, a fiery annoyance bubbling up.

But then something clicked in her head. "Wait, Elle, first things first—mirror check! Gotta see what I'm working with." She started scouring the room, pulling open drawers, flipping through dusty shelves, even lifting the decrepit blanket off the bed.

Nothing. Not even a cracked shard of reflective glass.

Her mouth dropped open. "No mirror? Really? Oh, don't tell me mirrors don't exist here! But wait… that's impossible. They had mirrors in the 1700s, right? Or was that later? Dammit, Elle, you really should've paid attention in history class!" she groaned, smacking her forehead with her palm.

Her fingers raked through her hair as frustration mounted. This was insane. Where am I?

Her thoughts raced back to the last thing she remembered: I was editing my novel, wasn't I?

Just before syraelle was transmited.

---

"Heck! What do I name it?" Elle groaned, staring at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen as if it could somehow spit out the perfect title. She ran her fingers through her already messy hair, her frustration mounting with each passing second.

The silence of the night was broken by the soft creak of her bedroom door. "Elle? What are you doing so late at night? Why aren't your lights off?" Mrs. Nerathis's voice carried a mix of concern and mild exasperation. It was well past midnight, and she had woken up to refill the water jug, only to hear her daughter's muttering.

"Mumma?" Elle turned, startled. "Ah, nothing, just… I finished my novel!" she said, her voice dropping to a sheepish whisper. "But I can't think of a name. Like, what do I even call it?!"

Mrs. Nerathis sighed, walking toward her stubborn daughter, who she knew all too well. If Elle had set her mind on something, there was no stopping her—not even sleep. "Elle… did you forget about your first day at court tomorrow? You need to put this aside and get some rest," she chided gently.

Elle had successfully graduated and passed the judiciary exam with flying colors. Now, she was officially a judge, and tomorrow marked her first day in court, stepping into her new role.

"I know, I know," Elle mumbled, rubbing her eyes but refusing to leave the chair. "But, Mumma, a name is everything. It's like the soul of the story, you know?"

Mrs. Nerathis's expression softened. She moved closer and began running her fingers gently through Elle's hair, her voice warm and encouraging. "My little Elle, you'll have plenty of time to find the perfect name. Come on, how about this: sleep on it, and if you dream about anything, use that as inspiration. Hmm?"

Elle blinked up at her mother, her resolve wavering. "Dreams…? That's… not a bad idea," she admitted, letting out a soft laugh as her shoulders relaxed.

"That's my girl," Mrs. Nerathis said, nudging Elle up from her chair. She guided her to the bed and tucked her in snugly under the blanket. Bending down, she pressed a gentle kiss to Elle's forehead. "You did so well today, my child. Now, get some good sleep."

As Mrs. Nerathis left the room, she glanced back and smiled. Elle had already drifted off, her face peaceful and free from the tension that had clouded it moments before. Shaking her head with a fond laugh, she whispered to herself, "My silly girl."

Closing the door softly behind her, Mrs. Nerathis left Elle to her dreams—and perhaps the answer she was searching for.

"Oh, come on, Syraelle, have you freshened up yet?" Morwena's cunning voice sliced through the remnants of Elle's memories, yanking her back to the grim present.

Elle's eyes instinctively darted to Morwena's hand, where she clutched the dress she was supposed to wear. Before she could stop herself, her lips betrayed her. "Oh, that? I was just thinking of... a better way to kill you. Something painless, of course."

Oh, crap. The words hung in the air, and Elle's inner monologue immediately lit up with panic. Elle, you absolute idiot! Can you not keep your mouth shut for five seconds?

Morwena froze, her sharp gaze locking onto Elle like a predator cornering its prey. The hate in her eyes intensified, and she lunged forward, her fingers tangling painfully into Elle's hair. "Syraelle, did you forget your place? Huh?" she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with barely restrained rage. "Or do I need to remind you where you belong?"

Elle winced, her scalp stinging as Morwena's nails dug into her skin. "Ahh, chill, dear sister. I was just kidding!" she stammered, forcing a nervous laugh. Her mind, however, was racing with far less charitable thoughts. Oh, once I'm out of here, Morwena, you'll be the one tied up in a dark, roach-infested room. For life.

Feigning submission, Elle added hastily, "I'm sorry! I'll behave, promise."

Morwena's lips curled into a wicked smile. "Will you? Not that it matters. If you don't, those guards downstairs will happily make you behave." Her tone dripped with venom as she finally released Elle's hair, stepping back with an air of smug dominance. "Now, put this on." She thrust the dress toward Elle as though she were tossing scraps to a stray dog.

Elle caught the fabric, biting her tongue to keep from snapping back. Instead, she plastered on her most saccharine smile and lowered her gaze to the floor, her voice oozing fake sweetness. "Of course. Could I trouble you for a mirror? You know, to make sure I look perfect for our dear guards."

Morwena's expression darkened. "No. You don't get to use one," she spat, her voice laced with disdain.

"Why?" Elle asked, her fists clenching at her sides as she fought the urge to wipe that haughty look off Morwena's face.

"Because people like you don't deserve it," Morwena sneered, her voice heavy with malice. Then, as if twisting the knife, she added, "Just like your mother didn't."

The word hit Elle like a slap. Mother? Oh, right. This body's mother, she reminded herself, her temper simmering dangerously close to boiling over. But with a forced smile and a curt nod, she replied, "Alright," and turned toward the bathroom, gripping the dress tightly.

Slipping inside, she shut the door behind her with a soft click. Her fingers brushed over the edges of the door, itching to slam it but knowing better. Inside the relative safety of the bathroom, she let out a slow, shaky breath. "Damn it, Elle. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" she muttered under her breath, staring down at the dress in her hands.

---

Once Elle was ready, she stepped down the creaky wooden stairs, each step feeling like a precarious descent into her doom. Mrs. Cora, who had been waiting at the bottom like a hawk circling its prey, rose with an unnervingly soft smile. "See how beautiful you look," she said, her tone drenched in false sweetness. "That's why they chose you. Now hurry up and don't keep the royal guards waiting."

Elle offered no reply, her gaze fixed on the cumbersome hem of her dress. With every step, it felt as though the wretched garment was conspiring to trip her into disgrace. Damn it, how does anyone walk in these things without tumbling to their death? Her inner voice fumed as she stumbled again, narrowly catching herself before falling flat on her face.

Stepping outside, the crisp air hit her like a slap, and for a brief, blissful moment, she breathed in freedom. But it was short-lived. Her lungs froze, her hands trembled, and her skin prickled as her eyes landed on the figure standing by the carriage. The sight of him felt like a punch to her chest—her breathing quickened, her throat closed, and her body burned as if the sun had descended solely to torment her.

What is he doing here? Her thoughts screamed, but no sound escaped her lips. A lump formed in her throat, heavy and unmoving, while her legs refused to cooperate. She felt trapped, a helpless spectator in her own body.

Everyone around her sank to their knees, heads bowed at perfect ninety-degree angles, as if rehearsed to a science. The title came like a whip crack, slicing through the air.

"Your Highness, Crown Prince," Mrs. Cora gushed, her voice trembling as she lowered herself onto the cold concrete with practiced deference. Morwena followed suit, though Elle couldn't help but notice her sister's trembling lips curl in an unholy mix of awe and desperation.

But Elle couldn't move. Her knees locked, her hands clenched at her sides. She didn't bow, couldn't bow. Not when she could barely breathe.

"Hal…cyon…" The name left her lips in a whisper, her voice betraying her shock.

The Crown Prince's cold, unrelenting gaze landed on her, and for a moment, the world stood still. His piercing eyes were like twin blades, stripping her bare as though her very soul had been laid out before him. A smirk played on his lips, dangerous and tantalizing.