breakfast

The maid walked through the long corridors of the palace, her footsteps echoing softly on the polished marble. The silver tray, now empty, rested lightly in her hands, but her mind was occupied with a far more pleasant weight: the memory of the morning.

From the moment she had entered His Excellency's room to deliver breakfast, she had noticed something different.

It was not only that she had awakened-something that of late seemed to cost her more and more, plunged in that melancholy lethargy that had covered the palace like a gray mist-but how she had awakened.

There was a sparkle in his violet eyes. A vivacity she hadn't seen in.... How long?

Her mind traveled backward, traversing decades, centuries perhaps. The last time she had seen that light in her mistress's gaze, that vibrant curiosity and almost electric energy, had been during the Second Era.

Those ancient days when the gods still walked the world, shaking the earth with their footsteps and filling the air with the smell of ozone and pure magic.

Back then, Anthea was not the sad, lonely figure fading among the roses in her room. She was fire and will.

The maid felt a warmth expand in her chest, a genuine happiness that curved her lips into a discreet smile. For too long, her mistress had maintained a melancholy attitude, a deep, silent sadness that seemed to consume her from within.

To see her smile, to see her react with that strange mixture of confusion and authority, was a source of utter joy to the maid.

"Perhaps..."

she thought, pausing for a moment to look out a window at the gardens.

"Perhaps the veil of sadness is finally lifting."

There was, however, one detail that still nagged at the back of her mind. Her mistress's strange request.

"If you were to announce me right now.... how would you do it?"

It had struck her as... peculiar. Anthea Rosengard knew her titles better than anyone; she had worn them on her shoulders like armor for ages. Why ask to recite them to her? And that excuse of "assessing the impact"?

The young woman frowned slightly, her wooden horns creaking almost imperceptibly with the movement.

To an outside observer, it might have looked like a moment of amnesia or disorientation. But she knew her mistress. Her Excellency did nothing without a purpose. If he asked to hear her titles-along with an expression the maid didn't quite know how to classify-it must have been for a reason.

"Surely he is planning something important?"

she concluded firmly, resuming her march.

Perhaps he was reasserting his identity before a major political move.

Whatever it was, if it served to keep that new light in her mistress's eyes, she would recite it a thousand times if necessary.

The important thing was not the why, but the fact that His Excellency had returned. And the palace, with its roses and its silences, seemed to have awakened with her.

"I am Thalia, the faithful shadow of the crown."

she whispered to herself, resuming her stride.

"And I will make sure that light never goes out again."

As the heavy oak door closed behind the maid, silence once again took over the room. Anthea let out a sigh she didn't know she was holding back and dropped lightly against the back of her chair. The performance had been exhausting, but necessary.

However, a sweet, spicy scent wafted through the air, diverting her attention from her thoughts to more primal needs.

Her stomach rumbled with a ferocity that belied the elegance of her surroundings.

"Right. Breakfast."

She muttered to herself.

She turned to the side table where Thalia had deposited the tray and, as she lifted the silver lid, her eyes widened. She was momentarily breathless.

If that was a "simple breakfast," he didn't want to imagine what the banquets would be like.

The tray was a display of luxury. On the fine china rested a selection of delicacies that looked like something out of a painting. There were exotic fruits cut with geometric precision: slices of something resembling a pear but sapphire-colored that glowed with their own light, and golden berries that gave off a soft cool steam.

Next to the fruit, a tower of flaky pastries, still warm, glistened under a layer of honey and crystallized nuts. There were also small, white, fluffy rolls accompanied by three different kinds of jams and a butter so creamy it looked like whipped clouds. To drink, a cut glass pitcher contained an amber-colored nectar, and next to it, a steaming cup of what appeared to be a rare spiced floral tea.

Anthea swallowed saliva. Everything was arranged with artistic finesse, adorned with vibrantly colored edible flower petals.

With hand trembling with anticipation, she picked up one of the cakes and took a bite.

"Oh... "

the moan of satisfaction escaped her unintentionally.

It was glorious. The pastry crunched delicately before melting on her tongue, releasing a taste of sweet butter and spices she had never tasted, but instinctively knew were expensive.

He tasted the blue fruit; it burst in his mouth with a sweet, juicy freshness that cleansed his palate. She drank the nectar and felt a comforting, almost magical warmth run down her throat and settle in her chest, instantly revitalizing her.

Each mouthful was an experience, a symphony of perfectly balanced flavors dancing on her palate. It was rich, indulgent and absolutely delicious. She ate with an enthusiasm that would have shocked the court, tasting a bit of everything, marveling at the texture of the cheeses and the sweetness of the preserves.

-If being the Anthea meant eating like this every day....

She thought as she wiped a crumb from the corner of her lips with a linen napkin.

-maybe this new fate wasn't so terrible after all.

So he began to energetically eat the whole meal.

After finishing the last bite of that nourishing breakfast, Anthea wiped her hands and stood up.

Gastronomic satisfaction quickly gave way to anxiety about her situation. She had survived the encounter with the maid, but she couldn't depend on luck forever.

He needed to know more. He needed to know who exactly Anthea Rosengard was, beyond the bombastic titles.

"A diary. They're popular with women lately, I should have one, shouldn't I?"

he thought, and began his search.

The room was not simply a bedroom; it was an entire apartment fit for a monarch.

As she walked through it, she realized the magnitude of the luxury that surrounded her. The master bedroom was vast, with vaulted ceilings painted with frescoes of ancient battles and stormy skies that seemed to move if you looked at them for too long.

She walked to one of the side doors and discovered a walk-in closet that was larger than her apartment in her previous life.

Endless rows of outfits lined up before her. Most of the clothing consisted of two-piece ensembles in white and purple silks, with elegant draping that left the midriff and shoulders bare, adorned with gold plates and violet gems that evoked the style of a warrior goddess or ancient priestess. Gold fibulae and jewelry that could buy entire kingdoms rested on crystal displays, shining brightly.

-This is what Anthea Rosengard wears," she thought, carefully touching the purple fabric of one of the closest ensembles. The silk was incredibly soft under her fingers, almost liquid.

A part of her - the part that was still an ordinary person trapped in this body - felt a flash of embarrassment at the thought of going out dressed like this.

She forced herself to take a deep breath.

"If I'm going to keep up this charade, I have to look like her. Act like her. Dress like her."

She had no choice, really. Wearing anything else would raise suspicion. And after the encounter with her maid, she couldn't risk any more strange looks or uncomfortable questions.

He walked through another door and found a private bathroom that looked more like a sanctuary than a restroom. Rows of fluted columns rose toward a vaulted ceiling, and between them, marble statues of animals watched in eternal silence.

The space was dominated by a black marble tub so large it resembled a thermal pool, surrounded by aromatic oils in cut-glass jars and towels softer than clouds.

But he didn't stop to admire anything. His goal was information.

Finally, he found a double door leading to a private study.

"Here!"

he said to himself, feeling a slight relief.

The place smelled of ancient parchment, ink and candle wax. There was an imposing writing desk made of dark wood, carved with motifs of dragons and thorn roses, set in front of a bay window overlooking the gardens.

Anthea threw herself on the desk. She opened drawers, rummaged through shelves, shook out dusty books.

She searched desperately for a leather-bound notebook, a bundle of hidden letters, anything that would give her a map to the life of the woman whose body she inhabited.

"Come on, come on... where do you keep your secrets?"

He muttered, frustration growing with each empty drawer.

There was nothing. No intimate diary, no notes of evil plans, no lists of sworn enemies. The desk was pristinely tidy, almost barren of personal information, as if Anthea Rosengard had lived without a trace of her inner thoughts.

However, at the bottom of the last drawer, hidden under a double bottom that she discovered almost by accident, she found a small lacquered wooden box. When she opened it, she found not papers, but objects.

There was a dried flower, carefully pressed, whose petals still retained a vibrant, almost unearthly violet hue. A solitary chess piece - a white queen - carved from pure obsidian. And a shard of jagged crystal that emitted a faint cold pulse to the touch.

Anthea picked up the chess piece and felt a sudden pang in her chest, a sharp, painful emotion that did not belong to her. It was a mixture of devastating nostalgia and..... regret?

He dropped the piece as if it burned, letting it fall back into the box with a thud.

He looked at the objects with confusion and a hint of fear. They were treasures, no doubt, but not for their monetary value. They held a deep meaning, an emotional weight that the real Anthea had locked away, out of sight of everyone.

"They mean something important..."

She whispered, running her fingertips through the air over the cold crystal, not daring to touch it again.

"But I haven't the faintest idea what."

He dropped into the desk chair, sighing as he stared at the open box. It held no instruction manual, no summary of her life.

She would have to find out who Anthea Rosengard was the hard way: search the library.

Anthea closed the box with a sigh and headed for the master bedroom, determined to get out and find the library.

Her hand was already on the doorknob of the exit door when she stopped dead in her tracks, chilled by a sudden realization.

She looked down and the blood rushed to her cheeks in an instant.

She was still wearing her bedclothes.

Embarrassment hit her like a slap in the face. She had been about to step out into the corridors-where servants, guards, or nobles might see her-dressed in a silk nightgown so fine it was practically transparent in the daylight. It left very little to the imagination, revealing silhouettes that no worthy "woman" would carelessly show.

"By all the gods... "

He muttered, recoiling as if the door burned.

She turned and ran toward the dressing room, her bare feet sinking into the carpets. As she arrived in front of the rows of clothes she had inspected earlier, the embarrassment returned, but this time mixed with resignation.

Those two-piece outfits, with their daring cuts and strategic slits, weren't much more modest than her nightgown, but at least they were clothes. If she wanted to get out of there, she had to wear them.

With trembling hands, she picked up one of the purple and gold silk sets. She tried to put it on, but the garment was a jigsaw puzzle of draped fabrics, brooches and ribbons that didn't seem to make logical sense. She tangled in the silk a couple of times, letting out a groan of frustration.

"How the hell is this supposed to go?"

She grunted, struggling with a strip of fabric that seemed to be left over.

It was then, as she tried to untangle herself, that she caught something in the back of the dressing room that she had overlooked.

Hanging on the far wall, illuminated by a soft light, was a life-size painting. It was a portrait of Anthea Rosengard. And in the portrait, the former owner of the body was wearing the exact same outfit she was now holding.

Anthea stood still, staring at the image. The Anthea of the painting looked majestic, with the fabric falling in perfect folds over her hips and crossing her torso with studied elegance.

"Ah... that's how it works."

She whispered, feeling understanding light up her mind.

She studied the painting a few seconds longer, memorizing how each piece of fabric was arranged, where the gold fibulae were fastened and how the cloak was to fall.

With the picture clear in her mind, she tried again. It was still tricky-the fabric was slippery-but this time, piece by piece, she managed to reconstruct the image of the painting on her own body.

When he finished, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back at him was no longer a stranger in a nightgown, but a figure of power and beauty.

Curiously, as she changed, she noticed something strange: there were no shoes in sight. She searched the nearby shelves and drawers, hoping to find sandals or some kind of appropriate footwear, but all she found were long pieces of white cloth, finely woven and adorned with small shiny beads around the edges.

At first she did not understand their purpose. She watched them in puzzlement, turning them over in her hands, until an idea began to form in her mind.

"Will they be... for feet?"

Carefully and somewhat uncertainly, she began to wrap the fabrics around her small bare feet, crisscrossing them over the instep and around the ankles, vaguely imitating what she had seen in illustrations of old ballerinas. She tied them in delicate knots, adjusting them until they felt comfortable and secure.

When she was finished, she took a few experimental steps. The cloth bandages were surprisingly comfortable, and gave her feet an ethereal, almost ceremonial look.

She was ready.