Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 252: Waking

Chapter 251: Waking

Lyria’s POV

Everything was blurry.

The world drifted in and out of focus, like light filtering through water, like smoke curling and dissolving before it could be caught. I was not certain whether my eyes were open or closed. I was not certain whether I was awake or dreaming.

The room smelled different.

That was the first thing I noticed, when I was aware enough to notice anything at all. The air was cleaner somehow. It carried the scent of flowers—real flowers.

Sometimes I saw men at my side.

Their faces were blurred, indistinct, like portraits painted in water and left to run. But I knew they were there. I felt their presence, the weight of their attention, as though they were watching over me.

One had green hair.

I was not certain I knew anyone with green hair, but he felt familiar. His presence was comforting. He would sit beside me, and I was certain he had taken my hand and spoken some apology. I could never quite see him clearly, but I knew he was there. He visited regularly.

Another was built like a warrior—broad shoulders, strong hands. His presence was comforting too.

One had brown hair. Another was blonde, and he looked like an adult version of Lucian—Lucian, who had bullied me as a child.

And most times I could not understand why Lucian would be right next to me, especially when he did not care for me.

There was another with red hair. I could not place him, could not remember where I had seen that shade before, but something about him made me feel safe.

There were women too.

One reminded me of my mother. The warmth I felt from her took me back to when I was younger, when my mother would sit beside my bed and tell me stories when I was ill—stories about the various territories of the kingdom, about how different colours could be mixed and drawn upon parchment.

I had no idea why, but those memories, though warm, carried a certain sadness.

Sometimes I heard voices too—low murmurs, careful words, too soft for me to understand. Other times there was only silence, and the silence was heavy with waiting.

Days passed like that.

In and out of consciousness. In and out of dreams. In and out of the darkness that clung to the edges of my vision.

And then, one night, I opened my eyes.

The ceiling was... different?

I stared at it for a long moment, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The old ceiling had been cracked in places, stained by water and neglect. This ceiling was clean. I was certain it was still the same one, but it looked... different. Maybe I was wrong, and this was a new one after all.

I turned my head slowly.

The chamber looked different too.

Fresh flowers stood in a vase on the table near the window—pale roses, their petals soft and full. The curtains had been replaced with something heavier, keeping the chill from the glass. A fire burned in the hearth, sending warmth across the room, and the carpets beneath my bed were thick and clean.

There were chairs in the corners, upholstered in dark velvet. A small writing desk had been placed against the far wall, with paper and ink waiting. Shelves had been added too, filled with books.

It looked like a princess’s chambers.

It had never looked like that before.

My throat was parched. My lips were cracked. I tried to swallow, but there was nothing—only the dry scrape of my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

I tried to sit up.

But my arms trembled beneath me. My body felt weak, as though I had not used my muscles in a very long time. I pushed against the mattress, managing to lift myself a little before my strength gave out.

The door opened at that moment, and two women entered.

The first was older, with white hair pulled into a bun that had begun to escape its pins. She carried a leather satchel over her shoulder, worn smooth at the strap, and her dress was neat but slightly rumpled—like a physician who had spent too many hours on her feet.

The second was younger, dressed as a maid, with brown hair pinned into a bun and a face full of freckles. Her eyes widened when she saw me.

"Your Highness!"

They rushed to my bedside.

The physician took my wrist, her fingers pressing gently against my pulse. Her eyes were focused, counting the beats beneath my skin.

"Get Her Highness something to drink," she said to the maid.

The maid nodded quickly and turned to the jug on the table. She poured liquid into a cup and brought it to my lips, tipping it gently so I could drink.

The water was cool and clean. It soothed my throat, washed away the dryness, and I drank until the cup was empty.

"More?" the maid asked.

I nodded.

She poured again.

I drank again.

The physician did not release my wrist. Her fingers remained steady against my skin while she observed me carefully.

When I had finished, she reached into her satchel and withdrew a small jar. The contents were green—thick and viscous, with a sharp herbal scent that stung my nose. She removed the bandages from my feet and began to rub the substance into the wounds.

It was cold at first, then warm, then almost hot. The sensation was strange, but not unpleasant.

The door opened again.

More maids entered.

I counted them as they filed in. There were four. They carried fresh linens. When they saw me sitting up, their eyes widened.

One pressed a hand to her mouth.

Another bowed quickly, her cheeks flushing.

A third whispered something I could not hear.

They closed the door behind them, but before it shut fully, I heard a voice—a man’s voice—calling from the corridor.

"What is the matter?"

The door clicked shut.

The physician finished applying the green substance to my feet and wrapped them in fresh bandages. Her movements were efficient, practiced, her hands sure despite her age.

When she was done, she stood and bowed.

"Your Highness," she said.

I looked at them, my throat still dry despite the water, my voice hoarse from disuse.

"Could you a-all introduce y-yourselves?" I asked.