Chapter 36 The Wrong Isabella
I wake up choking on air.
My chest burns as I drag breath into my lungs, panic clawing up my throat as if I've been buried alive and only just remembered how to breathe. My hands clutch the sheets, grounding myself in fabric and reality and the cold certainty of stone beneath my feet.
"It was just a dream," I whisper hoarsely.
"Just a dream."
I force myself to breathe slower. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Again. Again. The chamber is quiet moonlight spilling through the curtains, familiar shadows resting where they always do.
I close my eyes.
A throat clears.
I move without thinking.
The dagger is already in my hand, already flying
and stopping.
My heart slamming violently as I stare at the man standing near my bed, holding my dagger between two fingers like I tossed him a letter opener instead of a weapon..
"First of all," he says mildly, inspecting the blade, "that was rude."
My blood goes ice-cold.
"Second of all," he continues, glancing at me, "please don't throw things at me. I have a lot of trauma involving Dante and sharp objects, and I'm really not trying to relive it."
I can't speak. I can barely think.
"Who the hell are you," I finally manage, "and why are you in my chambers?"
Lucian sighs, long and dramatic, like I'm the inconvenience.
"No wonder he didn't tell you," he mutters. "You're so hostile. I thought you were supposed to be sweet."
I reach for my sword.
His eyes flick to it. "Ah. There it is."
The blade slides free with a whisper of steel. I rise from the bed slowly, never taking my eyes off him.
"Who," I repeat, "are you?"
Lucian lifts the dagger. "First off, you can't kill me with that."
Then before I can stop him he pushes the blade straight through his palm.
I freeze.
The dagger passes through his hand like it's moving through soft clay. His skin bends. Ripples. But there's no blood. No wound. He pulls the blade free, his hand whole and untouched.
"Second," he says calmly, handing the dagger back to me, "I'm trying to help you."
My grip tightens on the sword. "Help me?"
"Yes," he says patiently. "But before I can do that, you have to help me."
My pulse roars in my ears. "Help you with what?"
Lucian studies me hisis humor dimming, something sharp and calculating taking its place.
"Help me figure out," he says slowly, "why you're here."
I frown. "I'm the queen. Why wouldn't I be here?"
He grimaces. "Please don't talk to me like I'm stupid. I already get enough of that from Dante."
I don't lower the sword.
"At first," he continues, pacing now, "I thought I was losing my mind. Wouldn't be the first time. Magic does that to you. But then I looked closer."
He stops in front of me.
"You're Isabella," he says. "That part is obvious."
My throat tightens.
"But you're the wrong Isabella."
The words land like a blade between my ribs.
"What does that mean?" I whisper.
Lucian exhales slowly. "You Isabella are not supposed to be here you are in the wrong time period"
My fingers tremble.
"You are suppose to be executed," he says quietly. "Your soul should have moved on. Wherever souls go when they're finished suffering."
He meets my eyes.
"But you're still here."
Cold spreads through my chest.
"So either," he says lightly, far too lightly, "you have some secret, wildly illegal ability to travel through time—"
My breath stutters.
"—or," he finishes, "your soul clawed its way back into your own body and rewrote fate."
Lucian tilts his head, watching me closely.
"And trust me," he adds softly, "that should not be possible."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, forcing the words out before my thoughts can betray me. "You've mistaken me for someone else."
Lucian doesn't laugh.
He studies me in silence, head tilted slightly, eyes sharp in a way that feels invasive like he's peeling back layers I didn't know I had. The air between us hums faintly, magic restless and aware.
Then he sighs. Not dramatic. Not playful. Just... tired.
"Please," he says quietly. "Do not insult my intelligence. I like you, Isabella. Don't make me regret that."
My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword. The metal feels reassuringly solid real in a room that suddenly feels like it's slipping out of phase with reality.
"I can read your future," Lucian continues calmly. "Your present. Your past. Not guesses. Not impressions. Actual threads."
I swallow. "That's... impressive."
He snaps his fingers.
A deck of cards materializes in his hand, seemingly pulled from thin air. The edges gleam faintly, etched with sigils so fine they almost shimmer when the candlelight hits them. The cards hum softly, like they're breathing.
He shuffles once clean, precise. No flourish. No theatrics.
He draws a card and holds it up between two fingers.
"This," he says, "is your present life."
The card lifts from his hand, floating gently between us. It rotates slowly, the image on it shifting like liquid ink crowns, halls, bloodstains that won't quite settle into one scene.
He draws another.
"And this," he says, voice light, "is your future."
The second card rises, hovering beside the first. It glows faintly, unstable, flickering between paths too quickly to follow.
My heart begins to pound.
Lucian draws a third card.
"This," he says, "is your past."
The card doesn't float.
Instead, two more slide out of the deck on their own.
They rise together slow, deliberate, unmistakably wrong.
Three cards hover where there should be one.
"...That's not supposed to happen."
Cold spreads through my chest.
He steps closer to the floating cards, eyes narrowing as he studies them. The usual humor drains from his face, replaced by something calculating and sharp.
"Three pasts," he murmurs. "Layered. Intersecting. One closed. One... forcibly ended. One active."
His gaze snaps to me.
"Why," he asks quietly, "does your past come in threes?"
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Lucian turns fully toward me now, the cards forgotten but still hovering, silent witnesses to my failure to lie.
"So," he says pleasantly, "are you going to make my life easy, or am I going to have to untangle this mess myself?"
I don't answer.
The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. The candles flicker as if reacting to the tension.
Lucian exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders. "Right. Of course."
He flicks his wrist. The floating cards snap back into the deck, which dissolves into light and vanishes.
He looks at me again grinning now, humor sliding back into place like armor.
"Would you like a reading?"
"No," I say instantly. Too fast.
He raises an eyebrow. "Not even a little curious?"
"Not at all."
He clicks his tongue. "That's a shame. I can tell you anything."
Cards burst into the air around him, spinning and dancing as he speaks, each one punctuating a question.
"What's the purpose of your life?"
"Do you get a happily-ever-after?"
"Boy or girl for your first child?"
"How many children total?"
"Is your sister plotting your murder as we speak?"
Each question sends another card slicing through the air, orbiting him like impatient thoughts.
"No," I say firmly. "I don't want to know."
Lucian pauses mid-gesture.
"...Why?"
"Because," I say, voice low but steady, "knowing the future changes it. And I've already changed too much."
Something shifts in his expression not amusement, not mockery. Respect.
"Huh," he murmurs. "You're smarter than you look."
He snaps his fingers.
The cards vanish all at once, the air going still.
"Well," he says, leaning back against the wall, folding his arms, "since I like you, I'll give you a warning. Free of charge."
My stomach knots.
"You've changed your future," Lucian says. "Your execution? Gone. Your head won't end up on a chopping block."
Relief hits me hard enough that I have to brace myself against the bed.
"But," he adds softly, "your future is still wildly unstable."
He steps closer, voice dropping.
"You have many paths ahead of you," he says. "Every single one leads to bloodshed. Different scales. Different victims. Same result."
My pulse roars in my ears.
"You don't yet understand the power you're holding," Lucian continues. "Being with Dante isn't just dangerous—it's coveted."
"Nobles train their daughters from childhood for a chance at him. Kings rewrite succession laws. Entire bloodlines gamble everything on the hope that he'll choose them."
He meets my eyes, unblinking.
"And you?" he says quietly.
His smile thins.
"You were chosen."
A chill crawls up my spine.
"They see you as undeserving," Lucian continues. "As a mistake. And they will do anything—anything—to correct that mistake."
The candles flicker violently.
"Because whoever controls the Queen controls the King," he finishes. "And whoever controls the King controls the West."
The air shimmers.
"So no," his voice echoes as his form begins to fade, "Alexander is no longer your greatest concern."