After the ritual ended, I was led to the purification chambers.
This was not custom—it was the closure of a process.
Prayer had been completed.
The body had to be cleansed.
The scent replaced.
The garments renewed.
Even the rhythm of breathing had to return to a range permitted by the temple.
The attendants guided me in low voices along the way.
No one asked whether I was tired.
Here, a princess's exhaustion did not belong to herself.
It belonged only as an entry in ritual records.
I stopped half a step before the dressing room, my gaze pulled uncontrollably toward the mirror.
The person reflected there had a face both familiar and foreign.
The skin was paler than I remembered.
The eyes calmer—trained into quiet.
Most striking were the ears.
Fully pointed.
Clean lines.
No trace of human roundness.
I raised my hand and touched the tip of my ear.
For an instant, surprise surged toward my throat—
Then it was forcibly pressed back.
Not because I restrained myself.
But because memory itself acted like a prohibition, cutting off the noncompliant emotional response at the source.
I didn't even have time to make a sound.
My breathing had already steadied, as if that moment of shock had been an illusion.
I stood before the mirror, my hand still hovering near my ear, frozen for a brief second—then compelled to lower naturally.
I understood.
This place did not allow me to become an outsider on the spot.
I had to exist as Sessanna originally did—
as if this were entirely natural.
"Your Highness," a gentle voice sounded behind me. "Please enter."
I turned and saw the attendant who had come to fetch me earlier.
She said her name was Susan.
She entered to attend me, dressed in a thin veil—not to entice, but because this was the standard for temple purification rituals.
Like a permitted layer of transparency: she was a servant, and her body, too, belonged to the process.
I should not have noticed.
I should have simply nodded, accepted the service, and followed the steps.
But when she came close to undo my outer robe, my cheeks grew faintly warm.
It was not desire.
It was an abrupt comparison.
Her form was clean, her lines defined, full yet controlled—like someone well cared for, carrying a kind of freedom I could not fully name.
The thought itself was absurd.
Calling her freer was already a misalignment.
And yet, my present-world self felt a flicker of envy.
To hide my embarrassment and envy, I quickly turned my gaze away.
But when she turned to fetch water, I unintentionally saw the mark beneath her neck.
A rose.
The same placement as mine—
but a different color.
Hers was white.
I instinctively raised my hand to my own collarbone.
My fingertips brushed the slightly raised pattern beneath the skin.
My rose was purple.
Like assigned access levels.
Like marked hierarchy.
Like a classification tag stating what kind of data you belong to.
Susan noticed my gaze and immediately pulled her collar up a little, the movement practiced.
Not shy—habitual discretion.
"Your Highness, the water temperature is ready."
When I stepped into the bath, the steam enveloped me, taking away the chill from my skin.
But it could not remove the deeper sense of restraint.
A thought surfaced suddenly.
What if I truly refused to wash?
What if I rejected the process?
The thought barely formed before it was erased by the same prohibitive force.
No pain.
No resistance.
It simply disappeared.
Standing in the water, I understood clearly:
In this memory, my resistance was not suppressed.
It was never allowed to exist in the first place.
No wonder those strange thoughts had surfaced earlier…
⸻
After purification, I changed into fresh robes and was led to the elders' council hall.
The hall was tall. Stone pillars stood like skeletal supports fixing the world in place.
Banners woven with roses hung along the walls, their colors deliberately subdued—
as if reminding everyone: faith need not be vivid, only obedient.
The elders were already waiting.
There were no pleasantries.
No inquiries about my condition.
The moment I entered, they moved directly to the matter at hand.
"Today, a human not belonging to the Fantasia Realm has intruded," one elder said, his voice dry like old parchment.
"He claims to be an adventurer."
"He breached the temple perimeter, crossing the outer barrier," another added.
"Neither pilgrim nor summoned tool."
They referred to outsiders as tools.
I felt no emotional reaction.
That response had been trained deep—already conditioned by this world.
"He is currently in the side hall," an elder continued.
"We must decide how to deal with him."
I lifted my eyes.
At the side hall entrance stood a man.
He was not restrained, yet several guards surrounded him within controlled distance.
He wore clothing that did not belong here, dust still clinging to him, as if he had just come from very far away.
Like a present-world archaeologist.
And yet I recognized him instantly.
Silence.
Only—this version of him felt more complete.
Not in age, but in spirit.
As if he had not yet been worn down by repeated costs.
There was a brightness in his eyes—a quiet courage. Not fiery, but stubborn:
he knew the danger, and still chose to step inside.
My throat tightened.
My expression did not change.
The prohibition stood between the present me and the me here, like a transparent membrane.
The elders' discussion grew colder.
"If a contamination source, execute on the spot."
"If an accidental intruder, erase memory and exile."
"If linked to the Demons of the Fog—"
At that name, the air in the hall compressed slightly.
Not fear.
Conditioned vigilance.
At that moment, footsteps sounded from outside.
Someone entered the council hall—not rashly, but with the directness of someone who had clearance.
Sether walked in.
Dust clung to him from travel, fatigue lay under his eyes, yet his posture remained straight.
In his hand was a strange device—metal casing, symbols etched across its surface that I could not read.
Rationality forced into this realm, utterly out of place in Fantasia.
He looked toward the man in the side hall.
And his tone carried an unexpected hint of teasing.
"Brother," he called.
The hall fell into a terrifying silence.
The elders' expressions did not change, but I could feel it:
That word did not comply with regulation.
Calling an outsider brother was equivalent to acknowledging him as familiar—not a tool, not an anomaly.
Sether ignored their stares.
He tossed the device forward.
It landed perfectly in Silence's arms.
"Your ray scanner," he said.
"I thought you'd bring it just to look professional. Turns out the moment you heard about your beloved princess, you forgot everything else."
Silence caught the device and didn't immediately retort.
He glanced at me.
That glance was a brief mistake—not tenderness, but a damn, I've been seen moment.
He covered his mouth.
My chest sank.
So this version of him really was just an adventurer.
At least on the surface.
And a little childish.
The elders seized on the opening immediately.
"You entered to investigate?" one asked coldly.
Sether nodded, his tone shifting instantly into controlled rationality, pulling everything back into acceptable parameters.
"Yes.
"He is not of a foreign race.
"I followed him in to identify vulnerabilities in the outer barrier—
and to determine whether he carries any leads related to the Demons of the Fog."
He delivered Demons of the Fog with precision—like a key inserted into the lock the elders cared about most.
The atmosphere shifted at once.
"So you believe he is not hostile?" an elder asked.
Sether did not vouch for Silence.
He compressed his conclusion into hard, neutral phrasing:
"He is an adventurer.
"One outsider.
"No signs of summoning, no contamination response."
Silence stood quietly at the side hall entrance—
like an exception temporarily permitted to exist.
He did not plead.
He did not attempt persuasion.
Not arrogance.
More like—he knew pleading was useless.
I suddenly understood:
This memory was not meant for me to save him.
It was meant to show me how order, back then, forced everyone into procedures that appeared reasonable.
I lifted my head.
When I spoke, my voice was steadier than I expected.
"If he is an investigator, then for now he shall not be charged with intrusion."
"Remove him from temple grounds and assign outer guards to escort him beyond the barrier."
This was not kindness.
It was the most procedurally compliant mercy a princess could offer.
The elders exchanged glances, then acquiesced.
Silence was permitted to leave.
Before he turned, I asked one question—not for romance, but to confirm whether this man could truly be classified.
"What is your name?"
Silence stopped and looked back.
In that instant, I felt the present me slam against my skin, trying to force an answer out.
But the prohibition remained.
Memory remained.
After a few seconds, he said:
"I am a nameless mortal."
Not tragic.
A statement of fact: names here were not rights—they were registrations.
Sether gave a short laugh, sharp as metal scraping stone.
"No name?" He looked at Silence, as if completing the classification.
"Then you'll be called Nameless."
Nameless.
The label dropped into place.
Not a blessing.
A management convenience.
Silence did not object.
He tightened his grip on the scanner and turned away, his silhouette sliced into a cold line of light by the doorway.
Standing at the center of the council hall, I felt a clearer premonition settle in.
We were not recovering what was lost.
We were walking, step by step,
back toward the mistakes that once looked
most reasonable.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.