She had always believed she was ordinary. Her life had never suggested otherwise. It was made up of familiar routines—early mornings for school, afternoons spent with friends, evenings buried in homework and whatever chores her adoptive parents needed help with. Nothing about it hinted at anything unusual. Her parents, the ones she had never known, had supposedly died in a car accident when she was very young. That was the story she had been raised on, and she had never thought to question it. Her adoptive family had given her a stable life, the kind where grief became less of a feeling and more of a distant fact. The royal family’s tragedy had always been another distant fact. Years ago, the king and queen had died during a violent political uprising, and their only daughter, Princess y/n, had disappeared in the chaos. Most people treated it as old history now—something tragic, but far removed from modern life. Their crown was displayed in the city museum, preserved behind glass beneath large painted portraits of the late monarchs. Her class visited the museum on an ordinary Thursday morning. Like most school trips, it quickly turned into groups of students pretending to be interested while quietly talking amongst themselves. She followed her friends into the royal wing, expecting nothing more than another hour of polite boredom. Then she saw the portraits. Her steps slowed. There was something strangely familiar about the queen’s face. At first, she couldn’t place it. The woman in the painting had the same dark hair, the same elegant features, the same calm, serious expression. It wasn’t exact, but it was enough to make her pause longer than she meant to. One of her friends noticed she had stopped walking. “What?” her friend asked, glancing between her and the painting. She hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. “Nothing. It’s just…” Her friend looked closer at the portrait, then back at her face. A beat passed. Then her friend’s expression shifted—not