I Reincarnated as a Princess… But Ended Up Selling Fruit

The dream started the same way it always did.

Warm breath. A hand on her waist. The scent of apples and rain.

Fingers ghosted up her spine, slow and reverent. A mouth brushed her shoulder. His voice—low, rough, broken—said something in a language she didn't speak, but understood anyway.

She moaned into the darkness. A gasp. A plea. A name she didn't know until he whispered—

"Lysara."

Her body jolted.

She was naked. She was glowing. Her skin pulsed with silver heat and magic too old to name. He kissed her like he was claiming a star.

And just as her legs wrapped around his hips—

Lara woke up face-first in a bowl of cold porridge.

"...fuck," she mumbled into the oats.

"Good morning to you, too," Elira said from across the room, sipping something that steamed suspiciously.

Lara sat up, dripping breakfast. "Did I sleep in?"

"You didn't sleep at all, babe. You tossed, moaned, and at one point summoned a glowing vine out of the floorboards."

"Ah," Lara said. "One of those nights."

Elira squinted. "You dreaming about him again?"

Lara rubbed her temples. "Define 'him.'"

"Leather coat. Hands like sin. Big danger vibes."

"...Could've been anyone."

"Lara."

"It was probably just anxiety and fermented fruit wine dreams. You know how my subconscious is—horny and historically unreliable."

Elira raised a brow. "You called out a name."

Lara went still. "What name?"

"Didn't catch it. Started with an L. Sounded old. Royal."

Lysara.

The name she hadn't spoken aloud in over a decade. The name no one alive was supposed to remember.

"I don't remember," Lara lied.

She grabbed a towel, wiped the porridge off her chin, and stood.

"I'm going to check the orchard."

"You're glowing again," Elira said softly.

"I said I was going."

The orchard was quiet.

Too quiet.

Lara stood at its edge, boots crunching over fallen leaves, staring at the central tree—her first tree. The one that sprouted when she was fifteen, terrified, and too full of magic for her own good.

It pulsed gently in the morning mist, leaves glowing with spirit light. The air buzzed faintly with old memory and new danger.

She didn't like it.

"I'm fine," she told no one. "It was just a dream. A very detailed, emotionally confusing dream."

The wind didn't believe her.

She stepped closer to the trunk and placed her palm on the bark. It throbbed under her touch, warm and alive. Like it recognized her. Like it was waiting for something.

And then she saw it.

A shimmer in the bark. A crack between realities. A fragment of memory, caught like a fly in amber.

She didn't want to look.

She looked anyway.

The dream returned—clearer this time.

He was on top of her. Not rough. Not gentle. Just... desperate.

Like he'd been waiting his whole life to find her.

"Tell me your name," he breathed.

"I don't have one," she whispered.

He kissed her harder.

Her hands tangled in his hair. His gloves were gone. His skin was warm and trembling. His lips left fire everywhere they touched.

When he entered her—slow, reverent—she cried out.

Not from pain.

From recognition.

Lara yanked her hand back from the tree like it burned.

She was gasping. Shaking.

And worse—remembering.

"Nope," she muttered. "No. Absolutely not. We are not emotionally unpacking this today."

She turned—

And walked straight into a chest.

A very familiar, very solid, very male chest.

"Shit," she hissed, stumbling back.

And there he was.

Leather coat. Gloved hands. That same unreadable expression.

"Morning," the man said.

Lara blinked, heart hammering.

"...Do you live in this town now?"

"I had questions."

"I have apples. We all have burdens."

He stepped closer. "You were at the orchard."

"I am the orchard," she snapped.

And immediately regretted it.

His eyes narrowed.

"Interesting."

He studied her.

Not in the way people usually did—with curiosity or suspicion.

No, this was worse.

He looked at her like he almost remembered her. Like the truth was right there on the tip of his tongue... and he wasn't going to stop until it landed.

Lara hated it.

Mostly because it made her knees do that thing where they didn't work right around tall men with traumatic backstories.

"I didn't know this land was part of town jurisdiction," he said, casually inspecting the orchard's perimeter. "Strange how no one seems to know it exists but you."

"I'm good at keeping secrets," Lara said.

"Or hiding them."

She gave him her sweetest, deadliest smile. "Tomato, tomahto."

He stepped closer. "You were touching the tree."

"I'm very affectionate with my trees."

"It pulsed."

"Wow, you're observant. Bet you're fun at parties."

His eyes flicked to her shoulder. "Your scarf's crooked."

She froze.

The mark.

She'd forgotten the damn mark.

It always glowed after her dreams—right over her left shoulder blade, shaped like a crescent moon. The divine signature of a long-dead bloodline.

She yanked the scarf back into place and turned away. "I'm leaving."

"You're avoiding."

"Correct. We both win."

But as she moved to walk past him, he said—

"I dreamed of you last night."

She stopped.

Turned.

Her voice was a whisper. "What?"

"Your voice," he said slowly. "It was in a dream I had. You said... 'I don't have a name.'"

Her throat tightened.

She wanted to laugh. Wanted to lie. Wanted to punch him, kiss him, or both.

Instead, she said, "Weird dream. You should hydrate more."

And then she fled.

Walked too fast to be casual. Almost tripped over a root. Definitely cursed under her breath.

Behind her, the orchard stayed quiet.

But her mark?

It pulsed once.

Like it, too, remembered.

[End of Chapter 5]