The Tidal Wave That Seized My Walls - Chapter 5

“That’s food for the maids. Do you really have to take it at this hour?”

Sandora snatched the bread from my arms and tossed it back into the basket. I could almost understand why she was angry. My face must have looked just as miserable as hers. The shame of it made me furious.

“Can’t I eat it?”

“It’s not for just anyone. It’s the maids’ share. And besides, you already had your meal earlier.”

“It’s mine. All of it.”

I admired Sandora—wanted to be close to her. But only now did I realize the truth: we were never meant to be friends. I wasn’t blind. If I pieced together my mother’s words and Sandora’s attitude, the answer was clear.

“I heard.”

I said it, even though I knew it would wound her.

“Heard what?”

“That someone switched you and me.”

My eyes gleamed as I took another step forward.

“I really thought you might’ve been my little sister or something.”

The girl stepped back. Sandora staggered into the kitchen corner, not even noticing the bread scattering across the floor. Her back hit the wall, and I was left empty-handed, all the bread lost. Just as the distance between us had nearly closed, Sandora’s eyes went dull—weak, like a docile lamb.

“Seems you were raised real precious, huh.”

I doubt this noble lady who had her nails trimmed every day has ever fought in her life. Whether this place was truly mine or whether she had stolen it from me, right now, I wasn’t angry—just humiliated. I had mimicked her like a bird pecking at feed, sneaked down here to steal bread, and been caught red-handed. No matter how much I was polished, I couldn’t hide that I was still a thief at heart.

“Must be nice. Growing up without hardship.”

Was that why I had thrust a sharp blade into the belly of a lamb missing its claws? My icy voice lashed against her shoulders. As if that was all I had left to say, I walked out of the kitchen.

Sandora didn’t make a sound. She always seemed to tiptoe on thin ice, but when I glanced back, she had buried her face in her knees.

Three days later, the truth of our relationship became clear. We were cousins. Sandora was the daughter of Grandfather’s eldest son, and I was the youngest son’s child. Sandora’s mother had been a maid—a one-night mistake to the man who was my uncle, and perhaps a lifetime of misfortune to her.

When my uncle died, my father inherited the title, and Sandora and I were born at the same time… what had she felt then? Why had she swapped her own flesh and blood with me?

Unfortunately, the dead don’t speak. The living were too busy covering up the mess. In that unanswered chaos, I grew up wretched, and Sandora became the daughter of a sinner. That was when I realized—the pain I endured would be nothing compared to the tears Sandora would shed in the future.

I should have been kinder to her that day.

* * *

I had never known what it was like to have a family. As an orphan, the only glimpses I had of family life came from fairy tales. I’d stay up all night reading books stolen by kids who were obsessed with those stories, joking with each other that our parents must have had crooked noses like witches.

Even in fairy tales, not all parents were kind. Some sold their children to witches, abandoned them on mountainsides, or let adoptive parents mistreat them. But since most of us alley kids were orphans, those kinds of stories weren’t popular. We preferred the ones where parents searched desperately for their lost child or where the child turned out to be the long-lost prince or princess of a neighboring kingdom—tales that let us drift into sweet, if fleeting, dreams.

In a way, you could say I was one of the lucky ones. My life was something straight out of a fairy tale—well, almost. A swapped child, the girl who should have been a princess reduced to begging on the streets, only to return and reclaim her rightful place. I didn’t go as far as killing the impostor who took my place, but… yeah, it was that kind of story.

But the princess in the fairy tale wasn’t as happy as I’d imagined.

Sure, life was comfortable now. I didn’t have to lift a finger—someone bathed me, dressed me, put me to sleep. A single word from me, and meals appeared like clockwork. My clothes changed with my mood, with the weather.

So maybe my gloom was just the spoiled whining of someone who’d finally eaten her fill. But no matter how much I tried, I still felt like that damn beggar girl. Fancy clothes, a mother and grandfather calling my name—none of it could scrape off the grime of the past.

Sandora, with her beautifully pale face, was the one who really suited being a princess. They said she already spoke four foreign languages at her age. Never lost her composure. Even the servants genuinely adored her—those were bonds built over years, from infancy.

Once, I passed by a portrait by chance. A girl sat between my mother and a man I’d never met—my father—smiling brightly. He had died six years ago, they told me. I could barely recognize my mother and grandfather as it was, let alone a father who was already gone. The fact that I couldn’t grieve for him made it worse.

The visible things were easy to reclaim. But no matter what I did, I could never get back my father’s voice, his face, his touch.

Lately, I’d been going outside, mimicking Sandora’s graceful walk—chin up, back straight, no more hunching like a turtle. But then I’d remember that day—Sandora’s sharp eyes and lips as she berated me for stealing bread, and me, like an idiot, snapping back at her.

After a few steps, I stopped.

“…Tch. Damn it.”

Why had I been so desperate to hurt her? Just thinking about that day made me want to dig a hole and bury myself alive.

I was nothing but a useless leech, lazing around all day with no purpose. Sooner or later, the adults would figure it out—that the “real” daughter they brought back was nothing more than a worthless thief.

“Iyara.”

I lifted my head from where I’d been lying against the fountain and sat up. Grandfather stood there, hands clasped behind his back.

“Shall I show you something nice?”

“Something nice?”

“Yes.”

He held out his hand. I hesitated before finally reaching out, and he pulled me up effortlessly.

“This way.”

“My back was stiff, so I came out for a walk,” he said. “Is that so?” I replied.

We walked toward a path lined with clusters of delicate purple flowers. The trail was narrow—too tight for two people side by side. Probably a gardener’s path for watering. I had no choice but to go first, with Grandfather following behind.

“Your walk has become quite elegant.”

Had he seen me practicing that exaggerated, poised gait? I wiped my nose roughly and scratched my thigh, too embarrassed to stay still.

“I wasn’t copying anyone.”

“Oh? So you were copying someone!”

“I wasn’t!”

“Hmm, I wonder who it could be. Your mother? Or perhaps… Dia?”

Dia. Probably a nickname for Sandora. The way he said it so casually stung.

“But I like your walk just fine.”

I used to walk unsteadily, bumping into things like a drunkard and using those moments to pick gold coins from pockets. That habit had seeped into my stride—no matter how much I stretched my legs, I still waddled like a chicken jealous of a swan.

I didn’t want to talk about my walk anymore. If we started comparing, the differences between that girl and me went far beyond just gait. Clicking my tongue, I sped up.

“Iyara.”

“Yeah?”

“Look ahead.”

A towering wall appeared before us. Craning my neck, I could barely see where it pierced the clouds. Scaling it would take days. Sure, it was possible—but one misstep, and recovering my body would be a lost cause. Only fools or the desperate would try.

“This is what you wanted to show me?”

“Indeed.”

What, was this his way of telling me not to even dream of escaping? I crossed my arms, scowling—until Grandfather’s large hand suddenly jutted out from behind me.

“Iyara.”

He had pressed his palm against the wall, eyes closed. I stood there, baffled, until he cracked one eye open and looked at me.

“Come here.”

Fine. I’d humor his kindly smile. Maybe nobles with nothing better to do than stroll through flower beds got kicks out of this sort of thing. Swallowing a sigh, I stepped forward.

“Your hand.”

Expecting nothing, I placed my palm on the wall. I’d thought it’d be rough stone—but the surface was strangely soft, like clutching a fistful of the finest wool. Then, beneath my fingers, a pulse.

Thud. Thud.

A tingling spread from my fingertips. The parched, lifeless wall—it was breathing.

“It’s… alive?”

“Very much so.”

“But how?”

Grandfather pressed his ear to the wall first, then gestured for me to do the same without a word. Hesitant, I leaned in awkwardly, my ear brushing against the rough surface.

Rustle, rustle— the sound of crumbling earth. Then, faintly, the chirping of birds. The whisper of a pale dust-wind. A lullaby hummed to soothe a child. The distant bleating of sheep drifting over fields.

“This wall wraps around all of Dome’s lands,” Grandfather murmured.

It was as if the wall had gathered every sound of the earth and pressed them into my ear. My heartbeat turned wild, galloping across unseen fields, through foreign soil. The wall whispered of places I couldn’t see, beckoning me to listen, listen— and in that moment, it stole the chaos from my mind. Pulled me deep into itself. I couldn’t pull away.

“This wall is tied to all of the Dome. ‘Yereka’ means ‘guardian of this wall.’ And we—the descendants of Witterbalde—are entrusted with the western stretch of it.”

Slowly, Grandfather straightened, peeling his ear and then his palm from the wall. But his hand found my shoulder, gripping it firmly.

“And you—you are my granddaughter.”

The wind tangled in his hair before slipping past to brush against me. The grass swayed under its touch, and my heart lurched helplessly in response. Grandfather smiled at me, steady as stone.

“No matter how far apart we’ve been—that doesn’t matter now.”

That was the first time I truly understood the Wall. I understood my grandfather, and the warmth of his hand. The sound the Wall whispered to me, the pulse of its heartbeat, even the look in my grandfather’s eyes when he called me his granddaughter—that day, I realized it all.

Grandfather took me to the top of the Wall. It was a place only known to the heirs of this land, he said, leading me to a narrow path lined with small steps. Following those steps, we could ascend the Wall without effort.

The top of the thick Wall was desolate. Standing there in that empty expanse, Grandfather showed me what lay below. The west stretched into the sea, and this place was its very edge. I could see the untamed waves, endless and restless. It was the first time I had ever seen the ocean. The inky black waters roared as they crashed against the Wall, spreading their grasp as if to swallow it whole, only to recede like a tamed beast, over and over.

“Iyara.”

“Yes.”

“From now on, you must protect this Wall.”

“From what?”

Grandfather didn’t answer. Not a story you need to know yet, he said. His expression was grave, solemn. I couldn’t bring myself to ask further.

After that, I often returned there, gazing at the waves as they broke against the Wall. It became my sanctuary within this fortress. The waves were loud in a comforting way, enough to steal away the chaos in my heart.