TO&FQ Book 1: Chapters 1-21 [Edited] (Patreon)

The Once & Future Queen by Tobascoasako Chapter 1 - Perfection Rich people are committed to being rich. Poor people want to be rich. - T

The Once & Future Queen by Tobascoasako

Chapter 1 - Perfection

Rich people are committed to being rich. Poor people want to be rich.

- T. Harv Eker.

One step short of perfection—that was the story of her life. As the daughter of a powerful conglomerate, she had always been just a bit shy of royalty. Once a princess in everything but title, she had now risen to the status of a queen—again, in all but name. With her father in a medically induced coma, she had taken control of his stake, and, having combined it with her "late" mother’s shares, she now held the majority share in the entire group.

Now, she was the group's acting chairman, and this country was her playground.

With her dark hair and perfect looks untouched by a surgeon's knife or the precision of a laser, she was the epitome of modern beauty. To add to this, she was possessed of a natural elegance that could have made artists weep for the joy of witnessing it.

If there was a flaw in her appearance, it was the beauty mark under her left eye. She had often thought of removing it, but it reminded her of her mother. Removing it would have felt like an insult to her mother’s memory. 

Besides, she decided, if she were too perfect, people might forget she was human. They might even start cults, worshiping the very ground she walked on, building shrines and temples in her name, and whispering prayers to their new goddess.

She smiled internally at the thought, her imagination running riot.

Her phone beeped, and she glanced at the notification: she was being nominated for an award for her contributions to society of all things. It was for one of the many projects she had launched—a café entirely staffed by individuals with disabilities who could not leave their homes. Through remotely piloted robots, they were able to serve customers, and the venture had been a resounding success. Apparently, she had restored to them their dignity and sense of self-worth. It was proof, she thought, of her knack for inspiring even the most seemingly lazy and unmotivated in society to work and be productive. Yes, that was it.

For a moment, she looked into the rearview mirror, her dark eyes reflecting back at her. Her face, free from the practiced softness of a polite smile, took on an almost regal severity. Lips settled in a natural line, jaw set, her gaze in the glass had a fierce, unapproachable calm.

Flashing blue and red lights coming up behind her drew her focus, annoying her. Noisy, persistent things—they always tried to disrupt her when she went out for a peaceful drive. All she wanted was to see  the lights of the city swiftly passing her by, to feel alive even for just a few moments. So what if she was driving slightly above the speed limit? Those were rules for people who did not pay taxes in the millions.

A wicked grin spread across her face as she suddenly slammed on the brakes, tires squealing. She grit her teeth as one of the patrol cars slammed into her car’s rear bumper.

Fuming, she stepped out of her vehicle, a set of cutting lines already prepared for this encounter. The officers exited their cars, one of them hurling a string of colorful invectives in her direction. But the words barely registered; she’d long since learned to filter out the noise when dealing with the poor and the less fortunate.

“Ma’am,” one of them began, hands on his belt, his voice filled with the confidence and authority of the law.

The woman crossed her arms, smirking as she caught his gaze drifting, if only for a moment, to her chest. Her raw beauty was already disrupting his composure, scattering his thoughts. She noted his struggle to find a respectable place to focus. At last, he settled on a spot around her forehead, his professionalism visibly strained.

It almost made her want to laugh, but she decided against it. She would not even gift them that. 

The male gaze was a powerful thing—one she had learned to manipulate since she was thirteen years of age. Now, at twenty-six, she could safely say that she had mastered it.

“What seems to be the problem? Are the police so bored that harassing citizens has become a new pastime?” she began sweetly, crossing her arms. “And damaging private property? This car is custom-made and probably worth more than twenty years of your salary,” she added, her saccharine smile at odds with her biting words.

One of the officers glanced at his colleagues before clearing his throat. “Ma’am, you were doing fifty over the speed limit in a residential area… there are kids here, and…”

She vaguely remembered almost hitting one. The silly thing should have learned to look both ways before crossing. Parents these days had grown lax, she thought dismissively.

"Do not call me 'ma'am'; it makes me sound old… mister," she cut in, glancing down at her finely manicured nails. She’d have to get them done again soon—this shade of red was far too gaudy. Making a mental note to have her secretary leave a bad review, she even felt tempted to send her entire staff to the salon to do the same.

“We’ll need to see an ID, miss,” the other officer interjected with a hesitant smile.

She noted with satisfaction how intimidated these commoners—the poor, really, as nobility no longer existed in her country —seemed in her presence.

Sighing, she ran a hand through her silky dark hair, her annoyance evident. Without another word, she reached into her limited-edition designer bag and pressed five on her phone’s speed dial.

It was picked up in mere seconds.

Narrowing her eyes, the woman spoke into the phone tersely. “Hello, Commissioner. Yes, I’m being harassed by some of your officers. Again. They had the nerve to accuse me of speeding—on a road that my company built and pays to maintain. Yes. Yes, I’ll hand them over.”

She extended her diamond-encrusted phone to one of the awestruck officers, tapping her foot impatiently as the exchange began.

The officer’s face grew visibly pained as he endured a thorough tongue-lashing from the commissioner. The city night was filled with an awkward, heavy silence, until he finally returned her phone with a deferential bow.

Without missing a beat, she reached into her bag and pulled out a thick wad of cash. It was time to discipline these uniformed thugs who had dared to accost her.

She slapped the bowing officer’s face and head with the bundle of cash, again and again, before tossing it to the ground. He endured the punishment in silence, fully aware that any protest might cost him his job—or, depending on her mood, even his life. The woman’s beauty was as infamous as her power, and he cursed his luck for not recognizing her sooner.

The best part of her punishment was the fact that the foolish officers wouldn’t even be able to use the money she’d so carelessly tossed at them. If they did, it would count as bribery. A small laugh escaped her as she took in their pained expressions.

Moments later, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows pulled up. A man in a finely tailored suit stepped out, escorting her to the car and holding the rear door open.

The police officers remained bowing for several long moments, even after the car had pulled away and vanished from sight.

*****

"The villa," she commanded.

Her chauffeur and bodyguard nodded silently, knowing better than to speak when his mistress was in one of her moods. He kept his eyes on the road, hoping traffic wouldn’t be heavy.

A former special forces officer, he had been chosen primarily for his qualifications. But he was also undeniably attractive—tall, broad-shouldered, with a dashing, almost insolent smile. And those dark eyes… she would never admit it, but her heart skipped a beat whenever he glanced into the rearview mirror to confirm one of her orders.

To keep her feelings in check, she pretended to forget his name on purpose. After all, she didn’t want him getting any ideas or putting on airs.

She opened her phone and scrolled through social media, smirking at the flood of positive comments. A frown briefly marred her perfect features when she noticed a single dislike. She’d have Hana, her personal secretary, coordinate with the three major internet companies to find out who had been so brazen. After all, she owned a majority share in each one; it would be laughably easy. Not really worth her time, but she made it a point to educate the masses. Whoever had disliked her post would soon learn their lesson. It was her obligation to society—her noblesse oblige.

In a world where many had stopped truly living their lives and were instead watching others live theirs, thousands upon thousands—no, millions—lived vicariously through her posts. She owed her adoring followers that much, at least. For them, the little glimpses into her life were the only respite from their otherwise excruciatingly dull existence.

She tsked when a news article popped up in her feed. They were blaming her company for poisoning a rural village’s water supply. Couldn’t the inhabitants just drink bottled mineral water like civilized people? Honestly, some people. She’d been receiving death threats all week because of this nonsense. That was one reason she wanted to go on this drive in the first place.

But even that, of course, had been interrupted. There was no justice in the world.

A notification appeared on her phone: a game she’d personally funded was officially launching today. Long before the public or press, she’d played the alpha and beta versions to death, but she wanted her hands on the full, finished product. Not because she enjoyed playing games, of course, but because she wanted to ensure it met the standards of one of the many companies under her group’s umbrella.

*****

Alone, she closed the doors to the master chambers after quickly preparing to retire for the night. The curtains drew automatically—she hated going near them. There could be a sniper lying in wait, or worse, one of the paparazzi, that rare, dying breed she’d driven nearly to extinction. A free press was, after all, an enemy of the people, and she had always thought herself an ally of the common man.

She pressed the power button on her console, waiting impatiently for the game to load. A dark screen faded in, the music playing, then the game’s emblem blazed across, followed by the title: The Maiden of the Wisterias. New routes had been added, and she was eager to try them out.

As she pressed start on her controller, the world went dark.

“Hana!” she called, her voice notably not a scream. “Hana!”

Her secretary did not answer, the lazy thing.

This was odd. If it were a power cut, the backup generators should have kicked in by now. A feeling that was definitely not panic began to creep over her.

A strange sensation brushed her feet… something cold, something wet. Was she standing in water? Was she losing her mind?

She heard a splash behind her and turned swiftly, raising her hands in a defensive stance.

A figure in a long coat—or robes—approached, walking on the dark, liquid surface. Ripples were trailing after her steps. It was a surreal sight, and a chill of fear crept in.

“Welcome, my other self. I’ve waited so long to meet you,” said the figure, her voice ethereal, feminine, close, yet distant.

Had someone tampered with her drink? Had terrorists or protestors finally found a way to release gas into her chambers? Anger surged inside her, pushing aside her budding fear.

“You have five seconds to explain yourself, or I’ll have you killed and fed to your family,” she said icily.

But instead of the fearful or angry response she expected, the stranger only laughed.

“Of course. Even in another world, I’d be just like this,” the stranger mused. “Tell me, are you bored? Is life too easy? Do you feel… like you’re losing control?”

“I don’t believe I’m obligated to answer that,” the woman replied haughtily.

The figure laughed again, a musical sound with ghostly tones. “Of course you wouldn’t. I’ll talk first, then. I’m bored—bored stiff. The world moves to a predictable rhythm…surely the gods—oops—wouldn’t strike us down for a bit of variety?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Now, her anger flared up. Her foot sank into the water by another centimeter, the liquid now reaching up to her ankles. It was cold—freezing—and she realized she was only wearing a thin shift. Trembling, she steadied herself. “What trickery is this? Explain yourself,” she demanded, refusing to let her voice betray the chill overtaking her.

“Let us… change places. You are uniquely gifted to deal with the problems of Zed Valize and my Aranthia, and in exchange… well, I will live your life out here. All of these world’s comforts are truly exquisite! I will be you and you will be me, how about it?” the mysterious woman, for she saw now by the lines of her body that it was a woman, before her, insinuated.

The stranger radiated danger, yet something about her felt strangely familiar. It was the same feeling she had with her Burmese tiger—the one she’d kept since it was a cub, after killing its mother on one of her hunting trips. There was a certain thrill in hunting endangered species. The other cubs, of course, she had donated to a wildlife reserve, which was still praising her generosity. A sizable donation probably helped with that as well.

But now was no time for her mind to wander.

"And… how exactly would we be 'swapping' places, as you put it so simply?" she asked, letting a sneer enter her tone.

"My dear, it would be a trifle! I’ve done all the hard work to come this far. All you need to do is say the words, and you will find yourself in a world of magic and fantasy!" the stranger replied, draping her voice in mystery, the voice cultured and refined… and in a different language from her native tongue she belatedly realized. 

Yet she understood her on an intrinsic level.

Lies, these could only be lies. But, despite everything, despite her doubts, her heart and gut told her the stranger spoke only the truth. Against her better judgment, the daughter of the country’s most powerful conglomerate could not help but feel intrigued. Save for looking forward to the next game, there was nothing left for her here. And what promise would there be in such a world? Would there be dragons? Yes, she very much wanted to see a dragon.

It was enough.

Unbidden, the words came to her, and she felt an undeniable connection to the woman before her. They were words that held power. She caught the impression of golden hair falling forward, then felt a sudden, dizzying sensation of movement and dislocation before the world went black.

Chapter 2 - New World

“Roses do not need to speak of their beauty, for they have always known that they are possessed of it.”

- Attributed to the Crown Prince Velens the Bold.

"My lady! My lady Seraphina!" A shrill, high-pitched voice pierced Seraphina’s consciousness. It repeated her name over and over as though it were an incessant alarm.

Blearily, she opened her eyes, gradually becoming aware of the soft surface beneath her. Yes, she was lying on a giant bed, one as soft as a cloud. She stretched her limbs and felt rested.

A slender girl in her late teens stood to attention beside the opulent bed. She was dressed in a maid's uniform. Her mouse-brown hair framed a pair of glasses that covered a button nose with a light dusting of freckles, and her expression was one of obvious worry.

"Milady Seraphina, you simply must get up, or you’ll be late for your lessons! The Duchess Anaselena was most insistent! Oh, I’ll be punished again!" The maid wrung her hands anxiously.

Seraphina. The maid had called her that. Suddenly, memories of a life she hadn’t lived began to overlay her own, as if she were recalling a character from a favorite book or play. 

A man hoisting her onto his massive shoulders, a striking contrast to the distant figure of her own father. They were, and yet were not, her father. How could someone have two fathers? Faces of people she had encountered, but could not truly recall, flashed in her mind—a tangle of servants and hangers-on, all blending together in a chaotic blur. The memories felt both deeply intrinsic and strangely detached, like a distant echo of herself.

Anaselena... was that her mother’s name? It felt both familiar and foreign, as though it was and wasn’t her mother’s name all at once. And Seraphina—that was her name, yet it, too, felt oddly unfamiliar. But then, what was her real name?

A surge of frustration welled up within her, as if her head could burst from the conflicting thoughts. Then there was the maid—Milly, or perhaps Miriam, her new memories suggested. The maid was fussing and fretting, her voice an endless drone of concern.

Irritation flared within her, and she grabbed something from the bedside table—a water pitcher—and hurled it at the wall with great force. It crashed with a loud splash against the pastel walls, water and shards scattering everywhere.

The maid, Milly, leapt back in fright, eyes wide with shock.

"I am not well... I have a terrible cramp, and my head hurts... it might be a lady's time of the month!" Seraphina protested.

"Oh my! Milady Seraphina has begun her terms! I’ll inform the Duchess at once. Oh, by the Goddess, what a blessed day!" squealed Milly, the maid, clasping her hands with unrestrained excitement before darting out of the room.

At last, Seraphina, her own name feeling like a new flavor on her tongue, was alone, surrounded only by the song of morning birds and the cool breeze and sunlight streaming in through the windows.

Why on earth was a period a cause for celebration? Not that she was actually having one—the familiar, dull ache in her lower abdomen spreading like an uninvited guest, accompanied by a weighty fatigue and that persistent, throbbing discomfort, weren’t there. No, her body felt rather light… lighter and more spry than it had been in a long while, if anything.

She reached up and touched her own shoulders, surprised to find the usual tension absent. Odd. A long lock of hair brushed against her cheek, catching her eye. The color of it—shimmering like spun gold—made her scowl. That wretched maid must have dyed her hair into this garish shade, a flirtatious hue that would take ages to reverse... Yet she hesitated, her memories whispering that her hair had always been a golden blonde.

Setting her anger aside, she took a steadying breath and glanced around, noticing a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Its frame was crafted from silver and studded with emeralds, gleaming softly in the morning light. Unsteady as a newborn fawn, she crossed the room, her steps hesitant, unsure of the truth the mirror might reveal.

There, from the polished glass, a figure stared back at her—a frightened, yet undeniably noble young woman, her wide, green eyes the color of emeralds subtly tilted at the edges. Cascading locks of uncombed blonde framed an elegant, oval face, one with an aristocratic nose and full, sensuous lips that spoke of innocence and allure intertwined. The only flaw was that the symmetry of her features was almost unsettling, too perfect, like a crafted illusion. It was like a statue crafted by an artisan envisioning their ideal of beauty.

Seraphina’s gaze shifted to the slender figure in a thin night shift, softer than she remembered, carrying the youthful flush of curves she had never possessed. A smirk crept onto her lips as her eyes fell upon her fuller chest, and the stranger in the mirror smirked back, mirroring her own mix of curiosity and envy. For confirmation, she touched them on a whim. 

They were certainly not hers. Another wave of simmering annoyance washed over her.

She closed her eyes again, trying to sort through the tangled emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. And then, as if the world had chosen this moment to add insult to injury, something new surged into her mind.

Text and unfamiliar images filled her thoughts—layers upon layers of madness.

[STATUS] Seraphina de Sariens - Noble (Human lvl. 14)

STR: 

36

DEX: 

16

CON: 

14

INT:

21

WIS:

9

CHR:

38

LCK:

13

[STATUS] Seraphina de Sariens - Noble (Human lvl.14)

STR:

DEX:

CON:

INT:

WIS:

CHR:

LCK:

36

16

14

21

9

38

13

Health:

Stamina:

Mana:

Experience:

224/224

40/40

12/12

1200/1283

What was going on? More strange text like the cant of the maddened computer crossed her inner vision, searing itself onto her mind.

[Skills & Proficiencies]

Swords

Bows

Crossbows

Throwing Weapons

Dodge

Critical Hit Mastery

Improved Riding

Monster Taming

(lvl.1)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.4)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.2)

(lvl.1)

(lvl.3)

(lvl.2)

[Gifts]

Strength of the Old Ones: 

+25 Strength

Horror began to dawn on her as the weight of the situation settled in. Against all odds, the stranger’s impossible promise had come true. She was in ‘The Maiden of the Wisterias’ and in the world of Zed Valize—a computer game her company had meticulously crafted, funded, and was soon going to release. This was not some dream or a glitchy VR experiment; every detail around her was hauntingly familiar. It was the bedroom of the character Seraphina de Sariens.

And Seraphina… Seraphina de Sariens was no mere side character. Daughter of the powerful Duke Anatoli de Sariens, she was the villainess, the ruthless noblewoman who existed to torment the protagonist and meet a grim fate, her every action preordained across all of the game’s routes. The memories of her real and previous life warred with this new identity, but the world around her was pulsing with this new and unmistakable reality.

The mysterious stranger had been right.

Chapter 3 - Strength

"Not the adversity itself defines you, but how you respond to it reveals your true character. Just as the lotus blooms untainted from the muck and mire, so should you rise above life's challenges."

- The Book of Wise Tellings from the Land of Streams.

A feeling of dread came over her as she reread the Gift’s section of her profile. The Strength of the Old Ones—the so-called "Gift" Seraphina had been born with—felt more like a curse. All her life, she had struggled to keep her immense strength in check, a power that defied reason in the world she came from. But now, inhabiting the role of the Seraphina from the game, she was forced to confront it fully.

The situation was truly maddening.

Her gaze drifted to the bed, its soft, inviting sheets a siren's call to escape. But Seraphina hadn't come this far by giving in to comfort. With a sigh, she seated herself at the dressing table.

She ran a hand along the smooth, finely-grained wood, letting the reality of it all sink in as she admired the intricate craftsmanship. Every detail was perfect, a flawless recreation of the artists’ original designs. Was this real? Or had her previous life been nothing more than a prolonged dream?

No, that couldn't be… but what were the chances? Her hands tangled in her blonde tresses as an irrational irritation bubbled up within her. She could practically feel her blood pressure rising, a fierce urge to smash something taking hold.

Seraphina threw herself onto the bed, burying a muffled scream into the thick pillows. She punched the mattress in frustration, but when something creaked ominously, she decided to spare the innocent bed from further abuse.

It was all so ridiculous. What was she supposed to do?

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling.

The answer was simple. Despite everything, she had been given an opportunity. The game’s script might have dictated Seraphina’s downfall, but that didn’t mean she had to follow it—at least, not exactly. Certain changes could be made, certain people… edited out. She had the knowledge, the power, and, most importantly, the will to make it happen.

What use was there coming into a fantasy world if it wasn’t your fantasy? Heaven’s knew she was basically this game’s creator!

Here, in this world, she finally had the chance to be what she could never have been before. She could be a queen, ruling over a country—and perhaps, who knew, the entire world.

Hugging a pillow to her chest, a cruel smile crossed her beautiful face as she relished the thought.

*****

Her wardrobe was going to be a problem, Seraphina thought as her maids helped her dress. Everything was… well, far too girly. Frills everywhere, mostly in light pastels. Still, each piece in her collection was of the finest cut and quality.

She noticed that Milly's hands lingered a little too long while adjusting the fabric around her waist. Seraphina shuddered. She remembered that Seraphina’s maid would be a problem—a potential traitor, no less.

"Leave us," Seraphina commanded the other servants.

They froze, bowed, and began to exit in unison.

"Not you, Milly," she added sharply.

Without warning, Seraphina backhanded the maid, sending her sprawling across the floor. A blow like that would have broken the neck of a normal person, but Miriam was no ordinary maid.

Two eyestalks sprouted from her face, wriggling in shock. Seraphina inwardly felt a spike of disgust.

"Milady Seraphina!" the creature—Miriam—protested, its voice an eerie blend of gurgling and high-pitched girlishness.

"You’re a monster, Miriam. A Palisa Slug, to be precise," Seraphina stated calmly.

The eyestalks froze, retracting back into her head as her eyes returned to their human appearance. Realization dawned on her.

"How did you know? My disguise was perfect!" Miriam asked, awestruck.

"Please," Seraphina scoffed. "I’m the daughter of an Oracle. Of course, I’d know."

"But… milady shouldn’t have the Sight…" the maid stammered, half-panicked.

So, the creature had some awareness of her limitations. It wasn't entirely wrong, but Seraphina hated being corrected. She forcefully kicked Miriam in the stomach, causing her disguise to falter as she writhed about on the floor in pain.

Seraphina looked down at the groveling maid. "Miriam, let me make this clear. I am not interested in women—especially not in creatures of a different species. However, out of respect for your many years of service, I will allow you to continue serving me. But remember, your life is in my hands," she warned sternly.

Seraphina crossed her arms. "Do not touch me like that again. Don’t even entertain such thoughts. Am I understood, Milly?"

"Y-yes, your mercifulness!" Miriam squeaked, pressing herself to the floor in submission.

A surge of satisfaction swept through Seraphina. A part of her felt liberated by the casual expression of violence, and now that she had headed off a potential problem, the creature would be useful. Now, she had to show a sliver of kindness to keep its loyalty. The carrot and the stick.

"Good. Now, help me with this troublesome button. And afterward, ask the kitchen to prepare an Adelberry pie. You may have a slice if you’re on your best behavior."

If she was to rule a country she would have to build a base of loyal followers.

*****

She was young—or young again, she reminded herself. Not that she was old in her previous life, of course. And with this newfound youth came both its advantages and its annoyances. For one, she had to endure this world’s version of education.

Seraphina moved gracefully across the length of the room, gliding with an almost otherworldly poise as she balanced three books on her head. Her deportment instructor gave her a grudging nod of approval, but her mother, the Duchess Anaselena, remained mostly impassive. Mostly, for there was a hint of pride in the green eyes that mirrored her own.

Seraphina casually removed the books from her head, placing them delicately on a large wooden table.

“Now that you have started your menses we can go ahead with the formal ceremony for your engagement to Velens,” the Duchess stated. “It seems that your practice is finally beginning to bear fruit. Now remind me Sera, how is our Kingdom of Aranthia governed?”

Seraphina straightened, her posture as flawless as the balance of the books she'd just set aside. The question was, no doubt, a test—a way for her mother to gauge her grasp of the knowledge required of a future duchess and potential queen. She studied her mother, a woman cut from the same cloth as herself. They shared the same eyes, skin, and hair, all in matching hues, with flawless features that would captivate any red-blooded man.

Anaselena was a vision of what Seraphina might become. The only differences lay in her mother’s slightly guarded gaze and the more generous proportions that age had bestowed upon her.

She cracked her fingers, drawing a few raised eyebrows, took a measured breath and began.

"Aranthia is governed through a layered feudal system, or so the academics in the Empire have labelled us," she explained, her voice steady. "At the top sits the royal family, with King Elidion ruling as sovereign and his son, Crown Prince Velens, next in line to the throne. Beneath the crown, noble houses hold power, each with responsibilities tied to their titles and lands. The strongest of these houses are the duchies—such as ours," she added, casting a quick glance at her mother.

"Our duchy," she continued, "holds strategic lands in the north, making Father not only a powerful noble in his own right but a critical ally to the crown. It’s a position of influence strengthened by his royal blood, which connects our house to the ruling family."

The Duchess gave a slight nod, fanning herself with a crimson fan before closing it and prompting her to go on.

"Under the dukes are the marquesses, each responsible for border territories and charged with their defense, especially against the southern and eastern realms. Below them are the counts, who manage the smaller provinces and oversee trade routes and local economies. Then there are the viscounts and barons, who serve as local lords with limited military and administrative power."

Seraphina paused, gauging her mother’s reaction before continuing. "Each noble house has a duty to its liege lord, which in our case is the crown, and that duty is primarily military and economic support. In return, the king grants them autonomy over their lands and the people within them, as long as they uphold their obligations and show loyalty to the throne."

The Duchess's expression softened, if only slightly. "Correct, Sera. A true noble's power lies not only in wealth or military might, but in influence—both with the crown and among the other houses. That is why your engagement to Velens is so essential. It’s not just a marriage; it’s an alliance. Elidion instead of seeking a foreign princess for Velens, seeks to strengthen his position here in Aranthia. It is a unique opportunity for our family."

Seraphina inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Yes, Mother. I understand." Inwardly, Seraphina seethed. Though she wanted to have her hands on the reins of power, doing so while being sold like a heifer at market grated at her sensibilities.

She was determined to come into power on her own terms.

The Duchess Anaselena leaned forward, her tone shifting to one of quiet intensity. "Good. Remember that you carry the hopes of our house, and your actions reflect on us all. Prince Velens has his own ambitions, as do the other noble families. Power shifts as easily as sand in the desert wind, and the strongest must adapt—or be swept away."

Seraphina nodded solemnly, keeping up the facade of an obedient daughter. "I will do what is expected of me." She had played this game before and had come out the victor.

"Yes," the Duchess replied, a hint of pride glinting in her emerald eyes—eyes that saw much. "I believe you will."

The older woman stood, approaching Seraphina. Nearly a head taller than her daughter, she could cut an imposing figure. She drew Seraphina close to her soft bosom, whispering fiercely into her ear. The scent of lilacs, her mother’s perfume, filled Seraphina’s senses.

"You have inherited all my gifts… save for one. The Dreamsight. This is the only way for you to stay strong when they realize you can not pierce the future’s veil, my love."

Anaselena gently pushed her back to look deeply into her eyes, searching for something. "You must make Velens your own—heart and soul. I do believe that you have met him before, when he visited our estates. He was a good boy then. I believe that was when Anatoli and Elidion made their promise. You could not hope for a better match."

There was a hesitancy in her mother’s tone that was anything but reassuring.

A memory surfaced, dredged up from this body’s past—a time when she had beaten a sniveling boy her age with a stick in the garden. He had boasted about being the best swordsman in the land, and she had put him in his place. It had been one of the instances when Seraphina had cursed her own Strength.

The old Seraphina had been very unladylike that day.

Chapter 4 - Sorting Things Out

A goal without a plan is just a wish.

- Antoine de Exupéry

It was all rather overwhelming, but the first fragments of a plan were already forming in her mind. She knew she would have to think of herself as Seraphina now, as she couldn’t recall her previous life’s name—perhaps that was for the best. Adapting as quickly as possible was essential.

The whole situation was mysterious, not to mention oddly convenient. The local language was very different from her native tongue. It was a language she had no memory of ever learning, but it came as naturally to her as swimming would to a duck. She understood it completely, in every sense. When she tried writing, she found she could produce the language’s script in a perfect, flowing hand befitting her station. Besides, on some level she found the whole experience rather meditative, the strokes of the feather pen upon parchment giving some constructive reality to her situation.

Seraphina had also visited the library—a modestly large room filled with dusty books that had clearly seen little use, typical of wealthy households that kept collections for appearance’s sake. She was able to read through them quickly, and many of the titles were familiar. She realized she had read this collection before, more than once, as she could recall many of the facts and stories within them.

Through subtle inquiries with the servants, she had also determined her age: Seraphina was fifteen. Very young by the standards of her old world, but more than mature enough for this quasi-medieval European land she had found herself in. 

She had until she turned eighteen before reaching her majority—the latest she could delay her marriage. If the protagonist, the thieving minx, did not steal him away first.

So far, the situation she found herself in was a perfect reflection of the game. If she continued down the path set before her as the story’s villainess, she was doomed to die young and alone. A sad fate indeed by any measure.

A major contributor to that fate was Seraphina’s perception of her own Strength. She had always considered it unnatural and, more importantly, unladylike. The original Seraphina had always held herself back for the greater portion of her life; it was a part of the package that had made her a compelling and sympathetic villainess. She, however, knew it for what it truly was: a Gift from the Old Ones, a primeval force that sought to destroy the world Zed Valize.

She shuddered, thinking of Seraphina’s connection to them.

Her father had insisted she be trained in the arts martial, and she had gone along with it, if more out of resignation than any real enthusiasm. Duke Anatoli believed his daughter should at least be able to defend herself. 

This was reflected in her character sheet’s modest collection of low-level combat skills. Unlike the old Seraphina, though, she had no qualms about using her Strength to her advantage, and had no aversion to violence in general—though she did prefer to have others dole it out on her behalf. 

With that in mind, she promised herself to speak with her father’s master-of-arms and familiarize herself with the weapons and fighting styles of this world. In her old world, she had been trained in the main weapons of the modern era: the gun, the knife, and the fist and foot. It would be interesting to see how much of that knowledge and skill could be applied here.

From reading the books in the library, she realized that she had the potential to revolutionize this somewhat backward society. If she wished, she could uplift them all. But where was the fun in that? Still, it was an ace up her sleeve.

Or so she had thought. When she tried to recall specific parts of her modern knowledge, she found her memories frustratingly opaque and unclear. Only the most basic scientific principles remained accessible; anything more complex seemed to be blocked. Again, she tried to recall the things that would directly help her in this new world—the same things she had drilled into her mind for the CSATs, the College Scholastic Ability Tests. She vividly remembered studying late into the night, squeezing in reviews between dance practices, and surviving on barely three or four hours of sleep. Yet now, all of it seemed to have slipped away.

It appeared that the game—or this world—had limited her abilities when it came to modern knowledge and know-how.

On the positive side, this limitation was going to prevent her from playing on easy mode. She had always enjoyed a challenge, and now she would have to work with what she had. They could take away her specific knowledge of modern sciences, but they could not take away from her the understanding of certain universal truths.

Such as the mechanics and workings of power; namely, of how to acquire it and how to wield it.

In this world, she found herself both at a disadvantage and an advantage. First, the disadvantage: power was inherited through a primogeniture system that favored the male line, except for one peculiar family at the fringes of Aranthian nobility. This was somewhat mitigated by her position as the only daughter of the de Sariens, though her parents were still young. Curse this world and its teenage marriages—barbaric.

She would have to prevent the birth of her brother, Seraphina’s brother, one way or another.

Ironically, her advantage lay in her status as a woman. Aranthian society practiced a form of chivalry reminiscent of medieval codes, but with a distinct twist. The central figure of worship was Avaria, the Goddess of Justice, whose values replaced those of Christianity in shaping their ideals of chivalry. Women were respected and placed on a pedestal. As an objectively beautiful woman, she could benefit greatly from the status quo.

However, she knew that while she would be respected and adored, it wouldn’t be her true self that drew their veneration. It would be the idealized image of her that captivated the knightly classes. They would be adoring the idea of her.

Then there was the matter of magic, and her current lack of it. Now that she could be formally promised to another, her family was going to present her with two scrolls of power as a coming-of-age gift. Each scroll represented many years of a Mage’s labor. If events proceeded as they had in the game, Seraphina knew she was going to be offered a Scroll of Fire and a Scroll of Earth.

In Aranthian nobility, such an offer was meant to be a ceremonial gesture, for to accept it was to commit oneself to a life of service to king and country. However, Mages who pursued the path of the elements rarely lived long; they eventually succumbed to madness, driven by a desire to "become one with their element." This transformation often involved a rather gruesome death.

No, Seraphina had other plans. Though she might have to get her hands a little dirty, her first step would be to enlist the aid of a certain someone.

*****

“I need Corporal Frest now, Sergeant Mistevan,” Seraphina stated commandingly, accosting the man at the castle’s barracks.

The Sergeant looked taken quite aback at the young noblewoman’s ability to remember his name. That was troubling, for it did no good for the ones up top, as he liked to think of them, to be remembering the names of those that stood below.

“But, milady Seraphina…” he voiced in half-protest.

“At once, Sergeant!” barked Seraphina.

There must have been something in the heiress’ tone for the grizzled Sergeant snapped to attention, giving her a salute before rushing off into the barracks.

A few minutes later, Corporal Frest came trundling into view, sans the Sergeant Mistevan. Clad in chainmail, kettle-hat, and her family’s tabard over his armor, he was the stereotypical image of a man-at-arms. He leered at her maid with wolfish eyes. 

Miriam visibly wilted under his stare.

“How can I be helping you, ladies?” he said, somehow managing to put a sneer into his voice, if not in his expression.

“You will be escorting us for a ride from the estate… for no longer than two turns of the glass,” the noblewoman answered curtly.

The man before her, Frest, had been one of Seraphina’s henchmen in the game—a good reason to recruit him early, she thought. In The Maiden of the Wisterias, he had served as a mini-boss that the protagonist’s party had to defeat before entering Seraphina’s own lair. This meant that, insufferable attitude aside, he could prove quite useful.

The Corporal spat on the ground. “Guess I could be doing that. Saves me from polishing a few poles,” he snickered.

Seraphina found her dislike of him growing by the second.

*****

The Stablemaster Anzlas handed the reins of Nina, her palfrey, to her. “A good thing that you are taking her out for a ride today, milady Seraphina. Nina was getting restless. Young ones should be given a lot of exercise.”

The color of the mare’s coat was a soft, dappled grey, each patch of silvery fur blending seamlessly into the next. Her mane and tail were a pale, almost silken white. Nina’s eyes were large and calm, holding a quiet, steady equine intelligence. She was of a graceful build, her movements light and unhurried, perfect for a lady’s ride. Her hooves, neat and well-trimmed, pressed delicately into the ground of the stable floor as she nickered softly, greeting Seraphina in her own gentle way.

In her previous life, she had owned many horses—Arabian racing horses on which she’d spent millions, more for the sake of the status than anything else. But despite that, she’d had little time for actual riding and was, at best, an average horsewoman. Now, as Seraphina, she would see what a ‘level three Improved Riding’ skill truly meant in this world.

Rejecting the Stablemaster’s and Frest’s offers of help, she found that she could mount the horse easily, her movements natural and smooth.

Anzlas and Frest looked away, a faint blush coloring their cheeks. She looked at them, puzzled by their reaction.

“A lady does not ride astride…” murmured Miriam weakly, shrinking in on herself atop her own mare.

Of course, Seraphina thought, recalling that women in this world were expected to ride side-saddle. But now was the time to test the effects of her highest attribute here, as it had been in her previous life.

“I am the heir of the Sarien Duchy, am I not?” she declared in a strong voice that commanded attention. The others nodded mutely, unable to dispute such an obvious truth.

She smiled at them, almost indulgently, like a parent correcting a child. “Then it stands to reason that I should act like the heir, does it not? If I am, heaven forbid, called to lead our forces into battle, I will not have the luxury to worry about the social propriety of riding sidesaddle.”

Seraphina hoped they weren’t too well-versed in noble protocol…

“Never heard of a highborn Lady leading a battle,” Frest remarked in a weak voice.

“Indeed, it does sound rather unusual,” the Stablemaster agreed.

Seraphina huffed at their comments, then offered one of her most radiant smiles. “Fear not,” she said, her voice dripping with honey, “I’m simply preparing for any and all contingencies.”

“Well, when you put it that way, milady…” the Stablemaster replied, somewhat grudgingly. Seraphina could almost feel her raw Charisma taking hold, bending him to her will.

“Seems fine by my reckoning,” Frest echoed. “Not that I’ve a Face in it either way.”

The young noblewoman had to suppress a small smirk. The characters in this game really did use the terminology the writers had devised. The term ‘Face’ referred to how the peasantry called the coins stamped with the visage of the Goddess Avaria.

Miriam, of course, could only nod dumbly as Seraphina’s smile widened.

Just as planned, the young girl thought to herself. “Then let us be off. I’ve looked forward to this ride all day, and I wish to return well before the evening meal.”

With that, Seraphina clucked her tongue, prompting Nina to walk calmly out of the stables. She made a note to herself to commission some split riding skirts.

Chapter 5 - The Hermit

"Do not repeat the tactics that led to victory, but master the methodology that devised such strategies."

- Attributed to General Damien de Savant.

Seraphina was once again surprised by how easily she could mentally adapt to such a strange situation. he had been thrust into this unfamiliar world only hours ago, and now here she was, setting out on her very first outdoor adventure. She really was something special.

Special enough to have a Palisa Slug in her service. If only Frest knew what manner of creature he was riding with, she thought with a smile.

Just over an hour from Sarien Castle, there stood a squat structure of solid grey stone, its haphazard walls bound by thick black mortar. Moss was covering much of the building, allowing it to blend almost seamlessly into the surrounding forest, with only a thin wisp of smoke betraying its location.

This was the home of the Hermit Giles de Canconne, a character the protagonist was not going to encounter until a few chapters into the main storyline of the game. Giles served as a failsafe to teach players healing magic, regardless of their choice. Seraphina had disliked the character, feeling he took away the player’s agency, but had ultimately conceded after the development team argued that altering his role, or removing him entirely, would create far too many branching storylines. Looking back, she really should have put her foot down.

It was time to make a much-belated correction.

An old man, bent and wizened like a mountain tree, emerged from the stone structure. Clad in a monk’s habit, he looked every bit the wise man of the woods. His sharp eyes, undulled by age, swept over Seraphina’s party.

"What can I do for you?" he asked in a reedy voice.

"You are the Hermit Giles de Canconne?" Seraphina inquired, sitting tall in her saddle and looking down at him from her fine horse.

The old man gazed up at her through thin, wispy locks of hair. "That I am, young missy, though I see manners have certainly degraded among the youth since my time," he replied, his voice unexpectedly clear and strong.

"You will teach me the Heal spell," she declared. Her escort exchanged troubled glances. "Please," she added reluctantly after a few moments.

"Milady Seraphina… a Heal spell is the purview of the Great Temples," Miriam commented weakly, fidgeting in her seat.

Frest simply looked baffled, feeling out of his depth in the encounter.

Giles tsked, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth. "Your friend speaks the truth. Such knowledge is not meant for the laity," he offered patiently as a way of explanation.

A brief frown crossed Seraphina’s face. Her high Charisma wasn’t working, and she found it troubling. She hated being troubled.

"At least we’re in the right place," Seraphina commented, glancing up at the late afternoon sky. "Is that a refusal, then, old man? You would dare deny Seraphina de Sarien?" She added, a sharp edge of steel to her words.

A spark of defiance ignited in the old man’s eyes, a lingering trace of the fire born from the campaigns of his youth, when he’d fought in the name of his Goddess—crawling through the muck of war to bring the light of the Holy to those who had needed it.

"The de Sariens I know are an old, noble, and honorable house. They would never oppose Her church..." he said warily, noticing the dangerous glint in the young lady’s eyes and hoping to preempt any hostility. Slowly, he felt the first chilling breath of horror creep over him.

Seraphina didn’t take her gaze from the center of his forehead. "Frest, be useful and cut him down. Kill him, since he’s being uncooperative," she commanded coldly, her tone like the first winter frost.

"Right… right you are, miss—my lady!" Frest answered haltingly, his hand moving instinctively to his arming sword before he realized what she’d asked. "I mean… he’s just an old man in the woods. That would be cold-blooded murder, milady Seraphina."

The young heiress fixed him with a heated glare. "You will cut him down now, or I will see to it that your previous crimes are brought to the attention of my father, the Duke," she spat.

"Err… right you are, then," he muttered, reluctantly drawing his weapon.

The blade hissed as it escaped its scabbard. It was a plain sword, inelegant but deadly, its edge gleaming with the promise of pain. 

"Now, Corporal!" Seraphina commanded.

The old man looked up at them with saddened eyes. “Is this what you’ve become? How can someone so young be so…”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Seraphina interrupted, raising a hand. “Cutting down an unarmed man in cold blood would be…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Unsporting.”

“You’re insane, young lady. Barking mad,” muttered the old man, slowly backing away.

Seraphina shook her head, wagging a finger at him. “You have until the count of ten before I begin the hunt.”

“The Hells have a place reserved for scum like you!” he shouted, spittle flying.

“Ten…” she began, removing her riding gloves and reaching for a hunting crossbow hooked to her saddle.

Realizing she was deadly serious, Giles turned and bolted into the woods.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked Frest sharply.

“Wha…?” he replied, taken aback.

“I said I’d wait until the count of ten. I never mentioned anything about you. Do you really want to spend the evening running down an old man? Dinner is waiting… and there’ll be a silver piece in it if you return quickly.”

A reminder of the carrot and the stick was always effective.

Without further hesitation, Frest leaped off his horse and clanked into the undergrowth, his armor rattling as he chased after Giles.

Why did she always have to do the thinking? It could be so exhausting at times.

*****

A tired-looking Frest returned about ten minutes later, escorting a bruised and defeated Giles at swordpoint.

"Right. I brought him back…" he wheezed, prodding Giles with the tip of his sword.

"You were supposed to cut him down, not bring him back. But, perhaps, this will work to my advantage," Seraphina replied sternly, running a hand through her hair. "Giles, for the last time, will you teach me the Heal spell?"

The old man said nothing, staring silently at the ground. With a shrug, Seraphina raised her crossbow and loosed a bolt into his gut. At this range, she couldn’t miss.

The old man doubled over, screaming in agony, his cries echoing through the forest to the high heavens.

"Well, was that a yes or a no?" she asked again.

"No…" he rasped, blood staining his lips. "The song of the Covenant is not meant for scum like you," he managed to say between pained, gasping breaths.

Ignoring him, Seraphina turned and began walking toward the squat stone building. Her maid bowed quickly to the dying man before hurrying after her.

"Milady Seraphina!" Frest called out. "A gut wound is a terrible way to go."

Without turning, Seraphina replied, "I know, Corporal. Remember what I ordered earlier."

Silence followed, blessed and complete.

You have slain a Human. 50 experience gained.

She crossed the threshold of the simple dwelling, her brow furrowed in thought. It seemed she could gain experience points just as if she were the protagonist. A small, secret part of her had feared that her strength might be limited by the story’s predetermined path.

But here, in this world, it seemed, she had true agency.

Of course, she never let something as inconvenient as a simple setting ever get in the way of her goals.

The inside of the building was surprisingly tidy, telling the story of a man who had lived alone in solitude in the woods. In one corner, there sat a simple straw bed, beside it a small shrine to the Goddess. Incense was burning at its side, filling the room with the scent of perfumed sandalwood. A small shelf lined one of the walls, holding a few well-worn books. A modest kitchen area and a large wooden table completed the setup. Altogether, it had a quaint, unpretentious charm.

There was a knock on the wooden door of the abode.

“Did him in, just like you asked… he was bawling something awful,” grumbled Frest as he stepped into the hermit’s home. “What are we here for, anyway? Thought you wanted him to teach you something… that’s going to be a wee bit difficult now.”

“Just watch if you must… but keep quiet,” Seraphina chided. “And next time, when I ask for something, I want it done immediately,” she added, tossing him a silver coin.

“Yes, milady!” Frest replied with a rakish grin, saluting her half-mockingly.

The young noblewoman surveyed the room, searching for something. Her eyes settled on the statue of the Goddess Avaria at the shrine.

“Frest, Milly, move that statue, and whatever you do, do not touch whatever you see underneath. If you do, I will skin you both,” she commanded.

Like whipped dogs, the pair scrambled to obey.

The statue was a facsimile of the Goddess of the Twin Blades, beautiful in its elegant simplicity, though mortal hands could never fully capture the perfection of a Divine. She wore a stola in the ancient fashion, the stone folds of the fabric seeming to ripple in an unseen breeze. A veil covered her eyes, and in her hands, she held the symbols of her power: the sword of justice in one hand and the dagger of mercy in the other.

With a groan of worn stone, they carefully and reverently moved the statue of the Goddess. Beneath it lay an extraordinary piece of parchment, inscribed with strange, eldritch runes that seemed to dance at the edge of perception. Patterns shifted upon the vellum, changing even as Seraphina stared at it. Her intuition had led her true; no further prompting was needed. She rushed forward, seizing the parchment with both hands.

In that instant, a flood of understanding poured into her. She saw not only how to gather Mana to will the soma into regrowth, but also, to a limited degree, how to push back against the sands of time itself. The holy verse to correct the wrongs that should never have been and to restore balance to a cruel, unjust world.

You have learned Heal (lvl.1)

Finally! She had learned a magic spell, setting her above the vast majority of those without the Giftspark in Zed Valize. In addition, the Heal spell was from a school of magic that closely mirrored the powers the game’s protagonist was gifted with. But unlike her, Seraphina had actually worked hard to attain it.

It was also a wise choice of magic. While most other schools tended to lead practitioners down a path toward madness, the Divine school was a much safer option. According to in-game lore, its ‘Mana Song" tried to make the user more holy, encouraging virtues like generosity. But here was the catch: if she acted contrary to her magic’s nature, she could curb most, if not all, of its insidious influence. Even if she could not entirely resist the song, the worst outcomes she could expect were to be venerated as a saint or to end up in a nunnery.

“I guess that was the other way the old man could’ve taught you, right?” Frest inquired, a curious frown on his face. 

“Exactly,” Seraphina replied, brushing the dust from her clothes. If she stayed here any longer, she’d feel the commonness of the place clinging to her.

“But… how did you know where to find it… just like that? And why did we have to kill him? We could have just taken it,” he pressed.

Seraphina gave him a long look, and Milly answered for her.

“She has the Sight!” Milly blurted.

“Thank you, Milly. I was certain he’d have reached that conclusion in time,” Seraphina sighed. “As for why he had to die—the Church of Avaria would not take kindly to a scion of a noble house seizing one of their precious scrolls. They want a monopoly on healing magic, after all.” She paused, wiping an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. “Now, we need to clean up this mess.”

“I’ll see if the old man has a shovel around here…” partially mollified, Frest offered resignedly.

“That won’t be necessary, Corporal. Milly, if you would, please,” Seraphina said, rolling her shoulders. That was the problem with larger…

“Milady… what?” murmured the maid, clutching her hands together helplessly.

Seraphina tapped her foot in irritation. Why was everyone so slow? “Dispose of Giles’s body,” she commanded.

“But…” Miriam whimpered.

“No ‘buts,’” Seraphina snapped. Then, turning to Frest, she added, “And you, stay inside the house until Milly is done.”

“And why would that be…?” he asked, sounding confused.

“Just stay in the house, Frest. You need to learn not to question me.”

With a resigned sigh, Miriam stepped outside, undoing the bow at the back of her traveling clothes. Her outer garments slipped to the ground. Quickly, Seraphina shut the door behind her.

“I think I’d like to see this. A little look can’t hurt…” Frest protested.

But he quickly fell silent as the unmistakable sound of bones cracking and animal-like growls came from outside. Gurgling and hissing noises drifted through the stone and wood walls of the house. Frest’s face went pale with horror.

“Still curious, Frest? Former member of the Stone Moons Bandits?” Seraphina asked, her voice edged with iron warning. “Do you truly wish to see? I assure you, nothing in your criminal past could have prepared you for that.”

Frest swallowed hard, admitting, “I guess you’re right, milady.”

“And you will, of course, speak of this to no one. Understood?”

The former bandit nodded dumbly.

“For if you do, that will be the fate awaiting you,” Seraphina said, smiling with a beauty that starkly contrasted her dire threat.

Chapter 6 - Dinner

At formal dinner parties, it should be made customary to seat the guest in the most fragile health nearest to the bathroom.

- from the diaries of Eloise de Laney.

Seraphina relished the ride back, feeling the confidence that came with mastering her first spell. The wind felt exhilarating in her hair, and she took a moment to admire the sky. It was painted in deep reds and oranges by the setting sun, as if it, too, was celebrating her success. The air was clean, free from the pollutants of her world, making riding through the picturesque Duchy of Sariens quite a pleasant experience for her.

In contrast, the journey home was a somber one for Miriam. She wept quietly for most of the ride, clinging to her horse’s mane as they ambled along. Why she was so distraught, Seraphina couldn’t fathom. She had merely commanded the creature to act according to its nature. After all, Palisa Slugs were omnivores, their potent digestive acids capable of dissolving almost anything—a quality not unlike the slime-like Quiverings in the distant city of Al-Lazar, a high-level zone she was perhaps going to explore one day.

To be honest, it was one of the main reasons Seraphina had decided to keep her.

The young girl shook her head, dismissing that negative line of thought to focus on the enjoyable ride. The smooth, rolling gait of her palfrey made for a comfortable ride, sparing her the jarring bounce of a trot that could wear out a less-skilled rider. She patted the horse’s neck, content. Unlike human or monstrous companions, animals could always be trusted to behave true to their nature. Seraphina would not have to worry about an animal suddenly developing worthless qualms or moral convictions.

Thankfully, Corporal Frest chose to remain silent, only casting an occasional wary glance in her direction. Seraphina knew she had secured his loyalty with both a threat and a bit of silver.

Hopefully, the weasel of a man would grow to be worthy of her patronage.

*****

Seraphina resisted the urge to fidget, maintaining an air of serene ambivalence as she sat at the dinner table. She sliced the meat on her plate carefully. It was swimming in gravy and accompanied by a few token vegetables scattered like green afterthoughts.

"Ha! I swear, our Sera grows lovelier by the day—just like her beautiful mother. I’m truly blessed she takes after you more than after me, I’ll say!" guffawed Duke Anatoli de Sariens, giving his lady wife’s knee a possessive squeeze.

Anatoli, Lord of the Sariens Duchy, was a bear of a man, almost two meters tall and almost that much as wide.  Rumors suggested the de Sariens family had roots in the great frozen North, which would explain his towering size. Built like a mountain, he radiated a solidity, an air of invincibility. Despite his auburn hair being threaded with the first strands of his autumn’s silver, the man positively exuded youth and virility. Being clean-shaven, and going against the long-standing fashion of beards, also lent much to his appearance of being of a younger age. 

Her memories reminded her that the Duke was no stranger to violence, yet he was as gentle as a kitten when it came to the two women in his life—women he would gladly burn the world down for. She recalled sitting on his knee, listening to tales of distant lands. Anatoli had always shown unwavering love and time for his only daughter. His love was fierce, fiery, and profoundly protective.

Anaselena offered him a long-suffering smile. “How many times must I remind you to be a bit quieter at the dinner table, darling? It’s poor manners in front of the help…” she whispered gently.

The servants attending them fixed their gazes somewhere in the middle distance, politely ignoring the exchange.

“Ha! But tonight is a time for celebration and merriment! Our daughter is now a woman grown!” he proclaimed, raising a tankard of ale.

“Darling…” she murmured, not meeting his eyes. “We talked about this earlier. Girls can be sensitive about that…”

The effect on her husband was immediate; his exuberance faded, and a hint of melancholy softened his expression. It seemed that her mother knew exactly which strings to pull.

Though Anatoli appeared robust, he had a particular vulnerability: alcohol. One tankard of ale or two glasses of fine wine were more than enough to usher him through all stages of drunkenness—though not necessarily in the usual or expected order.

“Little Sera’s all grown up now,” he blubbered, his voice slurred. “I remember when she could barely reach my knee!” He hiccupped, his eyes misting with unshed tears.

“And now… some bastard’s going to take her away from me. Won’t be having it… not while I breathe!” he declared, his mood shifting suddenly to one of dread and wrath.

Under the influence of drink, his emotions were as changeable as autumn skies.

Seraphina’s mother sighed, then slapped his broad, meaty shoulder. “It was your idea in the first place! One of those grand schemes you and your drinking buddy cooked up. The two of you decided to marry off my daughter…”

“Ah, woman! I love that fire in you,” he rumbled with a devilish grin. “Well then, we’d best make another so we aren’t too lonely when our darling Sera flies the coop!” He laughed heartily, rising to his feet and scooping his wife into his arms.

Anaselena shrieked in surprise, her laughter turning girlish as she was swept off her feet. “Dearest Toli! Not in front of Sera,” she whispered conspiratorially.

Seraphina’s expression remained neutral and impassive. She was not going to give this childish pair the satisfaction of a reaction.

“No, my love! It’s good that Sera sees the true love between a man and a woman!” he guffawed as he carried her out of the dining hall, singing a throaty, bawdy tune, while Anaselena playfully pretended to resist.

It was all too clear that the two were still very much in love.

Once they had left and the last echoes of her father’s song faded, Seraphina turned to a male servant, Desmond.

“You can serve dessert now,” she instructed him in a deadpan voice.

*****

Being summoned to Anaselena’s bedchambers late the next morning felt strange. It reminded her that, if the timeline of the game matched this reality, her future brother would likely be conceived soon. A brother represented a threat, so she would have to prevent that—and a few ideas were already forming in her mind. However, the thought of her parents doing their business in that very bed made her flush, distracting her. She tried to reason with herself, reminding herself that they were not her real parents, and Anatoli was not her real father. Still, it was… confusing.

Her mother was preoccupied, trying to free a stubborn tangle from her hair. Alone, without servants, it fell to Seraphina to help. She offered a faint smile and stepped forward, reaching out to assist. For now, she would continue to play the role of a good daughter.

She started to run the brush through the golden strands of her mother’s hair, finding the whole task oddly relaxing. Skillfully, she worked out the tangles that had tightened overnight, each snag a small challenge to overcome. Morning hair, Seraphina mused, was a stubborn thing—softened by sleep, but knotted as if tangled by dreams. As she brushed, she found herself slipping into a rhythm, each stroke calming her thoughts. For a few quiet moments, the complexities of her own plans and schemes faded into the simple pleasure of untangling and smoothing her mother’s hair, each knot a tiny conquest.

“You’ve gotten much better. There’s something different about you,” her mother remarked with a wry smile. “Who would have thought such a simple shift could affect someone so deeply?”

Seraphina’s heart leapt, fearing that her secret had been discovered. But, with an application of steely resolve, she maintained her fixed, pleasant smile.

“Coming to terms with myself has given me a lot to consider, especially regarding this family… and my duty to it,” she replied, carefully working out another tangle of gold.

Anaselena misinterpreted her words. “Looking forward to marriage so soon? I can’t blame you. I was your age when your father took me as his wife,” she said wistfully. “I love you with all my heart, but my only regret is that I couldn’t bear him a son—a brother who might have protected you in this world.”

Seraphina bristled at the thought. She did not need a man to protect her… though, admittedly, in this medieval world of violence, perhaps she did. Though she was born to a position of privilege, her resources and influence were not quite what they were in comparison to her previous life. 

Her smile artificially broadened. “I would have doted on him,” she lied smoothly, adding just the right amount of warmth to her eyes.

“Yes,” her mother agreed, looking at her through the mirror's reflection. “You were always a child full of love.”

Well, it wasn’t entirely untrue. Seraphina had certainly been loved.

“Do you remember that today is the day of your Floriettal?” her mother added.

For a moment, Seraphina’s hand stilled, and her smile faltered. A Floriettal… this world’s equivalent of a grand tea party.

“I can hardly believe it,” Anaselena snorted. “All that time you spent pestering me to invite those flighty girls over. Remember, they are not here just for a social calling. They are coming to assess us—and to test you, specifically. So, what will you say if they press you about the Sight? No doubt they’ll ask for little Divinations… and how will you respond?”

Seraphina stiffened, taken aback. She had not read anything about this; there was no game lore to guide her through this event. She would be walking into unknown territory, completely unprepared. Panic stirred within her.

Sensing her daughter’s distress, her mother turned and placed a comforting hand on hers. “Of course, we could always say you’re unwell. You have just come into your terms; it’s as good a reason as any. You do not have to do this, my dear.”

Did she truly think that Seraphina de Sariens would run from a challenge? If so, she was sadly mistaken.

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed. “No, Mother, of course not. I’ve been looking forward to meeting my friends for ages,” she lied smoothly. “But… what should I say if they ask me about the Sight?”

Anaselena’s eyes narrowed, giving her daughter a thin-lipped smile. “Lately, you’ve become harder to read, almost as if you were a different person,” she mused, drumming her long nails across the surface of her vanity. “We can no longer claim you’re too young and that the Sight has yet to awaken… The Oracle has always been a pillar of the kingdom, outside the reach of the servants of the River God.”

Ah, the River God. The Lord of Time, whose servants could glimpse into the future. According to the game’s lore, each of his blessed followers received a singular vision of their life. Their ability to predict the future depended on how much of that vision they could individually remember. These blessed few gathered at the temples of the River God, sharing their knowledge in order to build, in essence, a library of the future.

“Yes, Mother,” she replied simply, dutifully.

Her thoughts drifted back to the Lord of Time. There was a flaw in his servants’ power that even they didn’t recognize. The followers of the River God only glimpsed the most likely futures. The Oracle, on the other hand, could see beyond herself through dreams and visions—a gift passed down through blood, not granted by any divine source.

This was why her mother needed no guards; what good were assassins against someone who could foresee their approach? It was also why their family believed they would need the protection of the royals for their “ungifted” daughter.

“If they press you, you will tell them the Sight is not to be used unless for the Kingdom’s good or under the King’s express command. And should they truly push, you will say you feel unwell and need a moment to retire. Then you will speak to me, and I will tell you what you need to know,” her mother commanded.

“You’re an intelligent girl; you’ll do what must be done. You will serve Aranthia well. I have seen it.” Anaselena stood, facing her daughter. She placed both hands on Seraphina’s shoulders, her voice turning to a warning. “And that de Laney girl, the merchant filth who thinks her name and family our equal. Beware of her. I hear her family seeks Velens’s hand and has powerful foreign backers who would see Aranthia weakened. Her mother’s influence, the temerity of the she-Ruar,” she warned, her final harsh words at odds with graceful appearance.

Seraphina could not help but give out an unladylike snort in amusement. A Ruar was a type of large, reptilian work animal, and if her memory served her correctly, Idalie de Laney was nothing like that. Still, the comparison was an amusing image.

Moments later, her expression softened, and she offered her mother a sad smile, a shadow passing over her face. It was her mother’s very gift that would block her ambitions. A loyalist to the core, she loved the country more than her own family, or so it was written in her character profile. Thus, Anaselena would never aid her daughter’s dark designs for the throne. A throne without Crown Prince Velens the Bold.

However, there was a flaw in the Sight, or Dreamsight, a blind spot. A blind spot that Seraphina would have to manipulate if she was to see her dreams come to fruition. It was a shame that she would have to die once she had served her purpose.

Chapter 7 - Jaunt in the Forest

When dragons fight, it is the trees that are burned.

- A Quassian aphorism.

Predestination and the nature of foresight were among the problemsthe new Seraphina faced. Added to that was the question of the Butterfly Effect. As one of the earliest testers, one who hadinsight into the game’s development at every stage, she had knowledge of upcoming events—events she could predict. However, if she chose not to follow along with certain things as they were, would it create lasting ripples, skewing the train of future events and nullifying her current advantage?

She had already touched upon the fabric of future events with the recruitment of Frest to her cause and the defanging of her maid Miriam. What effects would that have? However, it would do her no good worrying over such a thing alea iacta est, the die had been cast. She really should have worried about thesethings before doing them.

Seraphina looked into the mirror, giving a slow twirl to take in the dress. It was an adult shade of red, rich and deep, falling gracefully to her ankles, with delicate white frills at the neck and sleeves. The cut was fine, elegant even, but… this dress.

She sighed, straightening her back, though the fitted bodice made for a tight fit. And her bust, larger now than it had been—was adding unexpected strain to her posture, making her shoulders ache. Though she cut quite the figure, Seraphina knew she would have to do something about this in the future.

The young girl paused, took a deep breath, and a realization began to dawn on her.

Despite the looming threat of impending doom, she was enjoying herself—more than she had ever enjoyed her life in the old world. Back there, her existence had felt like an endless repetition of maintaining a high score in a computer game. Money… she loved it, loved what it represented, but she’d had so much that it had become just a way to measure herself against others.

She cut off the thought immediately. There was no need to measure herself against anyone, in this world or her last. She had always been blessed; she had always been the best. A world filled with deadly court intrigue, dragons, and fantastical monsters would be just another conquest for her—just another variable. The setting had changed, but the rules, for the most part, remained the same.

*****

Thoughts of possible futures weighed heavily on her as she rode out into the dense forests just outside the castle town. Even as she wandered beneath the canopy on foot, searching for a herb that might ease one of her many looming troubles, these thoughts crept in with a pernicious stubbornness. 

It was not that she needed the herb immediately, nor was she usually one to rush tasks, but her curiosity was overwhelming. Could she learn a new skill completely from scratch, at her own initiative? In the game, certain skills could only be acquired from trainers, so this little venture was an experiment to uncover the truth.

Of course, Seraphina knew what Amolla root looked like and where it was most likely to grow. However, she soon realized that theoretical knowledge was quite different from the “real world” practical application. Unfortunately, the herbs were not outlined in a golden glow like in the game, so she actually had to rely on her own eyes and wits to find them. Yet, find them she did—thanks in equal parts to her stubbornness and goddess-blessed Luck.

As she dug up yet another Amolla root, most likely incorrectly, she noted one of the downsides of Seraphina’s unnatural Strength. Though this body had the muscle memory to deal with routine day-to-day tasks, new activities posed a challenge. Her hands were looking the worse for wear, and her maid Miriam, hovering nearby, looked increasingly distressed.

“Is this really necessary, Lady Seraphina? We could just ask the herbalist in town…” the not-quite human maid suggested.

“Sometimes, Miriam, you need a more hands-on approach to certain matters,” Seraphina replied bluntly, tugging at another stubborn root.

You have learned Herbalism (lvl.1)

You have gained 1 Wisdom.

At last, she had gained a new skill! This confirmed that, unlike in The Maiden of the Wisterias, skill development in this world would be more organic. Good to know. Yet the slight increase to her Wisdom felt almost insulting—ten Wisdom was the lowest possible starting score in the game’s character creation, representing a typical human just entering puberty. Still, it was enough to raise her maximum Mana by an entire point.

Positive thoughts. She took a moment to smile, appreciating the forest scenery. Now that she had a rare moment to herself, she found it all rather invigorating. 

“I think we have done enough for one day,” she admitted, brushing the dirt off her clothes.

The Herbalism skill, even at a beginner’s level, was useful—it allowed her to identify and harvest ingredients for various purposes. At higher levels, it would even enable her to make simple ointments and tinctures with different effects. Of course, when combined with the Alchemy skill, one could craft near-miraculous potions, if one was willing to invest the time and the effort. Seraphina, however, was not.

She had a single focus: concocting poisons. One poison in particular, when combined with a common local food ingredient, would act as an effective contraceptive. Seraphina intended to bring women’s choice to this world, albeit for her own very personal reasons.

Looking down, she noticed the stains and marks on her clothes from rooting around in the forest floor for Alchemical herbs. It would be a devil to clean, but she smiled,glad it wasn't going to be her task. In this world, as in the last, she had people for that. Privilege had its perks.

It was time to head back home. 

Home? How quickly she had come to call it thus.

She whistled, and a bored-looking Nina glanced up from grazing on some forest greenery. The palfrey ambled over to her and nuzzled her face, a display of affection Seraphina bore stoically.

“Come, Milly. It is time to head back. Do not dawdle—I’ll need your help with my hair,” the young noblewoman commanded, skillfully hopping onto Nina’s back. 

Seraphina urged her mount into a canter with two clicks of her tongue, following an animal trail that would lead them out of the woods. Her beleaguered maid scrambled to her own horse moving, fearful of being left alone in the forest.

Chapter 8 - The Tea Party

“Let them eat cake.”

- attributed to Marie-Antoinette.

Her Floriettal, the glorified coming of age cum tea party, was being held in the gazebo on the castle grounds. The gazebo was set deep within its well-tended garden. Around it, the famed wisterias were cascading like waterfalls of color. They hung low, some tendrils nearly brushing the manicured lawn, their shades of purple and pink painting an idyllic scene. These wisterias were not just any blooms; they were a symbol from the game this world was crafted upon, and they were filling the air with a fragrance that was both sweet and faintly melancholy.

Seraphina waited for her so-called peers, attempting to close her mind and settle into a near meditative state—a feat she managed for all of two minutes, a personal record. Bored beyond endurance, she broke off a corner of her biscuit, scattering the crumbs across her gloved palm.

As if summoned by some silent invitation, two birds, their feathers mirroring the deep purples of the wisteria blooms, fluttered down to her open palm to feast on her impromptu offering. She grinned, savoring the simple delight of watching their greedy pecking. In their eagerness, she saw a reflection of the common folk and the less fortunate ones—always quick to snatch up the scraps left by the privileged. It was, after all, the nature of the world.

As abruptly as they had arrived, the birds took flight, startled by a burst of girlish laughter and the sudden clamor of approaching voices. It seemed, she mused, that birds shared another trait with the common folk: a readiness to flee at the first hint of disturbance or trouble.

Three daughters from the kingdom’s most powerful families had chosen to attend—though they had all decided to arrive fashionably late. A subtle insult, no doubt orchestrated by one particular thorn in Seraphina’s side, Eloise de Laney.

This minx hailed from a family  that had been raised to the peerage only recently. When the late Baron de Crecy had passed without issue, King Elidion, in his foolishness, handed control of the barony to an upstart merchant house, lured by their promises of grand reforms, higher productivity, and, ultimately, increased taxes. Thus, the de Laneys had become freshly minted nobles. Added to this, the new Baron de Laney’s wife was a harlot hailing from the lands of the Empire—the on and off enemies of Aranthia.

The old Seraphina would have seen it as a near-scandal—a disgrace, tainting the noble blood of Aranthia with that of common merchants and foreign whores. But the new Seraphina found herself disliking Eloise for a very different reason: she would be in the way of her ambitions.

Eloise, at the head of the party, swept forward with a small curtsy, her lips curved in a smile that held just a hint of mockery. "Blessed days, a good afternoon to you, Seraphina," she intoned, her voice a sweet, lilting melody that to Seraphina’s ear sounded closer to the grating whine of a mosquito.

The two girls at her side echoed her greeting, each with a slight dip of the head. To Eloise's left stood Michelié de Montan, daughter of Marquess de Montan, whose rugged lands stretched up against the Sarien duchy and the Empire’s own border. Michelié’s coming with Eloise was odd, a statement of unity between hers and the upstart merchant house. After all, her family had been allied with the de Sariens for generations, a bond forged in shared blood and conflict. But loyalty was a fickle thing, and there she was, standing beside Eloise like a loyal pup. Michelié cut a far less graceful figure than her companions; her build was soft and plump, her dark auburn hair gathered loosely, herself more akin to a daughter of some prosperous innkeeper than to the heir to a marquessate.

Seraphina gave a slight nod, omitting the usual formal greeting between host and guest. "A good afternoon to you all," she replied, her voice coolly measured, its warmth carefully calculated as she directed her gaze at Eloise.

Eloise reminded her, to a limited degree, of her old self, which was not surprising; rumor had it that Eloise’s design had been modeled after her own appearance. Lies, Seraphina thought, for she had been far more striking. For one, Seraphina distinctly recalled herself as being far more endowed. Still, she had to concede that Eloise was beautiful in her way—raven hair that spilled just past her shoulders, a slender, almost waifish frame, with grey eyes that gleamed with a hint of mischief.

"May the eyes of the hallowed gods lay lightly upon you," said the last of the trio, Rashana, her voice smooth and honeyed. She was exotically lovely, a year older than Seraphina, and the embodiment of her Al-Lazarian heritage. Rashana’s skin was a rich olive, her features dark and elegantly sharp, her proud nose betraying her noble lineage. Her grandmother had been a Holder princess from the golden desert city of Al-Lazar. Today, though, Rashana wore a frilly dress in deep red, not so different from Seraphina’s own attire. Unlike Seraphina, she wore three gold bangles at each of her delicate wrists.

It was meant to be a gathering of friends, a celebration of one of them taking her first steps into womanhood. Yet, as Seraphina cast her eyes over them, she felt their eyes upon her, assessing, scrutinizing. All save Rashana. Rashana, at least, met her gaze with a quiet understanding, untouched by the veiled calculation and hostility of the others.

This was the opening skirmish in a much larger campaign.

“Forgive us for being late,” Eloise began, her voice sweet, but with a hint of venom. “The roads in de Sarien lands are quite difficult to travel. I did tell my father that we spend far too much on our roads, but he insists that roads are the lifeblood of the barony. In de Laney lands, we build them as they do in the Empire—smooth and built to last.” She settled gracefully into the chair an attentive servant had provided, her words the first salvo.

Seraphina's emerald eyes glinted with sly amusement as she set down her teacup. "It is a shame that you and your men would find travelling upon our roads a challenging task, Eloise," she said smoothly. 

Eloise's smile widened ever so slightly. "Ah, but challenges make the journey all the more memorable, do they not? Traversing your rough roads was like stepping into an old tale, a charming relic of the past. Perhaps one day you'll experience the ease of our roads and see the future we are building. You see, even the most secluded lands must eventually embrace the future."

Seraphina had to fight a spike of irritation; she could not help but feel that she had lost a point.

"Indeed," Rashana interjected softly, her dark eyes observing the exchange with quiet interest. "Change is the only constant in our world."

Michelié leaned forward, almost spilling out of her dress and nearly upsetting her cup. "Oh, Lady Seraphina, I heard that in the Empire, they have roads made entirely of stone, cut with such skill and precision that they last for centuries! Straight as an arrow, imagine that!" She giggled, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering around the table.

As Seraphina observed Michelié's carefree laughter and her near mishap with the teacup, she began to question whether the girl had truly aligned herself with Eloise. It seemed more plausible that a slice of cake and a kind word had temporarily swayed her allegiance for the day. Delving into her memories of Michelié, Seraphina mused that the girl likely had no grasp of the subtle games being played around her.

Eloise leaned back with casual grace, resting her head on a dainty hand. "And, a well-built road benefits merchants and nobles alike," she remarked, adjusting a fold of her dark dress. "It's a pity some regions cling to the old ways so desperately."

"Tradition has its merits," Seraphina replied lightly, her fingers tracing the gilded rim of her cup. "Not everyone is eager to pave  their heritage over."

Michelié frowned in thought. "But without new roads, how will we get the latest fashions before they are out of season? I simply must have those Empire silks."

Rashana hid a smile behind her teacup. "There is a balance to be found between preserving the past and embracing the future."

Eloise tilted her head, eyes never leaving Seraphina. "Speaking of fashions, Seraphina, your gown is… delightfully classic. A family heirloom, perhaps?"

"Thank you for noticing," Seraphina replied, utterly unfazed. "It was inspired by one of my mother’s dresses. Some things, like good taste and style, are timeless, unlike fleeting trends."

Michelié sighed wistfully. "I do love a good heirloom. Though sometimes they can be dreadfully old-fashioned," she commented oblivously, looking at her with brown, bovine eyes. 

"Only to those who cannot appreciate their value," Seraphina said, her smile cool.

Eloise took a delicate sip of her tea. "Value is such a subjective thing, isn't it? What one considers priceless, another might see as… just dated."

"Much like alliances," Seraphina remarked pointedly, her emerald eyes settling on Michelié as she sought confirmation. "They shift and change, often without warning."

Michelié met her gaze with a vacant smile, utterly oblivious. Either she was an actress of supreme subtlety, or simply naive beyond measure. Seraphina was willing to wager her inheritance on the latter.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Birds chirped merrily in the wisteria vines, oblivious to the undercurrents below.

Michelié broke the tension with a bright laugh. "These pastries are simply divine! Did your chef come from the Capital?"

"He is trained in the old traditions," Seraphina answered without answering the question. "A craftsman who values quality over novelty."

"Perhaps you could share the recipe," Eloise suggested, a touch of acid in her voice and a quiet glint in her eye. "It would be a kindness to spread such… traditional delights."

"Some secrets are best kept close to one’s breast," Seraphina replied, eyeing Eloise’s less than bountiful chest. "I am sure you understand."

Eloise's smile did not reach her eyes. "Of course. Family traditions and secrets are so important, especially when they’re all one has."

The dark haired girl was skirting dangerously close to the line. Had they been men, Seraphina would have been forced to demand satisfaction. As it was, all she could do was smile for the moment.

Rashana set down her cup with a gentle clink. "The spring air is lovely today, isn't it? The wisterias are in full bloom."

"Indeed," Seraphina agreed, grateful for the change in topic. "Their beauty endures year after year, a reminder of the enduring strength of roots well planted."

"Unless a harsh wind comes to uproot them," Eloise countered adroitly, letting a servant refill her cup. “The weather can be so unpredictable of late.”

"Then they must be resilient," Seraphina countered, her gaze steady. "Deep roots hold firm, no matter the storm."

“And if one were able to read the changes in the wind, a storm would be easy to simply avoid,” smiled the dark haired girl.

Michelié looked between them, brow furrowed. "I do hope there isn't a storm coming. My hair simply frizzes in damp weather."

The dusky Rashana chuckled softly, the bangles at her wrists jangling as if in compliment. "Fear not, Michelié. The skies are clear, and will remain so, at least for today."

Eloise leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh yes, Seraphina, do tell. Predicting the weather should be a simple task for someone of your... abilities."

Michelié nodded eagerly, a smudge of cake at the corner of her mouth. "Yes, please, Lady Seraphina! If it's going to affect my hair, I'd really like to know!"

Seraphina arched a delicate eyebrow, her patience waning. "You wish me to divine the weather like a common fortune teller at a faire? Why, I feel almost insulted."

"Or perhaps," Eloise interjected smoothly, a sly smile playing on her lips, "it's that you cannot?"

Seraphina's emerald eyes flashed as she met Eloise's gaze head-on. "Perhaps you'd like me to reveal your future’s path, Eloise. The future holds many secrets—some of them more enlightening than others."

Eloise's smile didn't falter. "Oh, I'd be delighted. Do tell what the future has in store for me, if you can, that is."

Inside, Seraphina's mind whirred, crafting a plan extemporaneously. 

She rose gracefully from her seat. "Then shall we take a turn about the garden? Such matters are best discussed in private, for one’s future is a matter most private. Since you are all my friends, let me reveal something to you in trust. The Dreamsight does not just give us insight into the future—it glimpses into the past as well."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Eloise's face, but she quickly masked it with a confident tilt of her head. "Why, of course, Seraphina. I'm eager to see the extent of your... insights."

Rashana sipped her tea thoughtfully, her gaze serene. "I'll remain here and enjoy the tranquility. Michelié and I can keep each other company."

Michelié beamed, blissfully unaware of the tension. "More cake for us, then!"

Seraphina extended her hand, and a servant promptly placed a delicate parasol into it. "Shall we?" she asked.

"Let's," Eloise replied with a challenger’s smile, taking up her own parasol.

As they strolled away from the gazebo, the wisteria petals fluttered gently around them, the air thick with unspoken words. The warm spring afternoon seemed to hold its breath, the garden becoming a silent witness to the subtle duel unfolding between the two girls.

******

The two girls glided past the cascading wisterias, Seraphina leading the way toward the entrance of the garden's briar maze. The thorny hedges had been trimmed into perfect straight lines, forming walls of uniform green spikes.

"Well, Seraphina, aren't you going to tell me all about my future?" Eloise asked, breaking the silence between them with a hint of uncertainty—a small victory for Seraphina.

Seraphina touched her earrings, allowing a small smile to play across her lips before smoothly moving them away and tucking them into an inner fold of her dress.

They walked a few more paces into the maze before Seraphina deigned to reply. "Your family has profited greatly from its links to the Empire and patronage of certain senators," she remarked lightly.

"That we have connections in high places is no secret, Seraphina. You'll have to do better than that to convince me," Eloise retorted, her expression hovering between a smirk and a fox's grin as she twirled her parasol.

"It's more than just a few trade deals here and there, little Eloise. They've turned your father—and by extension, your family—into traitors," declared the heiress of the Sarien duchy.

Eloise's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Those are quite the accusations, even for you, Seraphina," she hissed, coming to an abrupt halt.

"Lady Seraphina to you—you forget yourself," the blonde corrected, continuing a few steps ahead. "I know full well that your father has been providing the Empire with intelligence on our military and matters of state. For about five years now, if memory serves."

"And you have proof of this?" Eloise blurted out, her mask of calm slipping.

"Lower your voice," Seraphina admonished, glancing back at her. "We wouldn't want everyone to discover your dark secrets. Oh, I look forward to how you will deny this."

"You have no proo—" the waifish girl began, her protest faltering.

“No, but I do,” Seraphina smiled, wagging a finger in front of Eloise’s face. "Your father's contact is the merchant Antonius Luxor, a so-called dealer in rare dyes. He is part of the Empire's intelligence network. He made your father an intelligence asset in exchange for assistance in his rise to the peerage. A good deal as far as your snake of a father was concerned. Ambitious creature, your pater, Geron de Laney—one with ideas far above his station. He should have kept his dreams limited to opening another stall at the market. Such aspirations poison the blood of our nation," Seraphina explained provocatively.

"How could you..." Eloise burst out, then caught herself, her face a mix of shock and guilty dismay.

Her expression was so pitiful that Seraphina felt a fleeting spark of sympathy. Poor Eloise had little choice in the matter—their fates had been scripted long before the rich woman had entered this world. Eloise had always been destined to serve those more powerful. In some routes of the game, she had been a friend to the protagonist, but when the protagonist discovered that she was serving the Empire, they were compelled by duty to expose her, leading to her tragic execution. In other paths, where the protagonist encountered her little or not at all, she became the unwilling pawn and hanger-on of Seraphina. From Seraphina's perspective, she was simply hastening things along.

"I could pretend it was just a guess, but you have confirmed it regardless. So very childish of you, Eloise," she said, wagging a finger in the girl's face. "You are very new to this game, so you would not understand. But if my mother or I have seen such things, it will be proof enough for King Elidion to act. Foolish, foolish child."

The irony of her own words was not lost on her. Seraphina reminded herself that she had a decade more experience dealing with even more difficult situations than this girl.

Reaching her boiling point, the dark-haired girl lunged forward, trying to grab Seraphina's hair, her composure shattered. Seraphina swiftly stepped back, lifting the hem of her dress high to reveal a knife strapped to her thigh. In one smooth, practiced motion, she drew the blade.

It was time for a hands-on approach. 

Eloise's eyes widened in shock at the sudden prospect of real, visceral violence. Her mouth opened to scream, but before she could utter a sound, Seraphina closed the distance between them. With swift precision, she clamped a hand over Eloise's mouth, tackling her to the ground with her superior strength.

Straddling her in a mount position, Seraphina pressed the knife to Eloise's throat, just enough to draw a tiny bead of blood—a crimson droplet against pale skin.

"Sshh, now, dearest Eloise," Seraphina whispered, her voice cold and steady. "There is a way out of this for you yet. Join me, and let me avail myself of your family's resources and contacts within the Empire. In return, I will see to it that your family's secrets are protected. Having the shield of the future queen of Aranthia is not such a bad deal. Do you understand?"

Beneath her, Eloise tried to scream her defiance, tears of frustration welling in her eyes as she futilely kicked and struggled against the stronger girl. Of course, she had forgotten that Eloise had eyes for the Crown Prince. For Eloise, Seraphina was nothing but a rival for his affection. Time to nip that right in the bud.

Seraphina gazed down at her, emerald eyes as cold and unforgiving as ice. She wondered if some of her skills had carried over into this world, and was eager to test her newly gained magical abilities.

Adjusting her grip, she kept one hand firmly over Eloise's mouth while the other shifted the knife from her throat to her abdomen. With a swift, decisive motion, she plunged the blade into Eloise's stomach. Her hand remained an unyielding vice as a cruel smile spread across her features, a notification flashing in her inner vision the moment the blade kissed flesh.

You have learned Daggers (lvl.1)

You have learned Daggers (lvl.2)

You have learned Daggers (lvl.3)

You have learned Daggers (lvl.4)

It seemed that some skills were indeed carried over, though hidden until unlocked by specific actions. She dismissed these notifications, only to be greeted by another one:

You have reached level 15.

You have 3 unassigned attribute points.

You have 1 unassigned skill point.

The girl smiled maniacally. Just like in the game, you gained experience points for raising skills and were awarded points to assign when you leveled up. Unlike the game, however, there was an annoying timer in the top-left corner of her vision, one counting down from ten.

Annoyed at having to choose so soon, she nonetheless allocated her free attribute points: one each to Constitution, Dexterity, and Charisma. She placed the skill point into her new Heal spell, playing to her strengths while shoring up some weaknesses.

Beneath her, Eloise's struggles weakened, becoming fainter. Back to the task at hand.

She smiled radiantly at the dying girl. “El, darling, blink twice if you understand and agree. I might just decide to save you,” she offered. “As an added bonus, I may give Velens to you once I'm done with him.”

As expected, the desperate girl blinked twice.

With that settled, she moved her hand away from Eloise's mouth. Eloise breathed weakly, blessedly quiet and no longer struggling. Seraphina took the time to wipe her dagger on the girl's dress before lifting the hem again to sheathe it.

Now, how did this work again? She focused, trying to summon the magic of the Heal spell. Thankfully, it answered her call—a song of raw, divine joy escaping her mouth, an aria of praise.

Too much! she thought, gritting her teeth, trying to suppress it even as she directed the energies into the black-haired girl, Eloise. Something clicked into place—a latch that finally caught, or a puzzle piece falling where it should.

You have learned Silent Casting (lvl.1)

Almost immediately, the song grew quiet’ what was once a great orchestra of praise was now just a quiet murmur in the back of her mind. Looking down at Eloise, she could not help but notice her expression of wonder and fear, mixed in equal measure. 

She had her completely now.

*****

She led a now very somber Eloise back to where the two other girls waited in the gazebo. The dark-haired girl looked lost and adrift, her eyes staring slightly off into space.

“Oh my!” Michelié exclaimed after finishing a fresh plate of biscuits. “Whatever happened? I heard some shouting, and an odd song... you two weren’t singing, were you? And you look positively dreadful, Ele. What happened to your dress?”

“Perhaps, some futures are better left unknown,” Rashana commented enigmatically, giving the blonde girl a knowing look.

Seraphina smiled at both of them, adjusting her hair as she sat at the table. “The clumsy girl tripped and fell in the maze, silly thing,” she explained. “Is that not right, Eloise, darling?”

“Yes, Lady Seraphina,” Eloise answered hollowly, eyes downcast.

“Oh, the hour is drawing late. I would offer you the hospitality of my home, but I know that your families want you back as soon as possible, so I shall not be keeping the pair of you. It would be rude,” stated Seraphina, putting her red earrings back on.

“Oh, alright then! Ele, you’ll be riding in my carriage for part of the way, won’t you?” bubbled Michelié.

“Oh, Eloise has decided to stay with us for the time being. We have so much to talk about. She has offered to give me some insights on the proper management of one's estates. I am slow of learning, so I shall be availing myself of her tutelage for quite a while,” Seraphina answered for her, her smile still pleasant.

In ancient times, the powerful lords of Aranthia had kept ‘guests,’ hostages in all but name, to keep intractable houses in line. Seraphina thought it was high time to bring back such a tradition.

As she smiled at the girls, she found herself rather admiring Rashana’s red dress. She would have to get herself one cut in a similar fashion soon, the shade would suit her far more than the dark-skinned girl.

Chapter 9 - Shopping

"Don't be into trends. Don't make fashion own you, but you decide what you are, what you want to express by the way you dress and the way to live."

- Gianni Versace

Seraphina de Sariens covered a yawn with a dainty hand, feeling a mix of irritation and fatigue. The servants were taken aback when the young mistress rose so early—it was entirely against her usual custom. They had rushed to present a simple breakfast of oat pancakes: a selection of fresh fruit, fish, freshly baked bread, and a few slices of Adelberry pie. Eloise, her former rival, was, of course, sitting with her, looking even more out of sorts than Seraphina.

“Why must we get up at such an early hour?” complained the young dark-haired girl.

Seraphina buttered a thin slice of warm bread before answering. “I do not want to waste this youth, and there are many things to do during the day.” 

In truth, the young noblewoman wanted to avoid her mother as much as possible. The woman could be unsettling. She suspected that any more time spent with her might shake Seraphina’s resolve.

“Seraphina…” Eloise began, but, upon seeing Seraphina's hard look, corrected herself. “Lady Seraphina, you sound like the old ladies at court.”

Seraphina bristled at this. How easily those of the younger generation forget, she thought, before remembering that she was once again very much part of that group. She pointed her butter knife at Eloise; it was a small breach of manners, but she was pleased when the girl visibly wilted in front of her.

It was good to remind people where they stood.

"As my lady-in-waiting—well, once I am assigned court duties—you will be expected to follow my schedule," Seraphina said sweetly, breaking off a steaming piece of fresh bread and popping it into her mouth. “I do not believe every day will be like this, but when it is, I expect no complaints from you, Eloise, darling.”

Eloise's official position was now to be Seraphina's future lady-in-waiting, a role the Baron de Laney simply could not refuse. The raven-haired beauty had sent back her small complement of servants and staff with a handwritten letter expressing her gratitude for Seraphina's kind and gracious offer that she had accepted.

The future heir to the Sariens Duchy and royal princess now simply thought of her as her lady-in-waiting, for surely she deserved one, did she not?

Now, Eloise was a hostage of the de Sariens, whether her family knew it or not—a bargaining chip to ensure their good behavior. Or, in Seraphina's case, a lever to secure her family's support.

Seraphina nodded to herself absentmindedly. The girl's penmanship had been so lacking that she had made Eloise rewrite the letter seven times before it was acceptable. Eloise should have been grateful for her kind instruction.

Eloise, now officially her de facto lady-in-waiting, sniffed, beginning to feel the weight of her new reality.

“Oh, do cheer up, Eloise,” Seraphina commented gently. “I cannot have you moping about; it simply will not do. Since you commented so kindly on my clothing selection yesterday, perhaps you will help me choose some new attire for both you and myself?”

The girl brightened at this prospect, wilfully ignorant of the reminder of yesterday’s events. “I would be delighted to, Sera... Lady Seraphina,” she replied, her eyes lighting up.

How easily a young mind adapts, Seraphina thought with a mental shrug.

“Now stop dithering and finish your breakfast, my dear,” the blonde noblewoman ordered, a thin-lipped smile playing on her lips.

*****

With only Corporal Frest as an escort, the three girls—Seraphina, her maid Milly, and her new lady-in-waiting Eloise—descended upon the bustling town of Sariens. On foot, they crossed the single stone bridge leading out of the castle, an architectural marvel adorned with intricately carved gargoyles. Each gargoyle stood sentinel along the balustrades, clutching a Zajasite light crystal that absorbed daylight to emit a soft, ethereal glow at night, casting shimmering reflections on the river below. The bridge was bustling with activity as townsfolk and travelers moved between the grand castle and the vibrant town surrounding it.

It had been many decades since the Duchy of Sariens—and the town in particular—had known the touch of war, and it showed. The town was a bustling facsimile of a medieval European urban center, albeit cleaner, especially when it came to the cobblestone streets. This cleanliness was thanks to advances in plumbing and efficient sewage systems imported from the Empire. A clear river ran through the town, encircling the castle at its center like a natural moat. The town had grown well beyond its thick stone walls, spreading into the lush countryside beyond the original defenses.

Most telling of all were the people themselves. Taxation was light in the Duchy of Sariens, and the Duke was much beloved by his subjects. Here, hope and opportunity thrived, evident in the bright eyes of the townsfolk and the lively energy in their steps.

“Fresh Valnies! Get your fresh Valnies!” a fruit vendor exclaimed from his stall, which was laden with ripe, fruit that glistened under the sun. The Valnies were the size of small apples, their smooth purple skins tinged with hints of crimson and gold. A sweet, exotic aroma wafted through the air, enticing the passersby. A young man with an easy smile spotted the ladies approaching, and was clearly determined not to let them pass him by.

Nervously, he addressed the most approachable of the trio. “A Valny for your lady?” he asked Milly, Seraphina’s maid.

Seraphina felt a sharp sting of irritation as the fruit vendor's attention settled on her maid. Eloise, she could perhaps understand, but Milly—the Palisa Slug? Did men really find such mousy girls appealing? The thought irked her more than she cared to admit, a flicker of jealousy and confusion igniting within her.

“Me!?” cried Milly, looking utterly flustered. She glanced between Seraphina and Eloise, tugging nervously at one of her pigtails.

Corporal Frest kept his expression impassive, scanning the crowd and pointedly ignoring the ladies. If Seraphina did not know better, she might have mistaken him for a professional soldier.

She felt her body begin to roll its eyes—a reaction that seemed almost instinctual—but, by sheer dint of her will, she stopped herself. Instead, she plastered a smile onto her face and addressed her maid. “Deal with the good man, Milly. Do you want one, Eloise?”

“I will have to decline. After all, we’ve had quite the morning meal...” Eloise answered hesitantly, her eyes darting away.

“Nonsense, you are a growing girl, and fruit is good for you,” Seraphina stated firmly. “Tell the gentleman we will have three and pay him, Milly.”

With that, Seraphina stepped off a few paces, Eloise and Frest in tow. They waited while Milly followed her mistress's instructions.

As she pretended not to listen, Seraphina's ears caught every word. 

“Here you are! Three Valnies will be two copper, and I'll throw in another one because you've just made my day,” the vendor said warmly.

“How... how did that happen? I mean...” Milly stammered, her voice betraying her flustered state. Seraphina could almost hear the maid's blush in her words.

“Why, because you're so pretty... A sight like you could make me smile for a whole day. Your name's Milly, right? Work up in the castle, do you?” the fruit seller asked.

Impatience gnawed at Seraphina. She tapped her foot sharply. “Milly!” she called, her tone edged with irritation.

“No! I mean, yes! And thank you!” Milly blurted out, fumbling as she placed two coppers on the stall’s counter. Grabbing the fruit, she rushed back to Seraphina's side, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

Seeing her expression, Seraphina could not help but a dash of annoyance stain her thoughts. “Now that we have our Valnies, let's continue,” she said curtly, taking a deliberate bite of the fruit. The sweet, juicy flesh burst in her mouth, a delightful blend of flavors that momentarily softened her mood. 

Being a teenager again meant that she did not need to worry about her diet. This body seemed to put the extra fat in all the right places anyway.

As they walked away, the lingering aroma of the Valnies filled the air. Miriam clutched her own fruit tightly, stealing a shy glance back at the vendor, who waved back with a hopeful smile. Eloise observed the exchange silently, a slightly confused look on her face that mirrored Seraphina’s own.

Oh well, the blonde girl thought to herself, sighing as she pushed aside her negative thoughts. She had more important things to worry about, and a very long shopping list to get through.

*****

“Milady Seraphina, I simply must protest,” the dressmaker said in his shrill voice. “That is a most scandalous neckline you are proposing... and exposing your shoulders so? Why, it is what the women of ill repute do in the South!”

He held in his hands a rough sketch that Seraphina had drawn—a rough sketch by the blonde girl's standards, but almost a technical drawing and pattern by the tailor's. It depicted a prize-winning dress she had worn for a European Renaissance themed ball. Fashion-wise, however, it would still be several hundred years ahead in this world.

“Why...” The noblewoman dredged her memory for the dressmaker's name. “...Master Wilforte. Fashion is more than slapping on the same tried and true designs. It is an adventure,” she explained, patting the elderly gentleman's cheek.

“Only a skilled tailor such as yourself could pull off such a feat for myself and Lady Eloise, daughter of Baron Geron de Laney,” she added. “Fashion is all about pushing boundaries. It is, by its nature, a journey into the very unknown!”

Seraphina had dealt with these stodgy old types before. She traced a hand across a tailor’s dummy. 

You had to sell them a dream from their youth. An unachieved ambition.

“Master Wilforte, I do believe that yours is a far more important role than any uncouth adventurer's. They may slay monsters, but you—with your needle and thread—you destroy ideas and preconceived notions, creating a path that those of lesser skill can only dream of following! You should not put yourself down so,” she said with a dazzling, radiant smile.

The tailor gulped, finding himself under assault from the girl's raw charm. It was both a challenge and an enticing prospect. Instead of merely following trends, now he would be making them.

Seraphina decided to twist the knife to seal the deal. She imagined that she could almost feel her Charisma wearing away his resistance, turning it into something else. 

A desire to fulfill her wishes.

“Think of it! Your dress will be on the most beautiful model in the kingdom—me—when I am formally presented at court. Think of that: you will be the tailor to the fiancée of the Crown Prince Velens and the next queen of Aranthia. Why, I do think a royal commission would not be completely out of the question. Oops, I do believe I have said too much,” Seraphina let slip on purpose, half-covering her mouth with her hand as she laughed prettily. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eloise’s features tighten momentarily.

It seemed the dark-haired girl had not completely given up on her one true love.

“I guess... since the Lady Seraphina has asked me, one has no choice but to make the attempt!” he replied, the fire of his long-gone youth rekindled in his eyes. His hands itched to make a miracle out of cloth and thread, his doubts be damned.

The maid and the lady-in-waiting stood quietly to the side, Eloise nervously biting her lower lip. 

Would she be forced to wear such a... revealing dress too? Eloise thought to herself worriedly.

The tailor rubbed his gray, thinning, oiled beard. “Now, for the matter of payment, I will have to send the request to the castle as before...”

“No, Master Wilforte, that simply will not do! This must be a secret from my dearest parents... you do understand, don't you?” Seraphina cut in, filling her words with as much honey as she could. “My father would positively kill you if he ever found out!”

The man quailed, but somehow found it within him to put up a token protest. “But the payment...”

“You, of course, will need no such thing. Think about it! After the ball, all the daughters and mothers of every great noble house will clamor for your skill—you will be able to charge them any price you like,” she stated, infusing her voice with command. The hidden dice of the game started rolling.

“...charge any price I like,” the old man repeated in a whisper, awestruck.

“Now, as for the split riding-skirts...” ventured Seraphina, but she stopped herself when she saw the man frown. He looked as if he was awakening from a dream. 

There was no need to push it. She tapped her foot, waiting for a notification from the system for a bonus to her Wisdom. She sighed after a moment when none came.

“My attendant will pay you now. Milly, if you will,” she pronounced, slightly annoyed.

Miriam almost jumped out of her skin at being called. “Of course, Lady Seraphina,” she answered, rushing and almost tripping over herself to get to Wilforte. She counted out the money on the tailor’s countertop, murmuring the amounts as she did so.

Once she was done, she bowed to the tailor and gave her thanks. Seraphina merely inclined her head and graced the old man with another beautiful smile.

Outside, Seraphina found the former bandit Frest idling just outside the clothier’s entrance, leaning against a Zajasite streetlamp. He stood to attention once he caught sight of his mistress.

It might be his chance to shine soon, she idly mused to herself.

Now, Seraphina had just a few tasks left in town before she headed back to the castle.

Chapter 10 - Today’s Lucky Item

May the eyes of the hallowed gods lay lightly upon you.

- The traditional welcome of the city of Al-Lazar.

The visit to the shoemaker’s unfolded in much the same way. The young noblewoman, who was wielding charm and the sheer weight of her high station, compelled the weary craftsman to comply with her demands. No, the shoes would not be for riding. Yes, she knew they would be difficult to balance in. She overruled his every objection. The poor man tried to argue against the practicality of heels, but foolishly —this wasn’t about practicality; this was about fashion. Heels subtly transformed the body’s proportions, lengthening the silhouette, accentuating the calf muscles, and creating a slimmer appearance. Not that she needed to appear slimmer, of course.

She partially mollified the man by ordering a pair of standard riding boots for Eloise and Miriam as well. Her maid tried to protest in a show of polite restraint, but a single click of Seraphina’s tongue silenced her. Seraphina also managed to persuade the shoemaker to work free of charge by suggesting he stamp his signature boldly on the boots as a mark of his craftsmanship.

At first, he could not quite grasp the concept—why put his name on shoes that would not belong to him? Patiently, Seraphina explained the idea. Adding his maker’s mark in an obvious fashion would signal that the wealthy and privileged sought him out; when others saw her wearing his creations, it would make a powerful statement. Others, especially the flourishing merchant class of Sariens, would clamor from all over the duchy, nay, the kingdom, to commission work from him. They would do anything to ape their betters.

As an added gesture, she ordered a pair of boots for her father and paid for them herself. She assured the cobbler that she would tell her father about his cooperation in the matter. This was both a veiled threat and an incentive, for her father, the Red Troll Anatoli, the Lord Duke, was both revered and feared.

As the bell above the shop door signaled their exit, the blonde girl with a satisfied smile felt the full force of her Charisma at work when the cobbler shouted his thanks at her. She was truly  wonderful at bringing out the best in people.

"Lady Seraphina, you must have been a bandit in your past life,"  Eloise remarked in disbelief, witnessing lightning strike twice in the same day. "It’s the only way to explain what I’ve just seen."

Miriam, true to her nature, stayed silent, not wanting to attract her mistress' attention. Frest, on the other hand, couldn't resist adding his own opinion:

“You said it! I can see now why all the highborn folk stay rich and only get richer. You put the blinkers over that one’s eyes, milady,” he offered uninvited. “I mean, you could probably charm the birds right off the trees to sing for you,” he added, adjusting his helmet’s strap.

The comment brought an amused smile, one tinged with just a hint of frost, to Seraphina’s face—she had basically just done that very thing the day before. 

“Why, Frest and Eloise, I shall accept your words in the spirit they were offered—and overlook their somewhat questionable bluntness.”

“Now then, Eloise, if you’d like a turn about the town, Frest will escort you,” Seraphina offered. “I’m sure you’ll want to get to know more of Sariens.”

“Yes, Lady Seraphina!” Eloise replied, her eyes lighting up. “There was a bookstore…”

“Don’t forget to bring back the package I ordered from the Alchemist, Jurgens,” Seraphina interrupted with a smile, feeling a sudden, inexplicable urge to temper the dark-haired girl’s obvious excitement. “After that, you may, of course, do as you wish,” she amended quickly.

Eloise responded with a perfectly executed curtsy—at just the right angle and form. Excellent, the girl was learning.

“Now then, be sure to return before the seventh bell. I’d hate to have to send half the guard out looking for you,” Seraphina added sweetly. “If you buy anything else, have them send the chits to the castle, but remember to pay Jurgens in coin. You’ll be a dear, won’t you?”

*****

Walking alone with her maid through a slightly more disreputable part of town, Seraphina could see that, despite being a monster, Miriam seemed noticeably unsettled. In this area, the pair of girls stood out like sore thumbs.

“Lady Seraphina…” her maid murmured softly.

“What is it now, Milly?” Seraphina replied, her eyes scanning the narrow street. Even in Sariens, there were places like this.

Trying to distract herself from the dangerous surroundings, Miriam asked, “Why do you always call me that? If you were to shorten my name, surely it would be ‘Miri,’ right, milady?”

Seraphina paused mid-stride, turning to look at her maid. “Is that what’s on your mind, Milly? Well, if you must know, Seraphina once had a cat named Milly… who, unfortunately, had an accident,” she said, momentarily dropping her usual guarded tone. Almost at once, she realized her mistake.

“Was there… another Seraphina, Lady Seraphina?” Miriam asked, looking slightly confused.

Seraphina glanced ahead. “Just a slip of the tongue, Milly. You don’t mind me calling you Milly, do you?”

For a moment, Miriam’s face brightened, as if she wanted to say something, but then she remembered just exactly who she was talking to. “Not at all, milady,” she answered, looking a bit deflated.

They continued on for another hundred paces before stopping outside a dingy-looking tavern. A faded sign overhead, reading ‘Crossed Crows’ in the local script, depicted two white crows facing opposite directions, the paint flaking and worn. It was a single-storey construction, and the building’s walls looked precarious, with patches of stucco crumbling away to expose poorly laid bricks held together mostly by ageing mortar.

Seraphina was here to acquire something—a rare, optional item that the protagonist Este Lize, later known as the Deliverer, could obtain if she ventured to the Sarien duchy before heading to the University of Quas or to the Academy of Meridian.

She surveyed the quiet, narrow street, confirming there were no prying eyes, then pushed open the door to the establishment. The door creaked unwelcomingly on unoiled hinges, as if the very act of entry was an affront to its purpose. Seraphina almost felt sullied just touching it. Her maid  followed reluctantly, shaking her head and muttering something under her breath.

A truly ugly man stood behind the bar counter. He was relatively tall and middle-aged, with scars running up and down his arms from the battles he had won and lost. His face was so asymmetrical that it looked like he had been the victim of several serious strokes. Wiping a tankard with a grimy rag, he was the very picture of a stereotypical fantasy barkeep of a rundown tavern. Perhaps, he hoped the bacteria in the tankard would trouble each other rather than infect whoever drank from it next, Seraphina thought. Her lips curled in distaste before she forced a smooth smile onto her face.

It was a shame, for him at least, that he had something she wanted. Seraphina could attempt to undertake his quest line, but the thought of actually doing it without a glass screen between herself and his character revolted her. With this in mind, she decided on a more direct and expedient approach.

She scanned the establishment, her eyes glancing over the dilapidated furnishings that were, quite literally in some places, on their last legs.

“Are we the only guests at this hour?” the young girl asked as she approached the bar, doing her best to maintain a pleasant expression. The stench of old, spilled ale and other unpleasant things was, to put it politely, distracting.

The man looked up from his chore, offering them a grunt of acknowledgment. “Things are quiet for another three turns of the glass, missy,” he answered in a raspy voice that nonetheless seemed to carry in the empty tavern. 

He was lying through his teeth—no one came to The Crossed Crows.

“Wonderful!” clapped the young noblewoman, playing along. “Then we will have some privacy, Arvan.”

The older man leered, licking his lips as his imagination began to run wild against his better judgment. How did the girl know his name? Had he seen her before?

"Take off your clothes and undress, if you please, Milly," commanded Lady Seriphina.

The words jolted Arvan, distracting him just as the first threads of suspicion began to creep into his mind. His hands froze, and he set down the tankard and cloth, his jaw slightly agape as Miriam began untying the bow at her neck. The scene was surreal.

The young maid looked on the verge of tears as her hands shakily started unbuttoning the front of her uniform.

"Where is your Luck, Arvan? Show me," the blonde noblewoman asked, her voice low and hypnotic, sending his thoughts into a spiral. Almost against his will, he pointed to the bracelet on his wrist.

A fist slammed into him with the force of a bull at charge, sending him sprawling onto the filthy wooden floor. Bottles tumbled from the shelves behind him, shattering in an explosion of glass and pottery.

Seraphina leapt over the counter, grabbing the dirty rag and forcefully stuffing it into the barkeep’s mouth. Keeping one hand over his mouth, she straddled him and drove her fist into his shoulder, feeling brittle bones snap under the impact. Arvan attempted a scream, but his howl was muffled by the cloth.

To her satisfaction, notifications drifted across her inner vision.

You have learned Unarmed (lvl.1)

You have learned Unarmed (lvl.2)

You have learned Unarmed (lvl.3)

You have learned Unarmed (lvl.4)

You have learned Unarmed (lvl.5)

Growing tired of his muffled screams, the blonde girl calmly drew the dagger from her thigh and stabbed him in the chest, puncturing a lung and turning his howl into a hollow wheeze. Now she had, perhaps, a minute or two to complete what needed to be done.

Summoning her Heal spell, she both rejected and accepted its song, a paradox born of this world's unique magic. The raw melody of it filled her, though she allowed only the faintest echo of it to touch reality.

If she remembered correctly, the key to using the Silent Casting skill effectively was speed: casting spells as quickly as possible, preferably low-level ones that were easier to control. Silent Casting allowed a mage to detach somewhat from the casting process itself. This reduced the gain of affinity a magic user had per use of their chosen element—for better or for worse.

Silent Casting was originally intended for the main character, and for high-level, procedurally-generated characters scattered throughout the world. Who would have thought that developer laziness, their unwillingness to handcraft the world, would end up working in her favor?

Color returned to Arvan’s cheeks as magic infused him. Nearby, the half-dressed and blushing Miriam looked almost relieved at her mistress’s display of mercy.

But Seraphina was irritated, very irritated. Casting the Heal spell again on a new entity after using it on Eloise at such a low level should have granted her a “free” skill increase. However, no notifications appeared to indicate any change. Still, she decided to check.

[STATUS] Seraphina de Sariens - Noble (Human lvl.14)

STR:

36

DEX:

16

CON:

14

INT:

21

WIS:

10

CHR:

39

LCK:

13

Skills & Proficiencies

Swords

(lvl.1)

Bows

(lvl.3)

Crossbows

(lvl.4)

Throwing Weapons

(lvl.1)

Dodge

(lvl.2)

Critical Hit Mastery

(lvl.1)

Improved Riding

(lvl.3)

Monster Taming

(lvl.2)

Herbalism

(lvl.1)

Daggers

(lvl.4)

Unarmed

(lvl.5)

Spells & Magic

Heal [5]

(lvl.2)

Silent Casting

(lvl.1)

GIFTS

Strength of the Old Ones

+25 Strength

Health:

Stamina:

Mana:

Experience:

247/247

37/41

7/13

67/1540

She double-checked her Status to confirm, and, sure enough, the spell had not leveled up. Why was life so hard? Frustrated, she half-turned and stabbed Arvan twice in the gut, then repeated the entire process of casting Heal on him.

Now Arvan’s face was a mix of confusion and bewilderment as he tried to comprehend what was happening. The sight was almost sickeningly comical, Seraphina thought, clicking her tongue in vexation—until, finally, the notification she was waiting for appeared.

You have learned Heal (lvl.3)

With most of her Mana depleted, Seraphina felt a slight wave of dizziness. Still, she gritted her teeth and pushed through it, a faint smile dancing in her eyes.

The man beneath her began to struggle again, his face twisted with a disturbing mix of desire and horror. Disgusting, thought the heir to the Duchy of Sariens. Without hesitation, she plunged her dagger between his eyes, finally ending his life.

You have slain a Human. 50 experience gained.

Seraphina stood up, dusting herself off and wiping her knife on Arvan’s clothes before turning to her maid, who looked truly horrified.

"Why...did you have to Heal him, then kill him?" the maid asked, stammering slightly.

In the game’s storyline, Arvan was a murderer on the run. Exactly whom he had killed, or how many people, she did not know. Always a step ahead of the law thanks to the magic of his lucky bracelet, he had decided to settle in Sarien. The protagonist could lead him to justice by running chores and errands, proving her dedication to her ideals. Eventually, overcome by guilt, he would surrender his magical item to Este Lize before turning himself in. It was a long, drawn-out quest that Seraphina had neither the patience nor the inclination to pursue.

"Practice, Milly, practice. Mastery is born of it, I’m afraid," Seraphina replied with a hint of flippancy. Her gaze lingered on the maid, causing her to blush under her mistress’s regard. "And besides, he was a criminal—a murderer, to be exact. Now, clean this up..."

The maid looked thoughtful, relieved to know Arvan had been a bad man. Still, she couldn’t help but squeak out in protest, "You mean I have to..."

"Yes, and this time, try to eat quietly. I feel like I could faint and need to rest my eyes. I am most certainly not taking a nap," Seraphina commanded weakly, searching for a relatively clean spot to lay her head. "Wake me in half a turn of the clock, please, and pass me his bracelet when you are done. Also, check under the counter for any documents..."

She sat down at a half-decent-looking table, crossed her arms, and rested her head on them. A faint munching sound followed her as she drifted off to sleep, having had far too much excitement for one day. 

Also, it was an excellent time to try and get another much needed skill.

*****

Seraphina awoke to her maid gently shaking her shoulder.

"Lady Seraphina... I'm... um... all finished," murmured Miriam, hesitating a moment before nervously handing her a plain gold bracelet.

Blearily, the young noblewoman rubbed her eyes and stretched, covering her mouth as she let out an unladylike yawn. Closing her eyes, she confirmed that she had indeed acquired a new skill: Rest. A crucial utility skill, it also served as a prerequisite for the valuable Mana Regeneration skill.

As she clasped the bracelet around her wrist, she noticed something surprising: the place was spotless—tidy and incredibly clean. Miriam had quite literally taken her instructions to heart. Seraphina could not decide whether to be pleasantly surprised or vaguely disappointed. The absence of Arvan’s corpse tipped her judgment in Miriam's favor.

"Well done, Milly," she praised, recognizing the importance of acknowledging good work when deserved.

"And... Lady Seraphina, are these the documents you mentioned?" Miriam asked, offering her a small stack of parchment.

Most of it was trivial correspondence, but among the papers was the deed to the Crossed Crows.

"Well done, Milly," Seraphina said with one of her trademark smiles. "It seems you are now the rightful owner of the Crossed Crow, now that your uncle has so tragically passed away."

"I am?!" Miriam gasped, startled.

Chapter 11 - Choices

Trust is the benefit of the doubt, and not just mere reassurance born from unwavering repetition.

- A Quassian Aphorism.

After closing up the Crossed Crows and posting a notice on its door announcing it would be closed indefinitely, the girls made their way back to Castle de Sariens. Milly really should be more grateful to her, Seraphina thought to herself. After all, did she not just reward her with a property, albeit a small one?

Recently well-fed, Miriam the Palisa Slug looked unusually hale and exuded a sense of raw vitality that turned a few heads in town. This only mildly annoyed Lady Seraphina, who was feeling pleased with the way the day had gone. She had a certain skip to her step as they made their way home.

At the castle gate, she inquired about the whereabouts of Corporal Frest and the noblewoman Eloise. As expected, neither had yet returned. Seraphina was testing Eloise, curious to see how well she had broken her in. After all, a hawk that returned to its handler willingly was worth more than a hundred wild birds—or so the saying went at least.

Well, Eloise had better return soon! Today was the day Seraphina would be presented with her magical scrolls—a gift she actually planned to accept. Then there was the matter of preparing a contraceptive to prevent a certain future complication.

Returning to her room, she kicked off her shoes and threw herself onto the soft, welcoming embrace of her fluffy bed, savoring it for a brief moment before snapping back to the task at hand. Springing out of bed, she ordered her servants to prepare her bath.

As she waited, Seraphina planned her next moves. The alchemical apparatus would be set up in Eloise's room; that way, if suspicion of foul play ever arose, Eloise would be the first to face it, buying Seraphina precious time to maneuver and make countermoves of her own.

A maid—Sandra, according to the original Seraphina’s memories—informed her, eyes carefully averted, that Eloise and her escort had returned. The girl was polite to a fault. Seraphina instructed Sandra to summon Eloise to her chambers in half a turn of the glass.

Desiring solitude, Seraphina dismissed her servants before disrobing and sinking into the hot, rose-scented bath. The warmth enveloped her, easing the day’s strain and loosening the tension in her muscles. She closed her eyes, feeling the water’s gentle embrace work through the aches of the day, as if each droplet carried a small, quiet almost-magical spell of healing. The floral scent mingled with the steam, softening the harshness of this unfamiliar world and transporting her, if only briefly, to a place of calm and comfort. And in this moment, for a fleeting second, she felt naked and vulnerable. Did she have time to simply enjoy this simple comfort?

After a few long moments of relaxation, her hands roamed over her still unfamiliar body. Everything felt both wrong and right at once—it was all hers, and yet, in some way, it was not. Accepting her place in this strange new world, she felt her former life drifting further and further away. No, enough of this, quite literal, navel-gazing, she thought with a sigh.

She splashed her face with bathwater, then, feeling a childish impulse, stood up and kicked at the water, sending a spray onto the floor. Just then, a loud knock sounded on her bedroom door. Startled, she slipped and tumbled back into the tub, cracking her head on its edge.

"OUCH!" she cried, feeling a spark of pain wash over her.

"Seraphina... Lady Seraphina! Are you alright?" Eloise's muffled voice came from the other side of the door.

"I am quite alright! Come in, I shall be out in a moment," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. Curses—the fall had cost her fifteen Health points.

Seraphina quickly dried off and wrapped herself in a large red towel before stepping out to meet Lady Eloise. Eloise was seated in a high-backed, soft velvet chair, a thick leather-bound book resting on her lap. 

Seeing Seraphina enter, she rose to her feet, placing the tome upon an end table. Seraphina could not miss the slight hint of envy in Eloise’s gaze as she regarded her towel-clad form. Thankfully, the waifish noblewoman remembered herself, and with a respectful nod, she offered a small formal curtsy.

Some things in life could not be bought, at leastnot without a technology that was still centuries away. This thought brought a self-satisfied smile to Seraphina's lips, lifting her mood considerably.

"Come now, Eloise, there's no need to be so stiff and formal in private. We are good friends, are we not? Such decorum is only necessary in public," she said lightly. In her past life, Seraphina had learned that offering small gestures of friendship like this made people feel appreciated and valued. "I hope you found the castle town pleasant. Were you able to get what you were after?" she asked. "If not, I can speak to some of the merchants..."

"Yes, everything was quite satisfactory, and I found the volume I'd been searching for," Eloise replied, looking unexpectedly cheerful. It seemed Seraphina's approach had worked.

The key, however, was to never let people get too close... Yet for some reason, this thought caused a pang in Seraphina's chest. Clenching her fists, she willed the feeling away.

"Was Jurgens in good health?" asked the heir to the duchy absentmindedly, brushing a rebellious strand of golden hair aside.

"Well...he had a bit of a cough, but apart from that, he looked hale and hearty," answered the dark-haired girl, somewhat hesitantly.

"Good... The reason I wanted to speak with you now is that I forgot to mention tonight's event," Seraphina began, though, of course, she had not forgotten. Not at all. She just wanted to deny the girl any room to dwell on it.

"Mention what, Lady Seraphina?" Eloise asked, frowning prettily.

"I am to receive the Presentation of a Path, and, as you are my lady-in-waiting, I would like you to do the honor of accepting for me," Seraphina explained, testing the waters. Even as she spoke, she was already considering how to compel the girl to accept what was, in essence, a slow death sentence. Accepting such a scroll was one of the highest sacrifices a noble could make for king and country.

"Why, Lady Seraphina, I would be delighted! To think you already hold me in such high regard and trust me so deeply!" Eloise squealed with unbridled joy, clapping her hands. Seraphina had forgotten that the merchant classes viewed receiving such a scroll as a great blessing or treasure, not the curse it truly was.

Then her eyes fell on the title of the book on the end table. Written in Quassian, it read, The Path of Magic: The Dangers and Use of the Arcane.

It seemed Eloise had longed to become a practitioner of the arcane arts!

Seraphina kept her expression smooth as she crossed her arms, prepared to make a choice between the elements of Fire and Earth. Although she had already decided which element Eloise would receive, she thought it prudent to ask for the girl’s opinion. She had learned that people enjoyed being consulted; it made them feel important. People could be such amusing creatures at times.

She had a suspicion, though, that Eloise would be content with either choice.

“I am to be presented with a choice between Earth and Fire,” she explained, her tone measured. “I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter…”

Eloise touched her chin, her doll-like face scrunched in contemplation. “Were I in Lady Seraphina’s position, and the scroll was for myself, I would choose Fire. However, if the scroll were for one of my attendants, I would choose Earth,” she replied earnestly.

“Fantastic, Eloise. Those were exactly my thoughts. It seems that great minds think alike,” Seraphina complimented her, watching with satisfaction as Eloise nearly glowed under the praise. “Now, then…”

A polite knock sounded at the door.

“Lady Seraphina, your mother wishes to see you at your convenience before the evening meal,” a male voice intoned from behind the wooden door. Desmond, most likely.

“Tell the Duchess I will join her shortly, once I’ve changed,” Seraphina replied, half-shouting. What could the woman want now?

Seeing their conversation was at an end, Eloise rose gracefully from her chair. “Well, then, Lady Seraphina, if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready for the evening meal,” she said sweetly.

Seraphina matched her sweet smile with one of her own. “By all means, you are excused. I will see you at dinner.”

With a deep curtsy, Eloise left the room.

Now alone, Seraphina idly toyed with the golden bracelet on her wrist. She removed it and then put it back on, glancing at her Status to confirm what she suspected. Yes, Arvan’s Luck did increase her Luck attribute by a solid five points – quite a literal lucky find!

The Luck attribute was intriguing, affecting a myriad of aspects of the game. In gameplay, it unlocked certain routes, quests, and storylines. According to the lore, it affected one’s ability to control their own fate, allowing them some freedom from external influences, namely the meddling of the Divines and prophecy.

Seraphina sensed she was going to need all the Luck she could muster in the days to come, though this bracelet was a welcome start. However, at the end of the day, she could always make her own fortune.

Feeling the warmth of her earlier bath leaving her, she rang the bell, summoning her attendants for a fresh set of clothes. Once dressed, she would see what her mother wanted to discuss.

Chapter 12 - Confessions

We gained control of many things. But we had to let go of others.

- Lois Lowry.

The last light of the setting sun was flitering  through the windows, bathing her mother’s room in shades of gold, orange, and red. Shadows stretched and deepened as the day was coming to a close.

And here she stood, in the lair of a dragon, too fearful even to sit. No, that wasn’t quite right—she was merely being careful, wasn’t she?

The woman before her seemed almost a stranger, and, in a way, she was. Outside playing the The Maiden of the Wisterias, Seraphina had only met her a few days ago. Yet now, she felt every bit of her mother’s fury radiating across the room.

The Oracle Anaselena, Seraphina's mother, was fuming.

“What manner of creature are you?” Anaselena demanded, a vein throbbing on her delicate neck.

Seraphina’s face remained impassive, a masterful mask of marble. However, then she realized her expression was all wrong for the situation at hand. “What on earth are you talking about, Mother? What wrong have I done?”

“Who are you... the one who speaks in my daughter’s voice?” Anaselena’s voice quivered, rising with each word. “You sound like her, you even act like her—but you cannot fool the eyes of an Oracle. At first, I couldn’t believe it myself.” Her voice sharpened. “You’ve changed too much. Taking Eloise as your lady-in-waiting? I thought it was a cruel jest, something you’d put an end to soon enough. But then I saw her wandering the west wing, as if she...”

“Are you raving mad?” Seraphina forced a half-hearted smile and a weak laugh. “Is this some wild jest in turn? Can you not see how perfectly it suits our purpose to keep the eldest of the de Laneys under our thumb?”

"Do not talk back to me! My Sera would never have done such a thing! Tell me the truth now... or by the Blind Goddess' blades, I will end you. Do not try me!" her mother screamed.

Seraphina's mind was racing, scrambling to devise a thousand deceptions in response to this sudden assault. But more lies? No, that would not work. She had forgotten that the Oracle possessed a crude form of Truth Sense, making her able to detect the slightest hesitancy that tainted a lie. All the charm in the world would be powerless against her mother's relentless wrath.

Her thoughts spun faster, searching for a solution. She would have to use her mother’s anger against her... and perhaps, at the same time, resolve another issue entirely. She would blend truth and lies into a seamless alloy—her truth, shaped to serve her needs.

It was time to gamble everything on it.

Seraphina took a deep breath, as though preparing to release a deeply held secret, a regret she had buried. She was thankful, in this critical moment, for the sharp mind the heavens had gifted her with.

“You are pregnant, Mother. Pregnant with Father’s son—my brother,” she said, her voice wavering just enough to give it weight. “You’ve already decided on his name, haven’t you? Sergio, after Anatoli’s father.”

The satisfaction she felt was immediate as she watched her mother’s hand instinctively move to her stomach, shielding her unborn child. But then Anaselena’s gaze hardened, suspicion seeping back into her eyes. This would take more than a well-placed truth.

“How could you have known?” she hissed. “No, this is nothing but a lucky guess, creature.”

“Alright, then...” Seraphina replied smoothly, steeling herself. She carefully pulled memories from the original Seraphina’s life—snippets of childhood, half-forgotten promises, cherished stories of places and people her mother held dear. Her mother had not always “just” been the Duchess de Sariens. She had told her daughter of how she awakened abilities in her rebellious youth. A desperate struggle in a Trial of the Goddess, this world’s equivalent of a “Dungeon,” where she had met the youngest son of a Duke on his errantry. Shared memories that only Seraphina would have had. She spoke in a carefully measured, halting voice, recounting each detail with painstaking accuracy.

But still, Anaselena’s expression did not waver; skepticism lingered in her narrowed eyes.

Seraphina felt a flicker of irritation—stubborn old bat! she thought with sudden venom, though, strangely, she also felt a pang of guilt at the thought. Why should she care what this woman thought of her? But the feeling clung to her as she held her mother’s stare, and it almost felt real—almost like something the original Seraphina herself might have felt.

It was a delicate, dangerous dance she was performing now. One slip could unravel everything. She needed to convince this dangerous woman and turn her to her cause.

“Though you say all the right things, you are still not the Seraphina I know…” the Duchess protested, tossing her head with defiance—though her voice faltered, just slightly. Was it the pregnancy, making her emotions flare up so unpredictably? Her instincts urged her to believe this girl who knew so many details, all of them correct. She had told her everything, even her deepest secrets—the letters from a man who still loved her. Letters she had kept but never answered. Yet there was something amiss in the way each story was told, as if they were events she had observed but never felt; as if someone was reciting lines from a stolen diary.

Seraphina clenched her fists, visibly frustrated. She ran her hands through her hair before forcing herself to calm. She took a steadying breath, readying herself to give a confession—not entirely truthful, but close enough. Everything depended on her delivery now, on a careful blend of her cunning and Charisma. If she failed, if even the smallest crack showed, there would be no mercy. Heads might, quite literally, roll.

“You think I am not the Seraphina you know…” She saw her mother’s eyes widen, nostrils flaring with suspicion. For a moment, Seraphina felt like a fox staring down a hound. She needed just the right touch to make this lie flawless. “...because I am the Seraphina from the future. I could never fool you, mother.”

The shock in her mother’s eyes was genuine, her prepared accusations halted mid-breath. “What...?”

Seraphina couldn’t let her mother’s doubt regroup; she had to keep striking while the moment held. A single, perfectly timed tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a line across her porcelain skin. Seraphina was rarely one for displays of emotion, but she knew this was the moment to break that rule. She threw herself at her mother, wrapping her arms around her, pressing into her warmth as if drawing comfort from the embrace.

Now came the most delicate part.

“I can see the future only because I have lived it.” Her voice shook with just the right amount of pain. “I looked into the past too closely... and… I thought to send a message back to my younger self and I found myself here. I’m sorry... I’m so sorry. I only wanted to meet you again!” she wailed, her voice trembling. Well, it was partly true—she had always wanted to meet Anaselena, though, perhaps, not quite under these circumstances. Her mother was one of the more compelling characters in the game.

“You have to believe me,” she pleaded, threading her words with as much raw grief as she could muster. “Things have changed... I have changed. I am your daughter... please, believe me. Or believe in what your daughter has become... please.”

She poured her heart into the words, summoning every ounce of desperation she could. Had she been in her old world, she thought, this performance would surely have won her an award.

“Oh, my darling… I’m so sorry… so sorry,” her mother sobbed, clutching Seraphina close, wholly taken in by the story. The Oracle in her could sense it—woven into the very fabric of Seraphina’s words, echoed something that rang true, however twisted. Her mother’s instincts told her to believe. “Please… forgive me. If only I had known sooner…”

The girl in her arms sniffled, her voice small and trembling. “I was just so afraid you wouldn’t believe me,” she murmured. “I came back to save you…”

“Save me?” Her mother’s voice softened, lifting Seraphina’s chin to look into eyes as green as her own.

“Yes… because unless we stop it… you are going to die,” Seraphina whispered, her words cutting like a soft blade. “My brother will kill you.”

Anaselena recoiled, shock freezing her in place as she stumbled back, collapsing into a chair. “What… what did you say?” she gasped, the horror of the words sinking in. “My son… kill me?”

It was not entirely true. But it was close enough. Seraphina looked down at her mother—the proud, fierce woman now fragile, a dam of grief and shock finally breaking, flooding her with dread.

“The Sight cannot show you what lies in the future of those who share directly of your own blood,” Seraphina pressed, her voice filled with solemn conviction. “Mother… my brother will kill you when he comes into this world.”

Anaselena shook her head, her voice a hollow whisper. “No… it cannot be… a daughter returned to me, only to bring such news…”

She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. “It is good that you have told me this. I can prepare, take steps. The best physicians, perhaps even the Great Temples…”

Seraphina needed to think fast. She quickly knelt by her mother’s side, holding her hands, her gaze locked with Anaselena’s tear-filled eyes. “I cannot, I will not lose you, Mother!” she declared fiercely.

It was time to twist the knife, to let her tale reach its natural, inevitable conclusion. The end that she wished for twisted to her needs.

“I have lived the future!” Seraphina declared, her voice firm. “The de Aseracs, by the border with the people of the Grass Sea—they will be blessed with three children, two boys and a girl. You felt envy in a dream because you had not been so bountiful… I know this because I was there. You once confided this to me, in another place and time.”

The Duchess could only nod, stunned, unable to form words as Seraphina’s tale added another layer of veracity, blurring the line between truth and illusion.

And now it was time for the coup de grace. “I have seen this story through many times. Too many times,” the girl stated solemnly, skirting the dangerous line between truth and fiction. The countless hours spent on the beta versions could attest to that.

“You’ve tried everything, we’ve tried everything. Each time, no matter what you did, one of you would die. I will not let it be you, mother.”

Anaselena shook her head. “You don’t understand… even if it would take my life, I cannot take a son from Anatoli,” her mother murmured, her voice strained with grief. “A son is all he’s ever wanted.”

“You and Father are still young,” Seraphina replied, allowing iron determination to harden her voice. “There will be time for other sons, other daughters. If it comes to a choice between you and my brother, I will choose you. I will make sure that you live, one way or another!”

Anaselena looked up, her face pale, searching her daughter’s eyes. “And… this future—you’ve seen it?”

“No, Mother. With your choice, we step into a new path, one filled with possibilities.” Seraphina threw herself into her mother’s arms. “One where Father doesn’t seek death on the battlefield, and you and him are happy, together, for many years.”

Anaselena clutched her daughter to her, her heart, mind, and soul torn apart by the vision of a future she had never dared imagine. The girl spoke with truth—there was an unmistakable current of the unknown about her, something that clouded her Sight and stole away its usual clarity.

And for the first time, she was truly afraid. Her daughter’s words had affected her deeply. The child that brought her joy even as she threw up her breakfast, felt like an alien thing now, a parasite sucking away at her life and future… Still, Anaselena simply could not bear to make the difficult choice.

Chapter 13 - The Path 

Some of the most beautiful things in life are not things, but actions.

- Unknown.

Dinner had been a quiet affair, Eloise carrying most of the conversation. Bless her little heart, she was doing her best with Anatoli. Seraphina almost felt sorry for him; with three women at the table, he was now clearly in the minority. 

Anaselena ate in silence, mechanically, offering only minimal responses when drawn into conversation. The earlier revelation had clearly shaken her deeply. 

The younger woman took this time to parse out her thoughts. One way or another, Seraphina would have her brother dealt with before he became a problem and complicated her claim to the Duchy. She could not, would not, rely on her engagement to the Crown Prince to be the base of her power and authority. He had betrayed Seraphina  for a hussy before… and would most likely try again if she let him.

Now that the meal was finished, it was time for another important event. With a wide smile, Anatoli clapped his massive hands, and two servants hurried off to do his bidding.

“Now, Sera! Now that you are a woman grown…” His voice caught for a moment. “It is time to choose your Path! Haha!” he laughed loudly, regaining his usual verve. His infectious roar even drew a hesitant smile from Seraphina.

The servants, Desmond and Sandra, returned, wheeling in a small cart carrying two iron-oak cases. Each case was thick, dark, and aged, with intricate carvings etched into the wood—runes and symbols of power and protection. Heavy bronze padlocks were holding the cases shut, each lock almost as old as the cases themselves, darkened by time, yet polished to a dull gleam for the occasion. An unmistakable aura radiated from within, humming with an otherworldly energy. These were the scrolls of power, treasures held by her family, awaiting just this day.

Eloise's eyes fixed on them, hungry for the power and promise these held. She was barely concealing her desire.

The bear of a man that was her father wore a broad, almost foolish grin. It seemed her parents had no inkling of what she truly had planned.

“As a subject of the Kingdom of Aranthia, I accept the Path presented before me. As is my right, by blood and birth as the firstborn of the de Sariens…” Seraphina declared.

Anatoli’s mouth fell open, his brows knitting into a look of shock and worry. In times of peace, the Presentation of a Path was typically a mere formality. No noble family would willingly put their child on the path of madness that came with wielding the Song of Mana—an energy the human mind was never meant to control. And most certainly not their firstborn, their most prized treasure.

“I will allow my lady-in-waiting, Eloise, to carry my honor,” she continued, her tone sweet and measured. She noted the immediate change in her father's expression as his worry softened into something closer to relief, almost pained in its intensity. She nearly chuckled. The man very openly wore his heart on his sleeve.

“Well… if the Lady Eloise is, of course, sure… you have no objection, my darling flower?” Anatoli asked, turning to his wife.

“No… if that is what she wishes,” Anaselena replied, her tone distant. “Her wishes must be respected,” she added, almost nonsensically.

Anatoli shot Seraphina a concerned look, hesitant to break the occasion’s ceremonial gravity.

He coughed awkwardly. “Well, if you’re sure.”

For such an imposing man, it was quite funny how easily intimidated he was by the women of the household.

“I have chosen Earth, that we might be part of the Kingdom’s foundation,” Seraphina intoned, reciting the formal words. No one could deny her now. The only troubling part was that Eloise looked almost too eager. Had she been planning for this moment from the start? Or was Seraphina becoming overly suspicious?

“As the Goddess watches over me, I humbly accept my role as a Magister of the Kingdom,” Eloise proclaimed, standing and dipping her head with a perfect blend of humility and reverence. She spoke the ceremonial words flawlessly, playing her part well.

“Well… as Duke of Sariens, I bestow upon you the Path of Earth. May you wield all your power and wisdom for King and Country,” he declared, rising to his feet with a touch of awkwardness, searching his pockets and fumbling until he found the key.

With slow, deliberate steps, he approached Eloise, who wore a radiant smile. His relief that his own daughter would not be burdened with an Element was gradually giving way to the dreadful realization that this young woman, whom he had welcomed into his home, was stepping into that role willingly.

Eloise stood, poised, her expression carefully measured, though her eyes betrayed the faintest spark of hunger. Anatoli approached her, the heavy bronze key glinting in his hand, the symbol of her acceptance and the beginning of her chosen Path. For a moment, he hesitated, glancing between Eloise and Seraphina, the weight of the moment sinking in. Then, with a slow nod, he extended the key toward Eloise.

Eloise accepted it with a graceful bow, her fingers closing around the cool metal. She lifted her gaze to meet Anatoli’s, giving a respectful dip of her head before moving to the iron-oak case on the small cart before her. Every eye was on her now, every breath held as she placed the key into the lock, its age-worn bronze contrasting sharply against her delicate hand. With a measured turn, she unlocked it. 

Free from their bindings, the chains fell away like swift serpents. With shaking hands, the girl moved to open it.

The lid creaked open, revealing the scroll within—bound in rich, dark green ribbons woven with silver thread, exuding an earthy energy that seemed almost alive. Arcane symbols that promised the embrace of warm Earth, the soft warmth of rot and renewal.  Eloise’s eyes flared, a flicker of unguarded excitement, but she quickly composed herself, her face becoming a mask of serene acceptance as she lifted the scroll. In her hands, the scroll seemed to pulse with a deep, grounding power, an ancient force tied to the very bones of its element.

It burned, it was consumed, passing all that it was into the girl. The dark-haired girl’s face was euphoric as the Element that had been chosen for her filled and replaced a portion of her soul.

As she turned to face the room, Eloise dipped her head, holding herself in her arms. Though she was trembling, a wan smile on her face told the gathered few that she had succeeded in inheriting the element of Earth.

Anatoli exhaled, visibly relieved, as if  a great weight had been lifted from him. There had been a chance, albeit a small one, that the Earth would have rejected her. According to the historical records, such a thing was rarely a pretty event.

Among the gathered few, Seraphina alone noticed the gleam in Eloise’s eyes—a glint of ambition. Whether that ambition was directed towards the mastery of magic or towards more worldly pursuits, only time would reveal. Whatever lay behind that intense gaze, Seraphina knew she would need to tread carefully in her dealings with the dark-haired girl. Keeping her close had proven to be a wise decision.

*****

Another morning was heralded by the incessant sound of songbirds, which even now refused to give up singing.

“Lady Seraphina! I really must object to this!” Eloise twittered, clutching her new breeches, her voice a counterpoint to the racket outside Seraphina’s window..

Since discovering her Earth magic last night, she had become almost insufferably exuberant—like a child squealing over the perfect birthday present. Even now, she busied herself molding soil from a nearby planter into odd shapes. Though her attempts were crude, displaying her lack of control over the element, Seraphina was confident that, with practice, Eloise might actually become useful.

To temper the girl's unbridled excitement, which was quickly growing tiresome, Seraphina had insisted she don men's breeches. Eloise, compelled to obey, had naturally asked why. Seraphina explained it was because she would be joining her for practice of the arts martial.

Annoyingly, the breeches suited Eloise’s slender figure better than Seraphina’s own, she noted grudgingly. Straightening, she addressed her.

“As heir to the Duchy of Sariens, I may be called to war if King Elidion requires it. I am expected to fight and lead the fighting men of Sariens on the battlefield. As a gifted Magister, you, too, will be obligated to join me.”

Eloise looked flustered. “But…”

Miriam, who was in attendance, dutifully folded her lady’s clothes, ignoring their exchange.

“And you will use your talents to aid the King’s cause,” Seraphina continued, hands on her hips.

“But Lady Seraphina, surely as ladies of quality… we would be exempt from such things…” her lady-in-waiting protested feebly.

Seraphina’s gaze made Eloise visibly shrink. “Ladies of quality? It is precisely because of our noble heritage, rooted in the very history and blood of Aranthia, that we cannot shirk our duties merely by hiding behind of our sex.”

“We must show men that we are as capable as they are, lest they see us as mere ornaments and broodmares!” declared the future Duchess passionately. Future queen, Seraphina corrected herself.

Eloise somehow managed a rebuttal. “I always thought men and women had different roles to play—that we are two halves of the same coin…”

Sometimes, Seraphina thought, the girl's views were so backwards. She herself would never let anyone box her into a role not of her choosing. “So, you would let men decide your fate? Allow your future husband to control every aspect of your life?”

Eloise hesitated, her brow knitting in contemplation. "But, Lady Seraphina, isn't it our place to uphold the traditions? To be the pillars of grace and decorum in society?"

Seraphina raised a delicate eyebrow, covering her mouth as she gave out a small half-laugh.. "Traditions? Or are they limitations disguised as customs? Why should we be confined to roles others have scripted for us?"

"But society expects us to behave a certain way," Eloise insisted. "Do we not owe it to our honorable names and the legacy of our ancestors to marry well? Don’t we have our own places that are just as important. There is no shame in the softer duties of care and the stewardship of estates. Surely, being a mother is no less important than being able to wear armor and chop someone’s head off. Besides, to step outside those expectations could bring dishonor to our families."

"It is important to be given the option to do so. For, without that freedom, we are nothing more than slaves to arbitrarily imposed rules. And it is dishonorable only if we believe that challenging the status quo is dishonorable. I will not have my worth decided by a man and my mariage," Seraphina countered. "I see it as courageous. Necessary, even. The Goddess, last time I checked, was a woman, was she not?"

Eloise glanced down at her breeches, fiddling with the fabric. "It's just... I've always been told that a woman's strength lies in her gentleness and her ability to support her husband."

"Support is important, yes, but it should be mutual," Seraphina replied. "Why should we not stand beside men as equals? Why must we always stand behind? Do not the de Savants practice thus?"

“Yes… I guess they do,” she answered hesitantly. Eloise looked up, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "You speak as though the world could be different."

"It can be," Seraphina affirmed. "But only if we dare to imagine it so. Think about it—if we, who are gifted and privileged, do not challenge these confines, who will?"

"But won't there be objections?" Eloise questioned.

"There will always be objections, and change is always met with resistance," Seraphina acknowledged. "But every significant advancement in history was achieved because someone refused to accept things as they were."

Eloise sighed softly. "I suppose I've never questioned it before. It was easier to accept the path laid out for me. All I ever really wanted to do was go to…"

"Easier, perhaps, but does it fulfill you?" Seraphina cut in not-too-gently. "Don't you ever feel there's more you could be? More things you could do?"

A moment of silence passed before Eloise admitted, "Sometimes. Especially since receiving my magic. Once I get to study at…"

"Exactly," Seraphina said, her eyes gleaming as she ignored what the girl was about to say. "It is a gift, not just to you, but potentially to all of Aranthia. And don’t you forget who gave it to you! Why hide behind men?"

"Maybe because it's safer?" Eloise squeaked. "Remind me again, what does this have to do with me joining you for practice?"

"Because, Eloise..." Seraphina replied with an exasperated sigh, fiddling with the red ribbon she had used to tie up her long hair. "There might come a time when you'll have only your own strength to defend yourself. That is the price we may well pay for sticking our heads above the parapet. Now come along, Armsmaster Kellan will not wait for us all day. We mustn't dilly-dally any longer." She smiled sweetly. She was lying, of course; Armsmaster Kellan, the stolid grumpy veteran, would wait for as long as Seraphina deemed fit.

Before leaving, Seraphina took a moment to look at herself in the long mirror in her room. Though her long golden hair was undeniably attractive, it might become a nuisance during practice—not to mention how difficult it was to manage and maintain without modern conveniences like a hair dryer. Perhaps, she should have encouraged Eloise to take up the element of Fire after all, she thought wistfully.

Her eyes traveled downward, noting how the brown men’s breeches hugged her form, paired with a loose, long-sleeved cream-colored blouse. On second glance, she had to admit, she did look rather dashing.

Chapter 14 - Training

Fight the wielder, not the weapon.

- The Living Sword by Fen Vaigorus.

They made their way across the estates, passing the barracks where men were busy with their drills. The soldiers were quite pointedly looking in every direction except at Seraphina as she walked by. Anatoli was much feared in Castle Sariens, and, if word got around that someone was looking at his daughter with less than honorable eyes, he would no doubt do something about it.

Throughout their walk past the outside men’s training area, Eloise's face flushed a pretty pink with embarrassment. She kept her arms firmly at her sides as she scurried behind Seraphina. Seraphina noticed that Eloise stole a few glances at the young men-at-arms as they passed the barracks. She supposed that Eloise was of the age when she would be thinking about such things... but really!

Not that Seraphina could quite deny that she had perhaps glanced this way and that—to check how they did their drills, of course. Such observations were going to be helpful in her studies of the sword, spear, bow, and hammer, or any of the other implements of war, really. She thought this as she touched her bottom lip with a delicate finger. That was all it was.

As she finally convinced herself of the truth of the matter, they made their way to the Haql Tajriba, the indoor training grounds of the noble family. An indoor fighting pit by a fancy name, really; it looked a bit like a cross between a dojo and a Middle Eastern prayer hall. The tradition had come from the Lady Rashana, of all places—the Al-Lazarian custom was becoming popular among the proud Aranthian nobility as a way of setting themselves apart.

Without a son to train in the martial arts, it usually remained empty, but Seraphina had reserved it today. They would be receiving training from Armsmaster Kellan, a rather cantankerous old man. She would have liked to forego training entirely, but one of the fastest ways to gain skill was to practice under the guided eye of a trainer.

She opened the sliding doors to find an already grumpy Kellan positively fuming.

"The hour has grown late, Lady Seraphina. Daughter of the Duke or not, if you wish me to train you, then the very least you can do is turn up at the correct turn of the glass," chided the Armsmaster in a clipped voice.

Kellan Bullsort was old, but not old in the weak, wizened way of the infirm gone to seed. No; his was the age of a tough mountain oak— one weathered by countless storms, yet remaining unbowed. While of average height, he stood straight of back, his muscles and bulk a bulwark displaying a strength that belied his years. Just like the bull of his family name, Seraphina thought for a moment. His face was etched with lines, deep creases carved by a lifetime of battle and the sorrow of watching men he had trained as boys fall before their time. In his grey eyes, still clear and sharp as a winter morning, lingered hints of sadness that softened the harshness of his words.

Almost in response, Eloise let out a delicate yawn, which drew a baleful glance from the Armsmaster.

Hands behind his back, he looked over the two girls with a most critical eye.

"I told the Duke that this would do little good. Ladies of your station have guards to keep you safe. And you, milady Seraphina, have already had sufficient instruction. Still, when he heard that his darling daughter and her new lady-in-waiting wished to learn more deeply of what I could teach, he was positively overjoyed. I would like to state that the Lord Duke Anatoli was also under the influence of drink at the time, but an order is an order. I do this under protest and duress," the old man explained, his eyes narrowing.

"You will instruct us to your best ability, or I will have you whipped to within an inch of your life," stated Seraphina, her harsh words at odds with her warm smile. Eloise looked at her aghast, a hand covering her mouth in feminine shock.

"Hah, if I had a copper for every time I have received a threat, milady, I'd be as rich as the King!" Kellan snorted dismissively. "Young lady, you have certainly grown up. And... not in a good way, abusing your station like that."

"You are quite right, Armsmaster Kellan. I will have all of your men whipped instead. I will see you grow rich from their pain," replied the heiress, her smile just as sweet but her voice growing a fraction colder. "Am I asking something that is wrong? Something that is unexpected? An unwilling teacher makes for unwilling students."

The old man saw the deadly seriousness with which she spoke. This was not the usual spoiled brat who was nonetheless charming in her own way, the girl he had been used to dealing with.

"Lady Seraphina, I have known you since you were no higher than my knee. I remind you, it is the manner of the asking," he shot back, his feathers very much ruffled.

The blonde girl kept her smile. "And I have known you since my father picked you up a drunk, broken by the rigors of war and afraid to take the field again. It is the manner of the teaching and its enthusiasm that I am speaking of, or, in this case, the sad lack of it. I do not want to hear excuses about having a poor student because we are a tiny bit late in the morning. Do your best, Armsmaster, and I will do mine."

Eloise could not help but feel a dash of respect for how Seraphina was dealing with the old man.

"Correct discipline is the start of correct skill," Kellan muttered, but he should have known better than to duel words with the young lady. "I have others clamoring for my time. Let us begin."

He turned around, picking up two short wooden knives from the wall. Spitefully, he tossed them to the pair of waiting girls, testing their reflexes.

Eloise let out a small shriek of surprise, dropping hers to the floor, but Seraphina was able to catch her wooden blade, although she fumbled for a bit. This earned her a small nod of approval.

The old Armsmaster's face took on a mask of professional impassivity. "Let this be a lesson: in a fight for your life, you must be prepared for anything. A strike from an assassin’s knife at close quarters is nearly impossible to react to."

Suddenly, he burst forward, drawing a small steel blade from his hip and stopping it a hair’s breadth from Seraphina’s throat. "Like so," he explained.

Seraphina did not bat an eye, though her companion, Eloise, looked quite frozen in fright. Seraphina told herself she could have reacted if she’d wanted to.

“So, how must we deal with such a situation? If we cannot react in time, what must we do?” he asked, turning his piercing gaze on the very nervous-looking Eloise.

Seraphina already knew the answer. This lesson had been taught to her both through the memories of the original Seraphina and her own experiences in her old world. A rich woman could never be too careful, after all. Still, she chose to let her lady-in-waiting respond.

She recognized what the Armsmaster was trying to do: letting the student reach their own conclusion to a given problem to make the lesson stick. In a fight for one’s life certain lessons needed to be seared into memory.

"Perhaps… we must be able to predict it? That way, we can start moving before the blade is in motion," ventured the dark-haired Eloise, her voice hesitant but thoughtful.

The Armsmaster nodded slightly, as if he had expected such a response. “Excellent. And how might we be able to predict such a thing?” continued the grizzled instructor.

Though she very much wanted to answer, Seraphina held her tongue.

Eloise pursed her lips in thought before replying. “Through... observation?”

“I do believe we have a model student. As a noblewoman, you have taken lessons in mathematics?”

The doll-like girl gave a smug smile. “Of course! It is one of the bare necessities for a woman of good breeding.”

Kellan, accustomed to dealing with nobility, kept his face devoid of emotion. “Lady de Laney, then you would, of course, be familiar with probability…”

“...And you believe that the contest of blades, fighting, is a game of probability?” she interrupted, looking increasingly confident. Seraphina could almost see her head growing bigger by the second and wished for a needle to pop it.

The old soldier smiled in response. “Just so, milady. A game of observation, probability, bluff, and deception—a gamble where the stakes can be the highest of all. The greatest of masters, of which I am not one, are able to mix all of these things together. I will teach your body to move before your mind. Skill I can teach...”

“But Strength, speed, and Dexterity are things we must acquire ourselves,” finished Seraphina for him, growing tired of the lecture.

He coughed. "It is as Lady Seraphina says," he admitted with a casual shrug. "Though, as you are both of the weaker sex, it will be more difficult than most."

Smug mischief danced in Seraphina's emerald eyes. "Difficult, but not impossible," she replied, a hint of challenge in her voice.

The older man met her gaze and softened his tone, for some truths were best delivered with the greatest of care. "Impossible to a degree, milady. I mean no insult, but there is only so much muscle and bone that can lie upon a woman's frame. It is simply the way the Divines made us and our balance of humors. Men and women were built for different purposes."

On a logical level, Seraphina understood his meaning, even agreed with him. Men and women were, of course, biologically different. But there were more similarities than differences, and she was most definitely the rare exception to the rule. All her life, the original Seraphina had been playing a game of deception, hiding her true Strength for fear of being seen as masculine and unrefined. She lied so well that she had even deceived herself.

But this new Seraphina had no such qualms about using her full Strength. She was willing to use whatever tools and advantages were at hand to win.

"You must look at your opponent's eyes, his face, his shoulders, his arms, his legs, and where he places his feet," Kellan continued. "You must see the totality of a man, for to anticipate where he will strike is a combination of all things. Your opponent may lie with one or two of these, but never with all. You must learn to read everything and give away nothing. That is the essence of fighting," he explained, his voice imbued with the weight of hard-earned Wisdom.

Which, in a way, he was imparting—but Seraphina had had enough.

"Come now, Armsmaster Kellan, that is too much Wisdom for one day for the poor girl. Some things can only be learned by doing," she interjected, a hint of impatience sharpening her tone.

Kellan closed his eyes briefly, perhaps to compose himself, cursing the gods that had bestowed upon him such a difficult student. "Very well," he conceded. "You must try, if possible, to stand like this, presenting your side to your opponent. This will make you a smaller target. It is better to receive an attack on the limbs than in one's vitals."

He demonstrated the correct stance, moving with the fluid grace of a seasoned warrior half his age. The two girls attempted to mimic him. Eloise wobbled, unbalanced; the footwork was unlike anything she had learned before. Twice, the Armsmaster exposed the flaws in her stance by tripping her unceremoniously, sending her sprawling to the floor. Seraphina's own attempts at footwork were better, and, though she wavered under the Armsmaster's tests of her stance's solidity, she managed to keep her feet.

But Eloise was not entirely hopeless. Years of dance instruction had taught her how to mimic movements and learn quickly. There were transferable skills here, and she must have found that, if she thought of it as the first steps of a dance, her movements gained precision and grace. Unbeknownst to her, she had touched upon a deeper Wisdom.

After another hour or two of grueling drills, the Armsmaster decided to show them the first few slashes and strikes. There were differences from what Seraphina had learned from the modern doctrines of combat—Aranthian knife work favored a lower stance and guard, with more powerful reverse-gripped strikes designed to punch through armor—but the principles remained ultimately the same.

“Strike with all the speed and Strength you have, lest you be merely practicing against the air!” the Armsmaster shouted, circling them like a predator.

Eloise appeared to be flagging, and in truth, so was Seraphina, though she was hiding it better.

“Good, that will be enough for today!” declared the Armsmaster. “Eloise, you show great promise. Perhaps you will not die too easily with further training,” Kellan grudgingly admitted.

The Armsmaster’s easy praise of the dark-haired girl ignited a flash of irritation in Seraphina. Of course, that was probably the man's intention all along, but the young noblewoman saw through his ploy.

It was all about using the right levers to manipulate a person. Fine, she would let herself be manipulated if it served her benefit.

“Now, then,” the Armsmaster grinned wickedly, “you must build some basic speed, Strength, and Stamina. The best way to do this is with a run!”

It seemed that Seraphina had underestimated the depths of the Armsmaster.

Chapter 15 - Results

The dreams we have when awake are the ones we are more likely to remember.

- Attributed to the playwright Vlan di Panoli.

Seraphina had lost track of time. Days bled into one another, the sun rising and setting in a relentless cycle of toil. Perhaps, a week had passed; perhaps more. Each day mirrored the last—a grueling morning practice that left both girls too exhausted to do anything in the afternoons but collapse in a haze of fatigue. Kellan was merciless in his instruction, pushing them beyond their limits with a brutality that bordered on cruelty.

The exercises were punishing—a relentless assault on their bodies. Yet somehow, the old man knew precisely how to push them to the brink without shattering them completely. More often than not, the girls would stagger away from practice with muscles quivering, stomachs churning, their skin slick with sweat. Seraphina's high Strength attribute could not compensate for the sheer lack of raw stamina required to sprint around the sprawling grounds of the estate.

Yet, despite the physical strain, it was the mind-numbing monotony that wore on them most—especially on Eloise, whose complaints became as regular as their heartbeat. The same drills, the same stances, the same movements were repeated ad nauseam until their bodies moved mechanically, devoid of thought. Which, ironically, was Kellan’s intent.

When they dared to question Kellan's methods, his response was always the same: "You cannot build a mighty tower on a flawed foundation." His steely gaze brooked no argument.

Seraphina might have doubted his methods, were it not for the undeniable proof of her own progress. Blessed—or, perhaps, cursed—with the ability to view her Status, she watched the numbers climb ever so slowly, each point a hard-won victory. 

[STATUS] Seraphina de Sariens - Noble (Human lvl. 15)

STR: 

36

DEX: 

18

CON: 

17

INT:

21

WIS:

9

CHR:

38

LCK:

13

Health:

Stamina:

Mana:

Experience:

248/262

40/44

13/13

282/1540

The simple act of witnessing her own growth, quantified and irrefutable, fueled her determination. Under Kellan's relentless tutelage, her Constitution had risen by a full two points and her Dexterity by one, which bolstered both her Health and her Stamina, not to mention that she was also gaining in experience points. Overall, it was a subtle, but exhilarating empowerment.

Watching Seraphina's unyielding resolve, though quite unsure of its source, stirred something within Eloise. A spark of rivalry ignited, flickering to life beneath her constant fatigue. If she could never match the blonde noblewoman in social standing, then, perhaps, she could stand beside her as an equal in Strength and skill. It became a silent vow whispered to herself amid labored breaths and aching muscles.

Intrigued by the recent changes in her, Seraphina had begun to discreetly peruse Eloise's letters to her family—a small invasion of privacy she justified as necessary. The girl was undeniably homesick; she wrote almost daily. But something had changed. The bitter undertones and veiled complaints that once colored her words had softened. In the graceful curves of Eloise's handwriting, Seraphina detected a budding warmth, a subtle shift from resentment to acceptance. Perhaps, just perhaps, a fragile thread of friendship was weaving itself between them, delicate yet promising.

Naturally, the de Laneys were elated by Eloise's new position as lady-in-waiting to the rumored future queen of Aranthia. The merchant-turned-nobles were drawn to power like moths to a flame, their ambitions burning brightly. Proximity to the crown was a coveted prize—a gleaming emblem of their burgeoning influence and prestige. Their daughter's association with the illustrious de Sariens would undoubtedly make them the envy of the court and solidify their status as genuine aristocracy. Just like it was with the nouveau riche in Seraphina's own world, recognition was the nectar they thirsted for. It was a craving that had even led them to court favor with the Empire, Aranthia's neighbor and geopolitical rival.

Seraphina's unwavering dedication to her training had not gone unnoticed. It earned her a glimmer of pride in the Duke’s eyes—a rare and precious acknowledgment that warmed her heart more than she cared to admit. Though her mother in this world remained  despondent, trapped in her own melancholy, Anatoli, despite the weight of his own burdens, made a point to commend both Eloise and Seraphina when they managed to drag themselves into the grand dining hall for dinner, muscles protesting and spirits worn thin. His words of praise were brief, but sincere.

She was also wrestling with an unforeseen challenge—one that had nothing to do with swords or stances. In this new body, she sorely missed the modern convenience of a sports bra. For Eloise, slight and petite, it was a non-issue. But for Seraphina, a young woman blossoming into her figure, certain aspects of her anatomy were becoming a literal hindrance. The discomfort during training was both frustrating and, at times, embarrassing. To combat this, she resorted to wearing a heavy steel cuirass. The rigid armor pressed her curves firmly against the unyielding metal, minimizing unwanted movement and aiding her battle against gravity. The added weight strained her shoulders, but it came with an unexpected benefit: the acquisition of a new skill—Medium Armor. And, perhaps most importantly, it made running a far more bearable endeavor.

So absorbed was she in the relentless cycle of physical training that Seraphina had completely overlooked a crucial aspect of her abilities: magic. How could she have been so blind? She clapped her hands together, a wry smile tugging at her lips as a wave of realization washed over her. There was a surefire way to alleviate the mounting tension knotting her damnable shoulders. It was certainly worth a try.

Figuratively rolling up her sleeves, she summoned the arcane energies within her. She cast Heal on herself. Ancient words, fragments of a song older than the marrow of the world, flowed from her lips. Instantly, a soothing warmth blossomed within her chest, spreading like liquid gold through her veins and into every aching muscle. A thousand and one little pains she had not even been aware of dissolved, washed away in a cleansing torrent of pure magic.

At last, it seemed she might finally enjoy a good night's sleep.

Just as she moved toward her bed, Seraphina's gaze fell upon Eloise, sprawled unceremoniously across the sofa of her bedroom, utterly spent and deep in slumber. A pang of something—perhaps concern, perhaps mere curiosity—stirred within her. 

An idea sparked, and a smug smile curved Seraphina's lips. If Eloise was to be of any real use in the future, the newly minted Earthmage needed to begin practicing her own magic. This perpetual state of exhaustion would only hinder that progress. Perhaps a little assistance was in order. It would help her in her own advances in healing magic, as well as making sure her lady-in-waiting was kept in tip-top shape. What use were miracles if you did not employ them? Also, she reminded herself, this was strictly a selfish act of self-interest.

Still, she had to be cautious with her magic; only two others knew she could wield the magic of the Covenant, and secrets were a dangerous currency. Well, only two others knew for certain. Eloise was a smart girl and could probably put two and two together. What was one more? 

Shrugging, she nudged Eloise gently, testing the depth of her sleep. The girl murmured something unintelligible but did not stir. Only the soft rhythm of her breathing filled the room.

Summoning her magic once more, Seraphina invoked the spell again, this time employing her Silent Casting skill. The euphoria of the holy energy surged within her, muted now, but still potent. She channeled the raw healing power away from herself and into the slumbering girl. A soft glow visible only to the girl touched by the Holy enveloped Eloise briefly, then faded. Brusquely, Seraphina draped a blanket over her sleeping form. As she turned away, she could have sworn she saw a peaceful smile soften Eloise's features. Satisfied, Seraphina slipped into her own bed, snuggling under the covers, a sense of quiet accomplishment lulling her toward sleep.

Chapter 16 - Test

The difference between the impossible and the possible lies in a man’s determination. 

- Tommy Lasorda

“Why, I do believe I'm finally getting used to this... regime! I'm not dreading a session with the old man quite as much as before,” Eloise chirped, her voice gratingly bright for such an early hour. The morning sun cast a golden glow on her dark hair, and her eyes sparkled with newfound enthusiasm.

Of course you would, Seraphina thought, masking her irritation behind a pleasant smile. She considered delivering a scathing retort, but, in truth, she felt much the same way. The healing warmth of her magic had brought her more relief than a hundred spa sessions ever could, melting away the aches and pains of their relentless training.

“Well, the Armsmaster did say you're quite a fast learner. It seems that your body is one, too. Now, we mustn't forget that you'll also need to practice your other... more arcane skills,” Seraphina reminded her, a subtle hint of amusement dancing in her emerald eyes.

The haze and brutality of their training had caused Eloise to forget all about her newly acquired magical abilities. In this way, Seraphina had to admit, Armsmaster Kellan possessed a certain talent for demanding one's complete focus.

But was the stodgy old man being more demanding than usual? Seraphina's original memories of him painted a picture of a mentor perhaps only half as stringent during her formative years. Exacting to a fault, he had made her practice stupidly cutting downwards after he had found out that she was taking shortcuts when asked to do laps around the castle walls. Was this increased rigor a form of petty power play? No, that did not align with Kellan's character, she mused thoughtfully.

“Oh yes, Lady Seraphina, I most certainly will. I think today will not be quite as taxing as before. Of that, I'm quite sure!” declared the doll-like girl, puffing out what little chest she had in a display of confidence.

Seraphina gave her a truly radiant smile—the kind that was born from a feeling of well-placed superiority.

*****

Unlike the men training in her father's barracks, Seraphina insisted that the thick padded jackets they wore for practice sessions with Kellan be thoroughly washed and scented with lavender. The old man had voiced his objections, the extra steps seemingly frivolous, but on this matter, both she and Eloise stood firm. Both of the girls would rather die than put up with the stench of old sweat.

The sessions were challenging—not because the techniques were difficult, but because Seraphina had to constantly keep her immense Strength in check. If she unleashed her full power, she risked causing serious harm to Eloise. Ironically, it reminded her of the old Seraphina's original predicament.

For the past hour or two, Kellan had them sparring against each other, wielding small wooden knives coated in paint to mark where and how often they struck. To the smaller girl's credit, Eloise managed to score a point once every five bouts. This was more due to Seraphina restraining herself than any true display of Eloise's growing skill. However, despite this fact, Kellan showered Eloise with praise, remarking on every bit of improvement she made, further inflating her already swelling ego. If Seraphina did not know any better, she'd think he was doing it on purpose.

Feeling rather annoyed, she pulled Kellan aside.

"Do you enjoy testing me, Kellan?" she asked, her voice edged with irritation.

"You are not the Duchess de Sariens yet, milady Seraphina. I am still Armsmaster Kellan to you," he replied, his tone flat and devoid of inflection.

"Not a single word of praise for me? By the way you speak of Eloise..." She glanced over at the de Laney girl, sprawled against the wall in exhaustion. "...one would think the Goddess had descended and been made flesh."

The old veteran met her gaze unflinchingly. "You water only the plants that need it," he said evenly.

"Spare me the attempt at sounding wise and speak plainly," she interrupted, tapping her foot impatiently.

"Praise is a tool like any other," he explained. "You should give praise only to those who deserve it—or those who need it. Lady Seraphina, you know full well how far and how fast you have advanced. Giving you glowing words of praise would only stunt your growth."

The stubborn man was absolutely intent on continuing his metaphor, much to her frustration.

Her eyes flashed with fire at the compliment and rebuke. "Fine..." she conceded unwillingly. "But you have been harder on us than is your usual wont. Why?"

"I have treated the pair of you as I would treat the greenest of recruits. It is what you told me to do," he answered, maintaining his stoic demeanor. However, Seraphina sensed that he was hiding something.

"That's not quite it, is it, Armsmaster Kellan? Tell me the truth," the young noblewoman insisted, her gaze piercing.

Suddenly, as swift as a serpent, the older man drew a sharp blade from his waist and pressed the cold steel point against her throat. Seeing this, Eloise scrambled to her feet, eyes wide with alarm.

"I knew it in my bones, and now I know it to be true with my eyes. Your mother could have stopped me before my hand ever reached for my blade," he whispered into her ear, as close as any ardent lover.

Seraphina seriously considered killing the Armsmaster then and there; a single punch at this range with her full Strength would pulverize his ribcage. But the thought of having to explain away the situation made her decide otherwise.

"You don't have the Sight, milady," he continued, his voice low and measured. “It has never awakened in you.”

Seraphina gestured for Eloise to stand down, who looked ready to bolt for help. "It's all right, Eloise. Armsmaster Kellan was just giving me some... advice."

"That is why I push you as hard as I do. I do so because of the love I have for you and your family. Your mother needs no guards—for what use is an assassin's blade when it can be seen before it takes flight? You, though… you are going to be at court alone, with only your lady-in-waiting and a minimal guard. I may be just an old man with a bit of skill with the blade, but even I can see the currents of intrigue that swirl around you. You must keep to that lie as your shield, milady Seraphina. And my training, humble though it is, must be your sword," he explained, his voice catching slightly, low yet filled with loyalty and conviction. "I am not in the habit of sending a girl into the lion's den undefended. It has been my long dream to also be able to instruct your children."

*****

Seraphina was unusually quiet for the remainder of the lesson. She had far too much to contemplate. Distracted, she allowed Eloise to improve her average against her, with Eloise scoring one point for every three of hers. The lie—that she could see the future as an oracle with the Sight—was a deception she had to maintain. It would be a flimsy shield if tested for immediate foresight, but, fortunately, she could predict the future in broad strokes, for she knew most of the major events of the future in intimate detail.

So absorbed was she in her thoughts that she barely registered Kellan calling them to stop. Moments later, two tall men from her father's guard entered the Haql Tajriba, bowing respectfully to the Armsmaster.

"These are..." Kellan began.

"Who are they? They seem familiar... but this area is reserved for members of my family," Seraphina protested, drawing herself up to her full height, her eyes hard as flint.

The old man took a deep breath. "As I was trying to explain," he said, his voice suddenly stony and firm, "this is Giles and Krayton. They will be assisting me today in teaching you both a lesson."

"And pray tell, what lesson would that be?" Eloise asked archly, beating Seraphina to the question—a fact that annoyed her to no end.

"A lesson in the difference of the sexes, and a lesson in fear," Kellan replied, nodding. "I had forgotten that fear and pain can be the greatest of teachers—their lessons are rarely forgotten."

"Wha... what do you mean by that?" Eloise questioned hesitantly, her eyes darting between the imposing men and the Armsmaster.

Kellan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "We've focused too much on scoring points, on technicalities. It's one thing to perform during sparring, and quite another to act under real pressure and threat."

"And you are proposing...?" Seraphina interjected, her voice edged with suspicion.

"Giles and Krayton here," the old man continued, making a sweeping gesture toward the pair of burly men, "will help to fill the gaps in my instruction. They will help you bridge the divide between theory and practice."

The two men looked like they could be brothers—and likely were, Seraphina mused. Thankfully, they were easy to tell apart: one had dull, dirty blonde hair, and the other sported mousy brown locks. Their faces bore the softness of village boys, their expressions somewhat doughy and unrefined. However, their bodies told a different story—broad and muscular, with a healthy layer of fat. Thick limbs corded with muscle strained against their padded jackets. Standing at least two heads taller than Seraphina, they towered over both Kellan and Eloise.

"And how will they do that exactly?" both girls asked in unison, sharing an embarrassed glance at their perfect timing.

"I'm glad you both asked," Kellan answered, a sly grin spreading across his face. "I want to see how long you two can last against them in the square."

"You wish for us... to fight them?" Eloise stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kellan shook his head. "No, Lady de Laney. Not fight—survive. Out there, you won't be able to pick and choose your opponents. Things will be unfair, but that's no reason to give up. Use everything you've learned, but you may not leave the square. Do not be overly afraid; they won't take your lives, and I've procured a few restorative potions from Alchemist Jurgens. You may, of course, refuse this test, but doing so will mean you are no longer Lady Seraphina's lady-in-waiting, and you will be sent home."

"How dare—" Seraphina began, stepping forward in defense of Eloise.

The old man raised a hand imperiously, halting her. "No, this is Lady Anaselena's order. She has foreseen something. Neither your father, you, nor I can deny her. You know this," he said with a shrug. The two brutes beside him chuckled knowingly.

Seraphina felt a spike of rage take her. The damnable, conniving witch of a woman!

Eloise's face paled, worry etched into her delicate features. Being sent home would be a great stain on her family's honor. Rumors would swirl for years that the de Laneys were unworthy of their elevated status. She looked truly distressed.

It was time to give her some much needed motivation.

"My lady-in-waiting, Eloise de Laney, first daughter of Baron Geron de Laney, is, of course, more than capable of such a trivial task. You are a fool to think she could fail such a simple test," Seraphina declared with the conviction of a true believer, shooting the smaller girl a meaningful look. "You will accept... won't you, Eloise?" she added, smiling—a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I will?!" Eloise echoed, her voice shaky, feeling cornered. But even a mouse, when trapped, can find its courage. Her expression hardened, her jaw setting in determination. In a stronger voice, she affirmed, "I will."

"Excellent! I'm glad both of you have so readily accepted my methods," the old man crowed. Seraphina almost expected him to rub his hands together like a villain from a play.

"You there... Giles," Seraphina called out, pointing in the general direction of the brothers.

One of them, the dirty blonde, pointed to himself. "Me?" he asked dumbly, his voice a deep bass that resonated in the chamber.

"I will pay you twice whatever you are being offered to simply lose," the blonde girl stated, crossing her arms beneath her chest.

"My lady!" Kellan blustered, his face darkening like a storm cloud.

"It was you, Kellan—no doubt conspiring with my witch of a mother—who created this situation. I am simply giving these louts an opportunity to bow out without an injury. Healing potions are expensive," she said with the confidence and authority of someone twice her age, her bearing belying her youthful appearance. "I have foreseen it, after all."

For that single moment, she stood not as a girl but as a commanding general, offering clemency to the remnants of a defeated army.

All three men looked troubled, though for very different reasons. Seraphina did not truly expect to dissuade them from their course, but that was never her aim. She wanted to plant a seed of doubt in their minds.

When an outcome is believed to be preordained, it becomes exceedingly difficult to muster the will to fight against it. The girl would scrap together whatever advantage she could.

Though she couldn't see it, a light of admiration flickered in Eloise's eyes.

Chapter 17 - The Ogre

All warfare is based on deception.

- Sun Tzu.

Eloise was too important to be harmed, restorative Alchemics or no. Some wounds scarred the soul, crippling it rather than strengthening. Her insane mother and this training-obsessed Armsmaster's scheme were one such danger. The thought of Eloise injured, her bright spirit dimmed, ignited a protective flame within Seraphina. She had invested too much time and attention into her.

Thinking of her mother brought forth the thoughts of another looming problem: her brother. She was torn about whom she should allow to live. Her brother would be an innocent, just a defenseless baby, but dealing with her mother was an entirely different matter. With the Sight, Anaselena could see many of the probable threads of the future, which would grant her the ability to foil many of Seraphina's schemes and plans. The Sight was a blessing and a curse, revealing possibilities but not certainties.

She could only hope for both of them to quietly remove themselves from this mortal coil, but Seraphina had learned not to place too much faith in good fortune.

No matter which way she considered it, it was sheer folly to pit two fifteen-year-old girls against two fully grown men. A travesty, really. The men's muscular forms loomed over them. She had planted a few seeds of doubt in the men; now she needed to plant the seeds of shame.

"I hope you louts feel good about striking young girls. Probably makes you feel very big and manly," Seraphina accused them, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She smiled as she saw their jaws tighten at the insult, a flicker of uncertainty crossing their eyes.

However, both remained silent. Either her mother had paid them well, or they owed her something. Considering it for a fraction of a second, she realized her mother had probably given them something more valuable: information on their pathetic little futures. Manipulation, it seemed, was Anaselena’s forte.

The unfolding situation was troubling, especially since it had never been a part of the game. In these little deviations, the precognitive Sight would have been advantageous. Without it, she felt blind, forced to rely solely on her wits and skills.

The two men picked up wooden practice swords, swinging them through the air to test their weight. The wooden blades whistled ominously, cutting through the air with practiced ease. Padded jackets or not, a direct strike from one of those could hurt one, could even break one’s bones. It was worrisome, but Seraphina was no stranger to pain.

An unbidden memory surfaced from a time before she wrestled her way to the top. The echo of mocking laughter and scorn. She shuddered as if someone had stepped over her grave—both future and past.

Clenching her fists at her sides, she rallied, pushing back the memory and keeping it where it belonged: repressed. She refused to be that girl ever again.

"Come now, Eloise, let us choose the implements we will use to teach these thugs a lesson," she commanded, her eyes flashing with fire. Her voice was steady, authoritative—a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

This was all her blasted mother’s fault, having her face off against two hulking giants.

Marching over to the weapon rack with the nervous girl in tow, Seraphina gazed over the array of weapons. The rack was an impressive display, holding everything from simple wooden staves to elaborate blunted blades, each one worn from countless training sessions. Eloise immediately picked a long wooden pole. The girl had demonstrated some skill with it; it was easier to use and had great reach. The spear had been mankind's staple weapon for a reason.

Seraphina, on the other hand, needed something that would send a much stronger message. Her eyes scanned over the practice swords, axes, and maces, seeking the one that would strike both fear and awe.

Her soft hands—skin still supple despite constant weapon practice, thanks to a bevy of creams and lotions—trailed across them. Their solidness beneath her fingertips grounded her. Her hand stopped at a great mace, essentially a huge log with a handle, banded with iron to give it extra weight. Unbalanced and extremely heavy, it was not meant for practice sparring but to train warriors to build up Strength, speed, and Stamina. It was a weapon that a young girl of fifteen would never be able to lift, let alone wield.

She understood why she had been brought here; only she could push past the original's inhibitions and self-doubts. The weight of expectations settled on her shoulders, but she stood tall.

It was time for her legend to begin early.

She would be like the expensive, ancient swords of her homeland that she had prized and collected: strong as she was beautiful, beautiful because she was strong.

Her heart sang with joy as she lifted the heavy tool with a single hand, muscles coiling like steel beneath her skin. The weight was substantial, but she handled it with ease, a testament to her hidden power, the Strength of the Old Ones. Giving it a practice swing, much like Giles and Crayton had tested their own weapons, she felt the power coursing through her. The displacement of air as it whooshed could be felt by all, a tangible force.

Eloise's mouth dropped open, her eyes wide with astonishment. The two men Kellan had pitted against them stopped in their tracks, their confident smirks fading like spit on a hot stone.

Silence reigned supreme in Haql Tajriba, the training grounds hushed as if holding its breath. Cruel determination was etched on Seraphina's face, a mask of concentration. Then, with a mighty swing, she smashed the great mace into the earth. All of her angst, frustration, and anger went into the blow. The ground shook with the impact, a resounding crash that shattered the silence. Small clods of earth from the floor flew into the air from the small explosion.

You have learned Power Strike (lvl.1)

You have gained 1 Strength.

This was her message.

*****

Splintered and a broken mess, the training weapon was utterly useless now. Feigning a bored yawn, Seraphina tossed it aside and picked up a random wooden sword from the rack, rolling it across her wrist. She had only the most basic skills in its use, but she was fairly certain it would work well enough as a bludgeon.

"It seems that the Lady Seraphina has inherited the Troll's Strength," observed Armsmaster Kellan, his expression smooth, his gaze steady.

"Kellan, you do know he most certainly does not like to be called that," the young noblewoman corrected, a hint of admonishment in her tone. "He can be a bit testy." A small note of joy flickered within her as she noticed Kellan did not correct her omission of his title. Victory, however small, was still sweet.

"Now then. Shall we begin? Come along now, Eloise," Seraphina said, stepping into the fighting square of bare, packed earth. With a small skip in her step, Eloise followed her. "Well? What are you waiting for?" she taunted, a smile of superiority playing on her lips as she gazed at the big men waiting at its edges like wary animals at a new watering hole.

They looked at each other, very unsure, for the girl was succeeding in eroding their resolve. No debt would surely be worth this humiliation. However, a hard stare from Kellan almost physically forced them to descend into the pit.

Stabbing the wooden sword down into the earth of the floor, it looked as if she was claiming this area for herself. A part of her flinched, knowing that, if it were a real sword, Kellan would have chastised her for such disrespect. But those were the old Seraphina's memories, not hers. Out with the old, in with the new. What did she care about the opinions of an old man?

She gazed upon them even as Eloise hopped next to her, the dark-haired girl oozing fresh confidence.

"Shall we begin then?" Seraphina challenged testily to the two men. Beside her, practice spear in hand, her lady-in-waiting smiled impudently.

Hesitantly, the two men raised their weapons and approached, their eyes filled with reluctant determination.

Seraphina looked at her pointedly. "Well, what are you waiting for, Eloise?"

"What do you mean, Sera... Lady Seraphina?" she asked, surprised.

Seraphina forced an almost pained smile upon her face. The girl had almost lapsed back into her old habit under pressure. A relapse she would have to fix later.

"Why, as my lady-in-waiting, it is your duty to defend me. So defend me!" the blonde girl commanded sternly, gripping the handle of her sword. Armsmaster Kellan held his head in his hands, absolutely flabbergasted.

"Eeeep!" was all the de Laney girl could utter before one of the brothers closed in on them, swinging his wooden sword.

Luckily, the girl ducked, dodging out of the way. The other brother, the brown-haired one, fixed his gaze on her, but a glare from Seraphina made him think better of it, and he instead decided to go after Eloise.

"Lady Seraphina..." called out the doll-like girl. "Perhaps a little help!?" she shrieked, evading the two men.

Unfortunately for the poor girl, the two brothers had corralled her into a corner. Eloise was clutching her practice spear to her chest, her form quite frankly terrible in her panic.

Seraphina sighed to herself. It seemed that even here, she had to do everything herself.

"Eloise, darling, a wooden stick isn't the only thing you know how to use... Use your brain and other talents!" hinted Seraphina. Giving out the full answers, after all, hindered more than it helped.

The dark-haired girl let out an unladylike shriek as a wooden blade smacked against her rump almost playfully. This should have intimidated the girl, but if anything it seemed to stir something else. Eloise's dark eyes narrowed into obsidian slits as outrage overrode her earlier fear.

The small girl lashed out with her stick with surprising speed, but Giles blocked it with consummate ease, the smirk returning to his eyes now that he knew he did not have to face Seraphina—at least not yet. He moved to deliver a counterstroke with his brother, the pair of them delivering two attacks from different directions. And that should have spelled the end for Eloise, but, under her Lady's instruction, the little girl had come up with a plan.

The ground, the earthen floor of the Haql Tajriba, simply moved. It was not a great shift, just the smallest of movements directed by the will of the black-haired girl at the feet of the two brothers mid-stride. It was enough to unbalance the pair of them, and they both fell to the floor just as they swung their weapons. The small girl, knowing an opening when she saw one, rapped them across their skulls viciously and quickly, almost petulantly, before dancing away to join her Lady.

There was a mad smile on the de Laney girl's face, the smile of one who has met a crazy, unfair situation, and had, against all the odds, overcome it.

Like Kellan, Seraphina decided to dollop out some praise. "Well done, Eloise. I always knew you could do it!" If she did say so herself, she really could bring out the best in people.

"Yes!" she half-shrieked in accomplished joy. The girl seemed to lap it up like a thirsty dog after a long run.

"However, I do not think you have quite finished the job," observed Seraphina, pointing with an imperious chin at the two brothers rubbing their heads as they got up.

Dismayed, Eloise took a step behind the Lady Seraphina. The girl's courage was at its limit, the blonde judged. Oh well, it was time to take matters into her own hands.

"Alright then, you two... I will give you a moment to recover, and then we will start in earnest," stated the blonde girl, resting her wooden practice sword on her shoulder and tapping her foot.

The two men shot each other a look and cast their training weapons to the ground.

"We yield, Lady Seraphina..." they said in complete unison.

The young woman looked at them regally. "No, you do not. It is time you learned the cost of picking the wrong side and ignoring my clemency. It is time for me to be teaching the lessons now," she stated primly.

She gave them a moment to let the words settle. As soon as they accepted their fate and started reaching for the weapons on the ground, Seraphina sprinted towards them, throwing her wooden sword. The practice weapon turned over in the air, narrowly missing Crayton's skull and embedding itself in the earth next to him.

It would have been foolish to throw away her only weapon, but compared to her Sword skill, Seraphina's Unarmed skill—a legacy from the self-defense classes and training in her old world—was much higher. Her high Strength also meant a manifold increase to her speed. She did not have any real desire to restrain herself and it took everything the girl had to soften a blow to Giles's stomach, such was the spite in her heart for him and his brother. Softened as it was, the blow doubled him over with a solid whack, leaving him a spluttering wreck on the floor.

As for Crayton, he raised his hands in surrender. He did not quite understand it, but a part of him fell in love at that moment with the golden demon before him. When he was small, his mother told him tales of creatures like her, and now, if only for a brief moment, he felt like the foolish hero from those very stories.

Seraphina made to punch him—a blow that would have knocked his head clean off his shoulders. Instead, she settled for a mild slap that knocked the big man out cold.

The girl closed her eyes, taking a moment to find her center.

"Is that to your satisfaction, Armsmaster Kellan? Have I cleared whatever condition my mother has set for us?" she said, her voice dripping with acid. 

The old man could only nod in response.

"Eloise, help these boys, please, if you would," Seraphina commanded in a tone that brooked no argument. "I might have broken something in them. Use the healing potions, if you must," she added, theatrically dusting her hands off.

The girl rushed to do Seraphina's bidding, seeing to the two brothers.

The heir to the Sarien Duchy turned to the Sarien's Armsmaster. "I am assuming you trust these men, Kellan. They belong to me now. You will assign them, along with Corporal Frest, to be my personal guard if you are so worried about my person. Is that clear?"

"Yes, milady Seraphina," he said in a clipped, professional tone. Underneath it were signs that the old man had been thoroughly shocked and cowed. "I see that this was for the best."

Seraphina stepped closer to the old warrior. "The future is not just something that you see. It is something that you make," she whispered before stepping back.

"Now then, if you have nothing else to trouble me with, I will be having words with my mother."

Chapter 18 - The Uncertain Way

Prophecy is a rare talent, granted only to a select few by the River God. The ability to glimpse the future, by classical definition, implies a linear and well-defined path. However, if one could truly know the future, even for a moment, it would mean that all destiny is predetermined and immutable.

The truth, however, is far more complex. Time flows like a river, but it is not a straight and unalterable course. Instead, it is a winding and meandering current that curves around islands of primordial chaos and Entropy, which taint the very fabric of our existence.

The gift of prophecy is unique in that those who possess it can see many, but not all, possible threads of the future. With their own will and agency, they can eliminate unwanted paths, thus serving the temple of the God of the Wend and Way. In this way, the oracular visionaries can guide the course of events toward a more favorable outcome.

- On the Prophecy of the Gods by Gideon de Salavia 376 AC.

Not bothering to change out of her practice clothes, Seraphina stormed off to find her mother, her anger feeling hot and untamed. Her fists clenched with every step, and the thought of confrontation was burning in her mind like a smoldering ember. She wanted to hurl something—anything. The universe, the Divines, or, perhaps, some mischievous nature spirits seemed to answer her unspoken wish as she stumbled over a small rock while cutting across the estate grounds.

Her frustration boiled over. Grabbing the offending stone, she launched it into the distant woods with all her strength, a growl of frustration escaping her lips. Seconds later, a faint chime echoed in her mind, followed by a system notification:

You have slain a ??? 20 experience gained.

You have gained 1 Luck.

The absurdity of the situation disarmed her growing rage for a moment, and a smirk ghosted across her face. Perhaps the universe was trying to tell her something. She contemplated throwing more objects into the woods, idly wondering if she could make this her new strategy. The idea of ranged combat piqued her interest, but the thought of hauling knives around or throwing spears did not appeal. No, she needed something… something that could harness her monstrous Strength, but something that was also not a devil to carry about all over the place. She would have to think on it later. First, there was her mother. Or was it a stepmother? Did it matter? Was motherhood defined by the body, the soul, or something else entirely? She shook the thought off; such metaphysical meanderings and musings could wait.

When Seraphina arrived at the main building, she found out that her mother was not in her rooms. After interrogating a maid, she discovered that Anaselena was taking tea in the garden. By the time she crossed the manicured lawn, her rage had subsided to a simmer, leaving an unfamiliar, nagging dread in its place. Again, she was walking into unknown territory.

Under a cloth roof, the tea table was a picture of refinement, set for two with delicate china and an array of refreshments: jellies, colorful biscuits, and finger sandwiches. Anaselena was sitting there serenely, gazing out over the garden, a floral tea steaming gently in her hand.

When her mother finally turned her gaze toward her, Seraphina was struck by the faint sadness in those sharp green eyes.

“Have some tea, won’t you?” Anaselena offered, her tone more a command than an invitation. She placed her teacup on its saucer with a soft clink.

Seraphina crossed her arms defiantly. “I’d prefer to stand. I’m not in the mood for tea,” she said, her voice laced with frost. “What was the meaning of that?”

Anaselena tilted her head, the faintest trace of a smile playing at her lips. “What was the meaning of what, my dear?” she replied with infuriating smoothness, taking another delicate sip.

Seraphina bristled. Was she being goaded? Manipulated? She realized that giving in to her temper would be a loss in this battle of wills. With a small huff, she pulled out a chair and sat down, straightening her nonexistent skirt with a sharp motion. Fixing her mother with a glare, she repeated her question.

“What was the meaning of that farce with Kellan?”

Anaselena’s gaze darkened, though her demeanor remained composed. “I had to make a choice between difficult futures. Those with the Sight have always been loyal to the crown, but I see now that the crown and the Kingdom are not the same. And that realization demanded a painful decision. A selfish decision.”

Seraphina remained silent, letting the weight of her mother’s words hang between them. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with deliberate ease, her face a mask of indifference.

Her mother sighed, a long, wistful exhalation. “The Amolla root in your room was what decided it for me.”

Seraphina’s composure cracked. “You’ve been through my room?” she spat, her fists tightening beneath the table.

“Privacy means little to those with the Sight,” Anaselena replied coolly.

“Do not play games with me,” Seraphina snapped. “You and I both know your Sight cannot perceive those of direct blood.”

A sharp silence followed as Anaselena studied her daughter. “So you know,” she said at last, her voice clipped. Her eyes hardened, losing their earlier melancholy. “Yes, of course, you do. The only reason I haven’t ended you is that you are truly of my blood—not a changeling. Your actions may be clouded to me, but the ripples you create are unmistakable. Like a stone falling in a forest.”

Seraphina’s stomach twisted. Relief and dread were warring within her, but she refused to show it.

“It was that fact, more than anything else, that confirmed your identity,” Anaselena continued. “You are, and yet you are not, my daughter. I weep for her loss, just as I weep for my son. But emotion cannot rule us.”

“Please, Mother,” Seraphina interrupted, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “get to the point.”

Anaselena’s mask of serenity cracked, revealing a flash of anger. “Do not think for a moment that I am blind to your schemes. I know what you planned to do—to push forward with or without my consent. I spared you the murder of your unborn brother. Do not pretend that was mercy you’d have granted.”

Her words struck like a whip, and for once, Seraphina was forced to be silent.

“You cannot imagine what it means to keep such a secret from the man you love,” Anaselena continued, her voice trembling with great emotion. “To see only kindness in his eyes, while carrying a truth that would shatter him. I will bear that burden until my dying breath. I have stolen from him his greatest dream. And, though I understand why you’ve forced my hand, I will never forgive you for it. For the briefest fraction of a moment, I saw something. I had to choose. I had to choose…”

Anaselena looked away, her features softening. “And yet, I still love you. More than anything now, for I have so little else left. I will tolerate your little games, but do not test me. One day, when you have children of your own, you will understand.”

“But—”

“Enough!” Anaselena cut her off sharply, her eyes blazing with jade fire. “You will not step out of line. You will do as I say. I sent you to Kellan because that old, broken coward commands the respect of men whose loyalty we need. His good opinion is worth more than a hundred golden coins! You would know this if the future had taught you anything.”

Her mother took a deep breath, calming herself. “A parent’s duty is not to make their child happy, but to prepare them and give them the resilience to deal with what lies ahead. In your future, I assume, I passed away too soon to teach you this. I do not intend to make that mistake here.”

“And you will tell me nothing more of the future that you have seen; I will not allow my own Sight to be further clouded by that chaos,” the older woman added almost as an afterthought. “And… most important of all, you will obey me.”

Seraphina swallowed her retort as her mother leaned forward, a dark smile playing at her lips. “Do you know how one with the Sight ensures the future, darling?”

Seraphina shook her head, her stomach knotting.

Anaselena’s smile widened. “It’s quite simple, dearest heart. You destroy all other possible futures.”

Chapter 19 - About the Town

It is perseverance through the darkest of times that truly marks the souls of the greatest of men. As the tide rises, carrying with it every ship in the harbor, so too does a man's commitment to the realm elevate all those around him. In pursuit of a brighter dawn, one may offer a lifetime to the forging of a just and noble society. 

And though the shadow of mortality may claim him before he beholds the fruits of his toil, his legacy left behind is a bettered world. In the face of the abyss, where hope might seem but a fleeting wisp, those who tether their hearts to just purpose shall, indeed, find a profound fulfillment.

- The Human Question by Gideon de Salavia 378 A.C

She had lost the battle, but not the war. Seraphina, well-versed in the art of corporate strategy, understood that sometimes surrender was the most cunning move one could make to gain greater control. The meeting with her mother, though it was far from satisfactory, had at least confirmed that her mother was looking out for her best interests. However, the notion that her every action, no matter how indirect, was being monitored sent a chill down her spine.

However, though she would never admit it, in the few days since she had met Anaselena, she felt more genuine warmth and passion from this world's mother than she ever had from her own. Despite her oracular abilities, the older woman always asked how she was, showing a genuine interest in her well-being. It was about the small things—ensuring the kitchens prepared meals she liked, or, on one occasion, bringing her a soothing tea before bed. There were the physical gestures too: Anaselena was not shy about touching her daughter, embracing her often—possessively, more than once. It troubled her on many levels, stirring up emotions she had not felt in years.

As she walked through the bustling town, the sights and sounds enveloped her. To a very distant casual observer, she was just another noblewoman out for a leisurely stroll. 

But at a closer remove, things were different. Clad in a casual brown and white dress—the kind a rich merchant's daughter might wear—she might have blended in… if not for her entourage. Three men were accompanying her—two of them towering brutes clad in heavy armor and wielding halberds, the third one with a dangerous looking sword at his hip and a cruel streak to his features. Their presence alone dispelled any notion of normalcy. Also, the very cadence of her steps was more akin to that of a general in a military camp than to that of a lady enjoying a stroll about the town. There was a purpose in her stride, a determination that simply could not be masked. Even Miriam, the maid at her side, exuded a hint of martial readiness, a small club hanging at her side.

Seraphina was not in town just to blow off some steam and distance herself from her mother and the castle proper. She was also searching for someone—a certain someone who should be traveling about the town at this stage of the game.

"Frest, Giles, Crayton," Seraphina called out as they entered the central market square, her voice cutting through the clamor of merchants and townsfolk.

"Yes, milady," they replied in unison, albeit slightly out of sync.

"How many years does it take to become competent with a bow?" she inquired, her gaze scanning the throngs of people.

"For war or for hunting, milady?" Giles responded, brushing away stray hairs that escaped from under his open-faced kettle helm.

"Why..." She hesitated, searching for his name. "Why Cra... Giles," she corrected herself, noting the flicker in his eyes. "Why Giles," she repeated more firmly, "both."

He shifted his weight, considering her question. "For hunting, milady, a lad with some talent might learn to hit a still target consistently within two months. But to take to the field of war... it takes a few good years," he answered with measured deference.

"Frest?" she prompted, turning her attention to the former bandit.

"I'd say about the same thing, milady. Best bet would be to learn how to use a crossbow. In a week or two, you could probably hit a man at fifty paces,” Sergeant Frest ventured, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he relived a memory.

With the brother’s assignment to Seraphina’s personal guard, Armsmaster Kellan had been forced to give the former bandit a promotion.

"But... why... why would you want to do that?" Miriam interjected, clutching the front of her dress, her eyes wide with concern.

"Interesting," Seraphina mused aloud, ignoring her maid's distress. Two months, or possibly years, were far too long. Between the bow and the crossbow, she preferred the latter for her inherent skill in it. "Because, Miriam, hunting can be a pastime for a lady," she finally replied, a sly smile playing on her lips.

They continued walking, her eyes ever vigilant. The person she sought should be here... or at least passing through.

"Tell me, what do our shepherds use?" she asked, breaking the silence.

Crayton spoke up, his voice a touch deeper than his brother's. "Lady Seraphina, they use bows or slings. Most prefer slings because they're easy to make—just a long bit of rawhide or twisted wool. Some of the lads make fancy braided ones. They're basically free compared to bows, and you don't need expensive arrows—just some bits of stone, and stones are everywhere."

Seraphina stopped abruptly, turning to face him. Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Why, Crayton, I could kiss you!" she exclaimed, her smile radiant. Crayton's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and his brother shot him a sharp, warning glance.

A sling would be perfect—small, easy to carry, with ammunition readily available everywhere. With her exceptional Strength, the power of the sling would be magnified significantly. She had the Strength; now she just needed to acquire the skill—or Skill, as it were.

"You will procure a sling for me, along with some ammunition. I wish to begin practicing tomorrow. You will teach me after our session with Kellan," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. The joy on Crayton's face was unmistakable as he basked in the glow of her charm, feeling the full force of her Charisma working on him.

Giles's expression darkened momentarily, jealousy flickering in his eyes at the honor bestowed upon his brother. Then realization dawned as he recalled she had mentioned "our" practice with Kellan.

"By 'our' practice, milady..." he began cautiously, hoping that his fears were unfounded.

"Eloise and myself, of course," she confirmed, her gaze steady.

He exhaled softly, relief washing over him. The last thing he wanted was to endure another grueling session with Kellan. After their humiliating defeat at the hands of the two girls, the Armsmaster had been relentless in his criticism and instruction, pushing them to their limits.

Suddenly, Seraphina's eyes narrowed. "Get that boy!" she shouted, her voice slicing through the ambient noise as she pointed with a finger.

All eyes turned to see a long-haired, dirty street urchin snatching an apple from an unsuspecting merchant's stall. The boy was a mere shadow in the crowd, his sharp, gaunt face framed by unkempt hair matted with dirt. Hollow cheeks and a feral glare gave him the appearance of a cornered animal. But most striking were his red eyes—they glinted with a savage cunning, a stark contrast against his grimy, olive-dark skin.

Clad in tattered rags that hung loosely from his frail frame, he was the embodiment of desperation. His clothes, if they could be called that, were patched and worn from rough use and the influence of the elements.

Clutching his stolen prize, the boy darted away with astonishing agility, weaving through the throng on bare, calloused feet. The crowd parted around him like water, barely registering his passage.

For a split second, Seraphina's entourage exchanged glances. An unspoken agreement passed between them. Frest elected to stay by her side, while the two brothers sprang into action, the clatter of their armor and weapons echoing as they pursued the fleeing thief.

*****

Seraphina stood with her arms crossed, her placid expression belying the impatience simmering beneath the surface. She tapped her foot lightly on the smooth well-worn stones of the square.

"Just out of curiosity… nothing serious, mind—why do you want to catch a street urchin like that?" Frest asked, rubbing the back of his helmet with a gloved hand.

She shot him a sharp glance, irritation flickering in her eyes at his questioning. The red-eyed boy was crucial—he was going to become an important character in the later stages of the game after the time skip. More importantly, he would be a great ally and supporter of the protagonist, because she had taken pity on him: Este Lize the Deliverer, the Savior of the Silver. He loved her even for that act of mercy.

Removing him from the silver witch's clutches would secure her own access to great source of violence on call and lessen the threat Este Lize would pose. But what would Frest know of that? Still, since he was privy to her more clandestine sins, she decided to enlighten him. Sometimes, genius needs an audience.

"That boy is important—not for what he is now, but for what he will become. You must never speak of this to him, lest it affect his path. He will grow to be one of the greatest swordsmen Aranthia has ever known. A child born out of wedlock between a Hazagadami woman and an Aranthian merchant, he has been abandoned. The bastard's future lies on the warrior's path," she explained to her protector and subject.

"How do you know... Oh, yes, forgot about that, sorry," he began, then corrected himself, waving his hands and making exaggerated mock—mystical sounds.

One day, I'll fix that insouciant attitude of his, Seraphina swore to herself.

"You must still be new to our service, Sergeant Frest," the blonde girl commented coolly. "Most of the men know of my mother's gift of the Sight."

He nodded his head, but was still unconvinced. "I heard the men in the barracks and all that. And I guess I saw what you did to that old man..."

"Not so loud, Frest," she warned through gritted teeth, her smile tightening. "We're in the middle of a public square."

"Sorry about that, milady. Of course. But I'm just saying, if she could see the future and all, she could be the best gambler in all the land..." he suggested.

"She married my father, did she not? A blessed life of comfort with the second most powerful man, next only to the king himself—if that is not gambling and putting your money on a winning horse, then I don't know what is," she replied with a sigh.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before speaking. "It's not that... What I'm trying to say is, that's not quite predicting the future, is it? I mean, it could be that your mother, Lady Anaselena, is just really good at discerning things. Figuring things out. And that whole thing we did in the woods could just be that you've got very good informants and spies. Goddess knows, we always had tips about caravans and merchant trains back in the day."

"You will have to trust me on this—she can see the future. Though it has its limits," she said testily. It was a dangerous game she played, especially if she misjudged the extent of her mother's abilities.

"I heard the future is like a stream... or branches of a tree. Some branches are thicker and stronger, more likely to happen," opined Miriam wistfully, an uncharacteristic insightfulness coloring her words. "Lady Seraphina," she added, realizing she had momentarily forgotten the honorific.

When did monsters ever have time to think about such things? Then again, why was Miriam mingling in human society, masquerading as a servant? It was odd, to say the least.

"Thank you, Miriam. That is actually quite correct. My mother can see the most likely futures. By the way, did you remember to register with the Town Hall about you being the new owner of the Crossed Crows? It was a devil to get my father's signet, you know."

Seraphina had 'borrowed' the ring from her father at dinner one evening, pressing it into a soft potato of all things before returning it to him. Later, she had Frest make a simple copy with heated lead and potter's clay.

"I got it registered," Miriam squeaked. "And... I'll get it cleaned up as soon as I can and find a tenant for the place!" the maid promised.

"Well done!" Seraphina praised her with a thin-lipped smile. "You are now a propertied woman. Were I a gambling sort, I would have wagered you will have suitors lining up outside your door any time soon."

Gambling. The word niggled at the back of Seraphina's mind, planting the seeds of a hazy idea. Gambling.

"Yes, Lady Seraphina," the maid agreed automatically, blushing.

"Now then! Where are those two? Really, how long can it take to catch a single boy?" Seraphina wondered aloud, nearly stomping her foot like a petulant child, but catching herself at the last moment.

That was the problem with being in a fifteen-year-old's body—her hormones were all over the place, and Seraphina found it difficult to keep her self-control at times. It was almost infuriating.

She waited another ten minutes before the defeated-looking, out-of-breath pair of brothers returned.

"Forgive us, milady..." Crayton wheezed. "The scamp got away. We couldn't catch him. Giles almost had him, but that one's as slippery as an eel. Lost him at Butcher's Row... don't think he could've gone far."

"Yeah, I reckon he's a daring one, so he’ll be back. He dropped his apple too," added his brother Giles, biting into the red, only partially bruised fruit.

This display of unhygienic behavior caused both Seraphina and her maid to wince. The maid’s reaction was quite surprising, for Seraphina thought the Palisa Slug was capable of eating much worse.

"Sergeant Frest!" Seraphina called out in her best impression of Kellan's authoritative voice.

The man snapped to attention instantly, his fist smacking against his breastplate.

"We are not all bandits here. These men are your responsibility. You have had an increase in your stipend now that you're a Sergeant—pay that merchant for the apple," she commanded.

"Right you are, milady," he accepted, giving Giles a look that could wilt flowers. The larger man almost shrank under the harsh gaze.

"So, Lady Seraphina, would you like us to get the town guard together to catch that rat?" asked Crayton, trying to win her favor by showing some initiative.

She smiled at him, and he felt as if dawn had risen a second time. "That won't be necessary. I have another idea."

Chapter 20 - Siren’s Song

Our enemies are the whetstone upon which we hone our bodies and minds. Ever striving to reach perfection, until all that is left is only that which is required.

- The Living Sword by Fen Vaigorus circa 520 AC.

It was a failure—but a failure Seraphina had anticipated. She was long accustomed to wielding secrets and men as a soldier might wield a sword and a shield. If the first strike fell short, there was always a contingency.

Her eyes flicked across the bustling square, finally landing on what she had been searching for: The Hart’s Heart, a tavern crouched on the east side, its grim sign swaying gently in the breeze. A painted deer, a crimson heart dripping against its chest, stared back at her. Terrible name, she thought with disdain. The current owner clearly lacked any semblance of taste. But, regardless of its macabre branding, the tavern was already alive with patrons, despite the early hour.

Inside, she was going to find someone she did not necessarily need per se, but who was still a figure that could prove very useful for what she had planned next.

“Frest, go into The Hart and find the Bard within. Bring him to me,” she ordered the once-upon-a-time bandit.

“Err… right you are, milady,” he replied, flashing an incorrigible grin. “You wouldn’t happen to know what he looks like? On account of having seen him with your—”

“Are you testing me, Frest?” she snapped, cutting him off. “Bring me the bard this instant. The musician! Threaten to break his lute, mandolin, or whatever he plays if you have to. Or offer him some silver—but get him in front of me this instant!”

Her voice rose, sharp with irritation. Everyone was trying her patience these days.

The rest of her entourage wisely avoided meeting her gaze, their eyes fixed on anything but Frest. He scrambled to obey, hurrying toward the tavern. The minutes dragged painfully as they waited, their mistress fuming in silence as the people flowed around them. No one dared speak.

It wasn’t long before Frest returned, dragging a man clad in green traveling clothes. The Bard clutched a stringed instrument to his chest as if it were a newborn child.

Frest all but shoved the man to his knees on the stone floor of the square, drawing only a few glances from passerbys. Justice in the de Sariens lands was a fair thing, but a brutal one. 

Before Seraphina knelt a man who, for all his bedraggled state, retained an unusual elegance. Barely taller than the blonde girl, he was slim and effete, his shocking orange hair tied back into a loose ponytail. A smattering of freckles dotted his nose and cheeks, softening his sharp features. He was strikingly pretty, almost delicate—easy on the eyes in a way that would make him memorable.

But it was not his appearance that commanded Seraphina’s attention. It was the instrument cradled in his arms.

The lute-like creation looked otherworldly. Intricate whorls and flowing patterns decorated its body, as though painted by the hand of the Fae. Entwined vines and creatures from seas and forests coiled around the rose of the instrument, the designs seamlessly climbing up its polished neck. For a moment, she almost believed it to be enchanted.

“Haze Finleigh,” Seraphina addressed him, her tone deceptively warm, but laced with unmistakable authority.

The bard’s wide, brown eyes locked on hers. He looked utterly stupefied, his mouth slightly agape, as if words had abandoned him at the sight of her. Silence stretched, heavy and awkward.

“You will answer the Lady de Sariens when she speaks to you, cur!” snapped Milly, her voice venomous.

The outburst startled even Seraphina, who arched an eyebrow at her maid’s uncharacteristic vehemence. “Thank you, Milly. That will be all,” she said, her voice pleasant but clipped. “I imagine Master Finleigh is understandably... surprised by his current situation.”

Mili bristled at the reprimand, her cheeks coloring as she withdrew a half-step. She simmered quietly beside her mistress, though Seraphina could not help but note the fire in her maid’s glare. What was that about? The thought flickered briefly before Seraphina dismissed it as unimportant.

“Yes, milady de Sariens!” Haze squeaked suddenly, his voice a countertenor so high and clear it startled her entourage. It was an unexpectedly feminine sound, oddly suiting his delicate appearance.

Seraphina allowed herself a faint smile. The Bard had found his voice at last—and she intended to make good use of it.

The young noblewoman regarded him intently, her piercing gaze sweeping over every inch of him. Haze Finleigh shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, feeling as if her eyes could peel away his layers to uncover every secret he was carrying.

Master Finleigh was a bard of the Bardic College of Quas—a wandering minstrel, a poet, and, by some accounts, a rogue. Like many Bards, he sought to rise through the ranks by crafting his Master’s Piece, a song so profound it was going to cement his legacy. Unlike with others of his ilk, however, Haze’s reputation was unusually clean. He was not prone to the wandering hands or the lecherous behavior often attributed to traveling musicians, which set him apart in the taverns and inns he stayed at on his travels.

What most did not know, and what only Seraphina and perhaps his parents could claim knowledge of, was Haze’s secret. A small but pivotal detail that colored his existence. Seraphina privately commended herself for insisting the studio flesh out even minor characters. The final audience might never learn such intricacies, but she knew them, and that knowledge gave her the upper hand.

Not that his secret mattered here. It had no bearing on his skill, and that skill was what she needed.

She turned to Miriam. “A silver,” she commanded, extending her hand.

Miriam, ever dutiful, fished a coin from her purse and handed it over. Seraphina’s lips pursed slightly as she examined the clipped edges. It was theft, and the debasement of the currency annoyed her, a matter she resolved to address later.. But later was the key word.

For now, she placed both hands on her knees and leaned forward, locking eyes with the bard. His hazel gaze trembled under hers, trapped like a moth in a flame. Seraphina let her natural Charisma work its magic, then extended a delicate, perfectly manicured hand. She placed the coin in his palm, her touch feather-light yet commanding.

“A Song’s Silver,” she said sweetly.

Haze gulped. Being this close to her was like standing in the sun—blinding, overwhelming, and utterly inescapable.

“What would you have me play, my lady?” he asked, his voice mechanical, as though her hypnotic presence had bypassed his thoughts altogether.

“A song of the Hazagadami,” Seraphina replied, her tone soft but firm. “I will hum the tune, and you will learn to play the melody.” She leaned closer, her gaze holding his as if daring him to falter. “It is a song of loss and hope. You will play it with all your skill, with every ounce of your meager talents. You will pour your heart and soul into every note plucked upon those strings. Anything less, and…”

She let the threat dangle in the air, casting a quick glance at her men-at-arms. They loomed behind her, their silent presence menacing enough to need no words.

“Yes! Of course, milady!” Haze stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “Whatever you wish, I—”

“Good,” Seraphina interrupted smoothly. Her lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile.

Humming softly, she sang the tune to him. Haze’s brow furrowed in concentration as he listened, then repeated it back flawlessly after hearing it only once. His fingers moved over the strings instinctively, his talent as sharp and precise as the studio had promised it would be.

Once he had the melody down, he asked hesitantly, “Will there be lyrics to accompany the tune, milady?”

“You need not worry about that,” Seraphina replied, her voice accompanied by her most enigmatic smile.

She straightened, taking a moment to compose herself. This next part was something the original Seraphina had lacked talent in entirely.

It was time to sing.

*****

It was time to be loved, to cement her place among the people of the Sarien lands. Love alloyed with fear was one of the greatest foundations upon which to build power, and she knew precisely how to make the masses adore her.

The original Seraphina could never sing; her voice was flat and off-key. It was one of her few small flaws, and a reason why the men in her father's barracks loved her—it made her less of a goddess and more of a human. A small imperfection that added to her popularity instead of detracting from it.

The first note rang out; it was tentative, drawing only curious glances from passersby who wondered who this girl resembling the Duke's daughter was before they continued on their way.

This Seraphina, though, had sung before hundreds, before thousands upon thousands in her own world. She had been watched on a million screens in a billion homes. It had been the only way to capture the world's attention and ensure she was not simply brushed aside by a family that had denied her very existence.

In her voice, a rare talent honed to perfection by the very best the music industry could offer, there had always been a quiet message: Look at me. I am here. Look at nothing else but me. It had been a while since she had summoned such notes filled with passion and her will, but what was a quaint rural square compared to a stadium filled with half a city? The very world had once been her stage.

The girl had done it all as the first stepping stone to greatness. Hours of grueling practice, friendships, a sweet love—all sacrificed on the altar of her own glory.

Some skills can be forgotten through misuse or lack of practice. Others are latent, ingrained so deeply they become the very fabric of one's soul. The art of song was one such thing for Seraphina, and now, in a world where magic could bend reality itself, it held very real power.

Her Strength did not only enhance the muscles of her arms, but also did the same for the very muscles that controlled her vocal cords and diaphragm. Without any artificial amplification, she let loose another test note—one as clear as a cool mountain stream, but as loud as a fresh thunderstorm.

Hastily, the bard strummed his fingers across the strings of his instrument, crafting an accompaniment as she began the intro to a song of loss—a song of a people without a land to call their own, of the ones who bore the sins of the last Cataclysm.

It was a song that Este Lize's friend had taught her, a beautiful melody that the Saint of Silver would have made her own. A song of love, forgiveness, and redemption in the light of the Goddess. But here and now, Seraphina had stolen it from her. How could you steal what was never theirs in the first place, though? After all, it was her company, her staff, who had labored well into the long nights to compose the musical score for the game.

Este Lize had sung this song, and her words had reached out to the boy who would one day become the master of the sword. There was no reason that Seraphina could not do the very same.

This very world was hers. Had always been hers. Would always be hers.

Though the words of the song remained the same, it was infused with Seraphina's true nature—a manifestation of her inner Strength. A need to dominate, to revel in the struggle. It had become more than a trite holy hymn, but a song of life that gloried in defying fate and winning against all odds.

In each and every note was threaded a small aspect of the Covenant, the healing words that clashed in counterpoint to the demands of her song. For it was now her song; none could deny it.

Even as the intro had yet to finish, people stopped their business, drawn to the girl in the simple brown dress who sang as if she were an angel of judgment. On some fundamental level, the gathering crowd knew that something significant was happening here—that here and now was a crux, a turning point of fate.

Like moths, they were drawn to her golden flame, murmuring their appreciation before being silenced by the weight of the moment. Those closest to the magic of the song, those who could gaze directly at the descended angel, broke into great displays of emotion. Those further back found their eyes growing misty with unshed tears.

The very nature of the Holy was one of Judgment. But before there could be Judgment, there had to be remembrance.

A whore entwined with a customer, pushed him away, clamoring to the window of her dimly lit room where she plied her trade. Opening the shutters, bare-breasted and uncaring, she just wanted to hear more of the song. She cried, for it was a song of her childhood. The world had been a simpler place, and she had once held simple yet grand dreams. Tears fell down her face even as the man’s spent seed trickled down her inner thigh while he shouted at her.

An old soldier-turned-baker remembered the bitter times of that campaign where he had turned tail and run, leaving his companions to die in the mud and grit of a forgotten field. He had won a medal for simply surviving. It was a decision he could never forget, one that kept haunting him for many years. The notes of the song promised forgiveness, and he stopped in his tracks. The baker dropped his basket laden with bread, uncaring of the loaves spilling across the stones.

For her entourage and the bard, they appeared to be in the throes of something akin to revelation. They looked at her as if she were the Goddess made flesh. The bard, as if possessed by the very muse of Music itself, feverishly played to accompany the Divine notes and words. Every note he delivered now would be remembered for as long as each man or woman in that square drew breath and lived.

He knew in these few moments that the name of Haze Finleigh would step into legend.

The song was overkill, and very much like the Lady Seraphina. It was an embodiment of her nature. She had launched an explosive bomb from on high against an anthill when a good kick would have sufficed. It was a definitive strike against one specific target she was not bothered to go to the trouble of searching for or chasing after. 

It was a trap built from love and a young boy's memories.

Against his will, the boy-thief was summoned to the source of the beautiful song and made his way back to the market square. His hunger forgotten and hot tears streaming down his face, he rushed as fast as his little legs could carry him. He pushed through the resisting crowd, scrambling through legs that kicked at him. He did not care. He would endure any pain to reach that song. The song was all that mattered.

His mother was singing to him.

Somehow, he made his way to the front of the crowd. His eyes saw what they wanted to see, believing the lies his ears were telling him.

His mother, without stopping her song, reached out and grabbed him. He tried to throw himself into her arms, but she held him firm and at a distance, crinkling her nose at him and looking as if he were a stray dog.

The last thing he remembered before a cudgel struck him across the head, knocking him unconscious, was that his mother's eyes never looked like that—and his mother's eyes were not that shade of cruel, callous emerald. He was sure they had been red like his.

Chapter 21 - Breaking In

Under intense scrutiny, some things become vague and indistinct, while others take on a perfect crystal clarity.

- The Human Question, by Gideon de Salavia 378 A.C.

Unleashing the song had unintended consequences—chiefly, they hindered her return journey. Once the group slipped into an alley, Seraphina ordered the three men at her command to hold back the crowd. As for the Bard, they had lost him somewhere in the press of the throng.

The chasing masses stalled, the path was now clear, and with her exceptional Strength came remarkable speed. Even burdened by the unconscious boy slung over her shoulder, she managed a brisk sprint back to the castle.

She smiled, remembering the gain in Charisma her little performance had earned her. The word would inevitably spread that the Duke's daughter had sung for the masses, for the people of Sariens. The thought brought a smirk to her lips—or, perhaps, just a girl who looked like her, she mused to herself. 

As the castle came within throwing distance, she glanced at the boy and realized he was quite a bit worse for wear. Perhaps she had bumped him against a few narrow alley walls in her haste. Honestly, though, Seraphina couldn't recall boys being so fragile. Was this a sign of the younger generation growing softer? She shrugged delicately at the thought.

She was not a medical expert, but surely knees weren’t supposed to bend like that. Not to mention that he was bleeding slightly over her dress.

More intent on concealing her recent blunder than acting out of genuine compassion, Seraphina cast Heal on the boy. The Song of the Covenant surged through him, straightening the twisted limbs and erasing the bruises as if they'd never existed. A truly marvelous convenience, she thought.

Avoiding the main gate and the inevitable questions from the guards, she headed instead for the servants' entrance. Her parents were going to learn of her actions soon enough, but, perhaps, this route would earn her some sympathy and understanding from the staff.

Decision made, she walked confidently toward the entrance as quickly as she could—only to be halted mere yards away from safety.

"What have you got there, Lady Seraphina?" demanded a matronly servant, one who was nearly as wide as she was tall. Suspicion edged her voice; she was well acquainted with the young lady's penchant for mischief.

Catherina had served the de Sariens for years, overseeing those tasked with the castle's drudgery—laundry, cleaning, and other menial tasks. A mother of eight, she embodied the term "matron" in every sense, her gruff exterior barely masking a wellspring of care.

Seraphina met her stern gaze. "This one will be staying with us," she declared, authority ringing in her tone. "See that he is fed, cleaned, and bathed..."

As if on cue, the boy stirred, his eyes blinking open in bleary confusion.

"Now, Lady Seraphina, we've had this discussion before. You can't just pick people up off the streets to be your friends," chided Catherina, tsking.

"This boy is an orphan. I am taking him in out of charity. See to it that he makes himself useful," Seraphina commanded.

"Yes, milady. I don't have a heart of brass, and we have room for charity. But can't you see his eyes, Lady Seraphina? The devil's in him and his people. We simply can't be taking him in..." the matronly woman protested. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Time to attempt a bluff. "But my mother already knows of this. She would have stopped me by now, wouldn't she, Catherina?" Seraphina lied smoothly, pressing on before the woman could respond. "This is nothing more than noblesse oblige. We should not judge a person by the color of their eyes but…” she paused for a moment. “...but by the content of their character, right? We should be generous in our charity. I have decided to have a page."

"I know, Lady Seraphina, that the Goddess wishes for mercy when possible. But this... I really can't say, milady," Catherina continued, her concern evident as her brow furrowed in worry.

"I understand you are busy, Catherina, but this is something I want—something that needs to be done. It may take some time to tame him, but tame him we shall. You have experience with boys his age, and Milly can assist as well. We must do our part in the light of the Goddess," the young noblewoman insisted with a firm smile.

"Just for now, I suppose," Catherina relented grudgingly. She could deny the golden girl she had half-raised nothing. Rumors whispered through the castle that Seraphina was special, after all. "But only until I confirm it with the Duchess Anaselena..." she added with a final grumble, still clearly disconcerted.

"Of course, but my mother will be persuaded—or, perhaps, she already knows," Seraphina replied with a sigh. The boy was struggling now, making incoherent sounds in her grasp. She gave him a light tap on the head, which quieted him. Catherina flinched slightly at the display of casual violence.

"I'll leave him in your care. Give the boy a meal and a set of new clothes, at least. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my chambers. Today has been most trying!" she declared, foisting the restless lad over to the woman. "It's very important that you feed him. He's all skin and bones."

At the mention of food, the boy's struggles subsided, his interest visibly piqued. Inwardly, Seraphina smirked. People were easy to sway once you found the right levers to pull.

"There will be food, and regular meals at that. Do not try to run away, or I will find you, and I will be very cross with you. You don't want that, do you understand?" Seraphina said slowly, looking him dead square in the eyes. Though she smiled sweetly, there was an unmistakable authority infusing her voice.

Temporarily subdued, the boy could only nod as he felt the full force of her Charisma.

With that, Seraphina de Sariens turned away and headed to her rooms, confident that she had secured a new and useful pawn. It was a shame that he was still so young, as she needed as much power as possible now!

*****

Seraphina had barely begun to shed her stained garments when a sharp, insistent knock echoed through her chamber, followed by a tentative voice.

"Milady Seraphina?" Miriam's voice wavered from the other side of the door. "There's... there's been a bit of a problem..."

Of course there was a problem. There was always a problem. The important thing was, what was it this time? Why did they never start with that? Seraphina thought, irritation flaring as she let out a sharp sigh.

"What is it now?" she replied, her tone edged with exasperation.

"It's the boy you picked up... He's making a scene. Cathy says she needs you..." Miriam said hesitantly.

"I'll be there in a moment," Seraphina replied, throwing a cream and peach-pink shawl over her shoulders.

With another long sigh, she opened her chamber door to find Miriam waiting anxiously in the corridor, tugging nervously at one of her braids.

"Well then, let's deal with this problem. Honestly, Catherina should have enough experience to handle an eleven-year-old boy..." the young noblewoman complained.

Seraphina's stomach rumbled audibly; in the whirlwind of her responsibilities, she had neglected even the most basic needs. She was slipping back into the relentless habits of her old world. "Perhaps I can grab something from the kitchens on the way..." she murmured, half to herself, half to the empty corridor.

With Miriam leading on, they walked swiftly through the castle's labyrinthine corridors. The late afternoon sun was slanting through stained-glass windows, casting fractured rainbows on the stone floors. The walls were lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors and landscapes of distant, unknown lands. One painting arrested her attention: a fearsome battle where her father, Anatoli, stood at the forefront, fighting valiantly for King Elidion.

The artist had captured the raw ferocity of her father, she admitted grudgingly. He was depicted as a towering figure, cutting down foes by the score with his near-legendary weapon—a massive slab of metal forged into a crude, heavy blade nearly as tall as she was. They said it was a Titan's knife unearthed from the ruins of their lost civilization. Her father, a man of simple tastes, had unimaginatively named it "the Titan’s Knife" in a positively outrageous burst of originality. Now, in these peaceful times, it likely lay dormant in some vault beneath the castle, collecting dust.

They continued, passing through the bustling kitchens. The rich aroma of spices and baking bread enveloped them. Seraphina paused and asked Gastoc, the head cook, for a piece of fruit to tide her over until dinner. 

An old soldier from one of her father's campaigns, Gastoc had traded his old battlefield for a new one. Now, the kitchen was his warzone, and managing meals for an entire castle was a daily battle of its own. He was a boisterous, towering man—surprisingly muscular and well-built, not gone soft like many in his profession. His eyes twinkled with mischief above a well-trimmed brown beard. Seraphina's image of cooks as jolly, rotund men was starkly at odds with the formidable figure before her.

The grizzled man, ever doting, couldn't resist. "A piece of fruit, milady? Nonsense. Here, try this," he said, pressing a warm slice of fruit pie into her hands. "One of my latest creations. Let me know what you think."

Hunger temporarily assuaged, they headed to the servants' baths to see what trouble her latest charge was causing.

As she stepped into the steamy baths, heated by the glow of imported Zajasite crystals and Fire Cores, the cacophony hit her like a wave. The boy's screams were echoing off the tiled walls as he desperately fought off the matron, Catherina. From a distance, it seemed as though the stout woman was attacking a helpless, naked child with a pair of gleaming shears.

Seraphina sighed to herself. Of course, she had forgotten this small detail.

"Ibn!" she called sharply, the name slicing through the chaos. The boy froze, eyes wide. It was a name he had not heard since his mother had left him. How did this strange woman, whose voice echoed with the same timbre as his mother's lullabies, know his name? A flicker of hope ignited—was his mother’s spirit reaching out to him?

"Why, milady! I was just trying to cut his hair—a right old mess it is too—when he went all wild! Well, wilder at least!" the matron complained, her cheeks red and puffing.

Ibn had a deep, intrinsic fear of blades. The weapons that had taken his parents' lives were forever etched into his memory, a source of trauma. Ironic, then, that he would grow up to master what he despised. Ironic, and in Seraphina's opinion, rather pathetic.

Now, how did Este Lize deal with this? What trite, saccharine, and overly emotional thing did she do again? Remembering, Seraphina almost gagged inwardly. That was much too much for her, but she needed to do something—a gesture of sacrifice that would bind the boy in chains of guilt as strong as any trap. She needed to show him that there was nothing to fear, and shame him too, and make him indebted to her for showing him the way.

"The scissors, if you please, Catherina," Seraphina ordered, holding out her hand to the tubby woman. Miriam continued staring at the boy as if he were a dangerous animal.

The portly woman handed her the shears, muttering something about naughty boys. What happened next surprised everyone.

Without hesitation, Seraphina raised the shears to her own head. The sharp blades bit into her golden locks, and she felt a strange liberation as the tresses fell around her like shimmering strands of sunlit silk. However, each snip that echoed in the hushed bathhouse still made her wince just ever so slightly. 

The boy watched, mouth agape, as she transformed her cascading hair into a rough, practical bob. She knew she would face an onslaught from Eloise later, but in this moment, she did not care. In a world devoid of modern comforts like a hairdryer, practicality outweighed vanity.

Both the maid and the matron gasped in unison.

"Lady Seraphina!" Miriam cried out.

"Little Sera!" the matron all but wailed.

Ignoring them, she fixed the boy with a piercing gaze. "I do this for you," she declared, her voice steady. "See? These are not to be feared. Shame on you for your cowardice. The only way to conquer fear is to face it head-on. Remember this, and never forget." Her eyes bore into his. "You are a boy—start acting like one," she snapped.

She noticed with satisfaction a flush of shame coloring his cheeks. Este Lize had employed a more gentle touch in the story, but Seraphina had neither the time nor the inclination for such roundabout methods. Shame, guilt, and obligation would bind him to her.

Seizing the moment, she grasped his head firmly. Before he could react, she began cutting his hair with swift, decisive strokes as if he were a sheep. The shears snipped rhythmically, echoing his subdued sniffles. Dark, matted strands fell away, revealing the contours of his face. He stood there, tears falling down his face, too shocked to resist.

“Oh, will you not stop crying!” complained the young noblewoman. Really now, the lad should be grateful that she had personally come down to see to this.

Despite the rough treatment, he uttered not a single word, almost as if he were mute.