Dinner sat untouched on the tray. A feast for a ghost—and I guess that's what I was now. A ghost haunting the body of Isha Sapiros.
Roasted duck, glazed carrots, fluffy mashed potatoes with a dab of gold-butter—Anna had really tried. But the smell only made the pit in my stomach heavier.
I sat cross-legged on the chair, the chandelier's flickering crystals casting wobbly shadows on the ceiling like tiny nooses. I wasn't ready to be anyone yet. Not noble, not villain, not reformer. I was a six-year-old existential crisis in a lacy nightgown.
Sleep didn't come easy. When it did, it was filled with jagged fragments— scripted scenes from Isha's future.
Morning, or something like it. A sunbeam tried poking me in the eye like an overly eager sibling. I blinked blearily and groaned.
And then remembered.
I had a plan.
One I was going to scream in the face of fate.
Anna entered again, nervous, as if I might bite. To be fair, I might. "Miss Isha, would you like to take breakfast in the hall today?"
I paused. The servants had obviously gossiped. The noble brat throwing tantrums, whispering to herself.
"No. In my room. Again."
Anna hesitated. Then bowed. "As you wish."
This caused ripples, of course. Apparently, refusing the grand breakfast table for a day straight was equivalent to plotting a rebellion.So,I was summoned to the Count's study right after breakfast.
He looked at me like I was an unfinished painting. "Why the change in dining routine?"
I kept my hands folded and my voice steady. "To better focus on learning, sir. Also... I haven't quite mastered table manners yet. It's distracting."
He stared for a beat longer than was polite. Then nodded. "Fine. Carry on."
Maybe he bought it. Or maybe he just didn't want to see me three times a day. Honestly, win-win.
Still, that whole encounter was heavy, and I needed to breathe. So I took a stroll out to the gardens, and somehow—don't ask me how—I ended up in the library.
The library was a Renaissance dream. Two stories of carved dark oak shelves, glass dome ceilings that kissed the sky, and velvet cushions by the windows. Dust floated like magic in the sunbeams. It was quiet, and it was perfect.
That's when I saw him—Elric.
He was about four, maybe five, sitting on a tiny chair that fit him too well. His ash-brown hair flopped into his eyes, which were deep in the book he held like it was holy scripture.
I did not want to distrub him, i went on my treasure hunt.
Even though official academy prep didn't start until six, the noble kids got shoved into boot camp the moment they could hold a spoon. Gotta make sure the commoners didn't outrun the silver-spoon crowd, right?
Lady Virela, my dear stepmother, never bothered with that for Isha. And old-Isha? She never asked.
But I wasn't her.
I went hunting for something easy. Maybe a book called "Learning for Dummies: Noble Edition." Instead, I spotted a faded title: The Legend of the Black-Haired Girl. I paused. Intrigued. So naturally, I grabbed it.
"You're reading that?" came a small voice.
Elric.
He had wandered over with another book clutched in his arms, looking at me like I had three heads.
"That story's for scaring kids," he said. "No real noble reads that."
His voice was sharp, but his eyes were heavy—like he was already tired of carrying everyone's expectations.
I smiled. "Sometimes fiction holds more truth than reality."
He blinked. Once. Then made a face like he'd tasted a lemon and wandered off.
Okay, not a fan. Noted.
I called over a maid and politely requested beginner-level books be sent to my room. No way I was letting a judgmental preschooler throw off my study game.
Later, I ran into Seren, my stepsister in the garden on my way back.
"Why do you wear such boring dresses?" she asked, planting herself like a queen on a tree stump.
"Because jumping off roofs isn't allowed," I said.
She tilted her head. "I want to be a knight. But Mama says girls shouldn't shout or climb trees."
I hummed. "So? Are you going to live your whole life tiptoeing around your own feet?"
She paused.
"You should learn swordplay," I said. "Even if you never fight. It'll remind you you're strong."
She lit up like a lantern. "Will you learn too?"
"Yeah," I said. "Why not?"
After that day,Seren began dragging me into her treehouse missions, and Elric started sliding books across the table sometimes when I went to library.
The mockery hadn't stopped. Not entirely.
"Why does she speak like she's older than Papa?"
"Maybe she's cursed and thinks she's a witch."
But my answers came quicker now.
"Maybe I am a witch," I said once. "But the clever kind. The ones who win wars without a single spell."
They didn't quite know what to do with that.
Neither did I.
Winter came like a passive-aggressive aunt—uninvited and cold.
Then the moment came.
The Count summoned me again. This time, the big decision.
Homeschooling. Or the Academy.
"I choose the academy," I said before he finished the sentence.
And just like that, Isha's path shifted.
No one said goodbye.
But Seren sneaked in to give me a stolen pastry.
Elric slipped a note in my book that said, "Don't let them change you too much."
And Anna folded my nightgown and whispered, "Miss, try not to burn the place down."
I gave her a grin. "No promises."
The Academy was just like old-school : math, logic, history, debate, philosophy. You passed when you turned twenty—if you could. The dorms were comfy but no one tucked you in. You got freedom, but only if you earned it.
I wasn't the best. I wasn't a prodigy.
Swordplay? Passable. I didn't impale anyone. Mostly.
Debate? Strong opinions, wobbly delivery.
Cooking? Disaster. I once set fire to soup. Soup.
But I made friends—some nobles with actual hearts, some commoners who never even got named in the book. I became friendly with professors. I helped out in the library. I slowly, stubbornly carved a space.
By eighteen, I was a jack of all trades. A master of none. But somehow, better than most people who only knew how to swing one sword.
And yet…
It wasn't enough. Atleast not enough to survive in the outside world.
But my name still cursed me. I had no guardian. No guarantee of anything. And the plot—that damned plot—still lingered, waiting to crush me.
A quiet afternoon in the library. I was poking around old ledgers, avoiding homework, when I found it.
A book. Buried behind cobwebs and guilt.
It spoke of Amelia.
The girl from the legend.
It said she wasn't dead. Not exactly. She was caged. Locked away in the Eastern Hills. The Church hadn't destroyed her because they couldn't. Her power was ancient. Immovable.
And something in me snapped.
Not in a bad way. In a plot-twist-is-coming way.
I stood there, dusty book in hand, heart thudding like a drum solo.
A plan sparked in my chest. Wild. Dangerous. Probably stupid.
But definitely mine.
I grinned.
"Alright, fate," I whispered, "let's dance."
Let the plot come.
I was ready to punch it in the face.