No one told me I was supposed to prep the carriage.
So I scrambled like a stray dog—hunting down a coachman who, naturally, was nowhere to be found, probably drunk or napping under a tree. Everyone else in the camp moved with calm efficiency. Regina? She waited all of two minutes before declaring:
"We'll go on foot."
And just like that, I was marching beside a walking contradiction—a small noble girl with wild artist's hands and a darkness that buzzed behind her bright heterochromatic eyes like a wasp trapped in a music box.
---
The walk was... surreal.
The town was alive, bursting with sounds and smells that pressed against my senses like warm hands.
Blacksmiths pounded steel. Bakers flung open shutters and hollered fresh bread to the rising sun. Street hawkers sang prices like off-key birds. The morning was young—just shy of 9—and I could still smell cinnamon and sweat in the air.
Regina looked around with a quiet fascination, her head tilting slightly whenever a butterfly danced past. She didn't speak. She didn't smile. But she was... present. Observing. Logging.
We stopped in front of a large wooden building—half-inn, half-restaurant. She gave me a look like I was a puppy she forgot to feed.
"We'll eat here."
---
Inside, the room went still.
The moment we walked through the doors, conversation died like someone had snuffed out a lantern. Eyes slid to Regina. Their whispers followed her like shadows: "Witch spawn," "heretic's daughter," "curse walker."
She ignored them.
We reached the counter—a monster of a structure. Too tall for her to see over. Barely manageable for me, and I had the advantage of thick-heeled boots.
Still, she didn't flinch.
"Lamb soup. Grilled chicken. Bread," she said. "Make that two," she added, like an afterthought, like deciding to feed the cat because it meowed.
The woman at the counter—a strong, soft-eyed redhead—gave her a smile tinged with sympathy and slid the order along.
Regina paid with her own pouch.
"This is personal money. I sell things sometimes," she said, not looking up from her soup.
She'd sold the painting. The one of the raven and forest. It hadn't been in her room this morning.
Of course she sold it.
---
After the meal, we stopped at an old vintage art shop. An ancient man with a stone face handed her a new set of pencils, brushes, and parchment. She thanked him in a tone that felt rehearsed.
As we walked back—taking a quieter, more secluded alley—the air grew tight.
And then—
"Die, devil! In the Goddess' name!"
A man in a ragged cloak leapt from the shadows, dagger glinting.
But even before I could react—
My body moved.
Not on its own. Not from instinct.
I felt it—a pull.
Like my mind had been pushed gently to the side. My arms moved because someone else had moved them.
And in my left hand, as if passed from another body—
A dagger. Regina's dagger.
She had slipped it into my grasp, her hand moving like it was handing something across her own body. She didn't hesitate. Didn't blink. Didn't even seem surprised.
She had expected this.
Dark tendrils coiled faintly from her fingertips—Darkness Affinity. She didn't yell or bark orders. She just willed me forward like a conductor lifting a baton.
I lunged.
The attacker's blade still caught me—a gash across the forearm—but my movement was efficient, precise, alien.
I stabbed him. Once. Clean. Through the ribs.
His eyes widened. Blood spilled from his lips. He collapsed without a scream.
My body staggered back into my own control as Regina approached, plucked the dagger from my shaking hand, and poured a healing potion over my arm like she was watering a plant.
Then she turned, and we kept walking.
Just like that.
---
Ten steps later, she spoke, almost dreamily:
"I like you, Poochie."
She tapped her lips with one finger, thoughtful.
"You need a name. Can't just call you 'maid' forever. Hmm…"
I said nothing. I couldn't. The shock still gripped me like frostbite.
"Luna," she said, brightening like she'd just solved a riddle. "Yes. You're Luna now."
She smiled, not at me, but to herself.
And like that, I became hers.
---
Luna's Thoughts
The System remained silent.
No alerts. No battle log. No skill gained.
Not even a damn "Congratulations."
And that fight? That control? That kind of execution—
It wasn't just fantasy.
It was military. Methodical. Taught.
Like something from my old world. Like someone had trained this world's knights using Earth-based military doctrine.
Those morning drills, the posture calls, the squad formations—it all felt too familiar.
This place had fingerprints on it.
And I wasn't the first to leave mine.