Elric Thornvale was many things—dignified, intelligent, precise. But he was not, by any means, a man who believed in fantasy tales.
So when Seraphine Evandale—the Duchess of Vaelthorne and his lifelong ward—suddenly declared she had reincarnated from another world after falling off something called a "skateboard," he simply assumed she had suffered a severe mental shock.
Still, he couldn't deny it.
She was different.
The woman who now sat at the long breakfast table was loud, yes—but gentler. Lighter. Her laughter didn't carry that same weight, that sharpness hidden behind elegance. Her red eyes didn't narrow in judgment—they widened in curiosity. Her fork didn't rest in perfect angle beside her plate. It stabbed a sausage with glee.
"What is this?" she asked, chewing. "Meat? Real meat? Dude, I thought they only served soup here or leaves in a bowl. This slaps."
"Slaps?" Elric echoed.
She waved her hand. "Means good. In my world. Don't worry, you'll pick up the slang."
Elric narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. He had seen Seraphine perfectly imitate sixteen dialects just to mess with foreign nobles, but this… wasn't that.
This girl didn't know how to act noble. She wasn't acting at all.
And it unnerved him.
He brought his cup to his lips, but his mind wasn't on tea. A memory bubbled to the surface—one he had buried deep.
Blood.
His own hands, shaking.
A mirror shattered.
Seraphine's face—her lips trembling in a twisted grin, her red eyes wild, glassy. Her voice sharp like glass: "You will never leave me, Elric."
His hand slipped slightly on the teacup.
"Hey, Elric," Lissa said suddenly, pulling him back to the present. "You okay? You spaced out."
He gave her a forced smile. "I'm fine, Your Grace."
"Still with the 'Your Grace'? Can we not? Just call me Lissa. Or Seraphine if you have to. Or 'Your Chaos.' I'll respond to all of them."
Elric didn't reply.
Later that day, Lissa walked the halls of the grand estate, taking everything in with new eyes. The tapestries were lush, the vases looked older than her great-grandma's soul, and even the air smelled expensive. She felt like she was walking through a museum where she somehow lived.
But something was off.
The maids.
Every time she passed by, they paused. Stiffened. One even dropped a tray when she greeted her with a "Yo, morning!"
Lissa frowned.
The woman looked terrified.
"Sorry! Didn't mean to scare you," Lissa said.
"No, Your Grace! Please forgive me!" the maid cried, bowing so low her nose nearly touched the floor.
"What the…?" Lissa muttered as she walked away.
And it wasn't just the maids.
That afternoon, she was forced to attend a tea party with her so-called "dearest friends." Five noble ladies sat in a perfect circle around her in the rose garden. They looked elegant, poised, and utterly terrified.
Lissa tried to break the ice.
"So… do you guys like… roller coasters?" she asked.
They blinked.
Lady Miriam laughed politely. "My lady, you always have such… amusing conversation."
Lady Eleanor smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Indeed. It's why we cherish your presence."
Lissa sipped her tea and narrowed her eyes.
Nobody was relaxed. Nobody asked about her. Nobody told jokes. They smiled too wide, laughed too hard, and agreed too quickly.
They weren't talking with her.
They were talking at her.
Like they had to.
Like she was… dangerous.
Back in her room, Lissa flopped onto the bed.
"I'm not that scary, right?" she asked the ceiling.
But her gut said otherwise.
This wasn't just noble etiquette. This was fear. Real fear.
She looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Blonde hair. Red eyes.
They didn't seem so soft anymore.
A strange thought whispered in her head.
What did this girl do before I got here?
That evening, she wandered through the halls, restless. A part of her wanted to talk to someone—really talk. Not be feared. Not be bowed to. Just… connect.
She heard soft voices echoing down a side hall.
Curious, she followed.
Behind a partly opened door, she saw a few of her maidens gathered near the laundry room, whispering.
"…but she's been acting strange, hasn't she?"
"She smiled at me. Like, genuinely. I thought I was going to faint."
"I thought she'd punish me for forgetting the flower in her bath. But she said, 'No worries!'"
"She never says no worries."
Lissa pushed the door open gently. "Hey…"
They all froze.
Their faces drained of color.
Lissa raised a hand. "Relax. I'm not mad or anything. I just wanted to—"
Suddenly, all four maids dropped to their knees.
Heads bowed to the ground.
"Forgive us, Your Grace! We should not have been idle in our duties!"
"Please don't punish us, please!"
"We didn't mean to speak ill! Please have mercy!"
Lissa stood there, stunned. "…What…?"
The way they trembled. The way they refused to meet her gaze. It wasn't guilt.
It was fear.
Not fear of gossip.
Fear of her.
That night, Lissa couldn't sleep.
She lay stiffly on the velvet mattress, staring blankly at the ornate ceiling that shimmered faintly under the moonlight slipping past the tall windows. The silk sheets clung to her skin, suffocating rather than comforting. Her thoughts spun like an endless wheel, looping back again and again.
What really happened to her? Who was Seraphine Evandale before she woke up in this body?
Everything felt off.
The way the maids avoided her gaze. The way they flinched with every word she said. The way their voices trembled, carefully chosen, like every sentence was a gamble with their lives. There was fear in their eyes—but not just fear. It was horror. Guilt. Something deeper. And it wasn't directed at her new behavior—it was as if they were terrified of her.
But why?
She sat up slowly, pressing her palms into the sheets, her brows furrowed. "Who did I get reincarnated into?" she whispered into the darkness, voice hoarse, almost afraid to ask.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them close, rocking slightly, trying to chase away the unease crawling up her spine. Eventually, exhaustion pulled at her heavy eyelids, and she drifted off...
But peace did not follow.
She dreamed of blood again.
Thick, dark, and warm. A hallway soaked red. Velvet curtains torn down, splattered in crimson. A body lay twisted unnaturally on the floor—someone young, eyes wide open, mouth agape in silent terror. Her own hands were trembling... no, they were smiling.
A mirror stood at the end of the corridor.
And in it, she saw herself—but not as Lissa.
Seraphine Evandale stared back at her.
Her face was drenched in blood, her eyes empty, yet grinning ear to ear like a madwoman. That smile—it chilled her. It was both beautiful and terrifying. As if death itself had learned to wear perfume.
Lissa gasped and jolted awake.
Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs. She was drenched in cold sweat, her nightgown clinging to her skin. The room was deathly quiet.
Moonlight spilled across the marble floor, soft and silent, mocking the storm in her chest.
She clutched the blanket to her chest, trembling.
"What was that…?" she whispered.
A dream?
Or something more?
A memory bleeding through?
She stared out the window, sleepless once more, the same thought gnawing at her mind like a slow, creeping rot.
Just who—no, what—did she get reincarnated into?