A gasp tore from Seraphielle's throat, sharp and agonizing. She bolted upright, her mind a dizzying blur of ice, blood, and the raw memory of a hundred deaths. Death by being flayed alive, death by drowning in black pitch, death by flames that eternally scarred but never granted release, death by the chilling, slow crush of stone. The immediate trauma was the relentless, suffocating pain of the corrupted mana shard dissolving her soul essence, and the final, cold sneer of the man she had loved.
She was sitting on the silken sheets of her familiar bed in the Caelthorn manor.
The room was bathed in the soft, morning light filtering through heavy velvet drapes. It was a space designed for show, not comfort—dark mahogany furniture with intricate, swirling carvings, heavy tapestries on the walls, and a large, gold-framed mirror on the far wall. The atmosphere was one of stiff, oppressive grandeur, the signature style of the Valmyr nobility.
It was real.
She stumbled out of bed, her bare feet meeting the plush carpet. Her limbs shook, not from weakness, but from the sudden, overwhelming rush of pure, raw consciousness. She moved with a hollow weightlessness across the room, past the chaise lounge to the tall dressing table where the full-length mirror stood.
A young woman stared back at her. Her hair, a cascade of light gray, fell to her waist. Her blue-gray, upturned eyes were currently wide with a manic mix of astonishment and terror, set in fair, luminous skin.
She was alive. She has been reborn.
A hysterical laugh escaped her throat, and she threw her head back. It was harsh and ragged, and a single tear slid down her cheek as she laughed. But then, she remembered Kaelen's cold stare, and immediately her laugh cut off, her expression turning venomous. Joy and gratitude for the second chance were immediately drowned by the cold, rational fury refined by the extent of betrayal and a long, torturous death.
She frantically searched the calendar on her desk. The current date gave a confirmation: Two days before her coming-of-age ceremony, followed by the cursed companion selection ceremony.
She still had time. More than enough.
Seraphille thought as she stared at herself in the mirror, touching her own face just to be sure, slowly digesting it all.
Then she moved away from the mirror and went to the large window, completely drawing back both heavy curtains. Sunlight fully bathed every corner of the room as she bathed in its warmth, the stubborn, freezing sensation of the wet, rainy ground with its relentless waves of mental and physical pain rapidly fading away from her body and soul.
Looking out the window over the vast land surrounding the manor, the flood of memories from her old life was not only now an advantage but a constant reminder of the true price of her family's betrayal and the immense stakes of her failure.
This manor, this opulent cage, was her undoing.
She glanced around her room and recalled that after a few years, the bastard Kaelen had asked her to redecorate. She had willingly stripped away all of her mother's personal touches, not knowing that the man she was sacrificing for would be the one to drive a shard of corrupted mana into her.
Her mother, Lady Liora, was not yet dead, but she was already suffering. Seraphielle remembered the timeline clearly: Liora had fallen into her vegetative state when Seraphielle was eleven, following a supposed 'failed Reaffirmation Ceremony.'
Seraphielle's eyes narrowed to slits of cold rage. The "illness" had been happening for six years, but her mother's condition hadn't yet reached the critical, accelerated stage she remembered. She didn't know the exact mechanism, but since she was sure it had everything to do with her disgusting father, she guessed it probably was a poison or curse designed to look like a consequence of the beast bond.
She thought of the beastmen, the Beastmen Shifters, considered pets and bodyguards. The binding that made them so: the Sub-Glyph—a crude, mass-produced version of ancient sigils.
Recollecting everything brought a fresh tear to her eye. She had been so stupid, ignorant, and foolish. She should have found out about her mother's illness extensively, not only dumbly wished for her recovery.
And then, that document—her mother's memento, which she had so carelessly given up for Kaelen's sake—the key to a legendary secret dimension. Seraphielle laughed harshly, a crazed glint in her eyes. She didn't even know what a secret dimension was, but it must have been definitely something they all killed both her and her mother for. She ground her teeth. Very precious that it could cater to all of their greedy natures.
Seraphielle shook her head, breathing in and out to calm herself down. None of that has happened and it will never happen. She would make sure of that, but first she had to see her mother. Though it had only been two years and some months since her mother died in her last life, and since she last saw her, to Seraphielle it felt like years.
Her handmaiden would not arrive by this time. Almost a year earlier, on that day, she went to the breakfast table late, and her stepmother insulted her. Seraphielle threw back the insult, angering her father who scolded her. She lashed out and swore that she would never come to the breakfast table or have breakfast with them again, then stormed out. Then she'd ordered Titiane not to come wake her up early again. Her father had dared her, but after two to three scoldings, he had left her to do whatever she wanted. This small act of defiance in her first life has now gifted her with unsupervised time.
As Seraphielle made her way out of the room, she passed by the mirror and saw her swollen and red eyes. Immediately, she turned and went into her adjoining washroom, which featured a simple, magic-heated basin and mirrored vanity—a luxury afforded by the manor's deep mana reservoir—poured fresh water, and washed her face until the redness subsided. Then she quickly packed her hair into a rough bun before walking out of the bedroom, locking the heavy, ornamental door behind her.
She made her way straight to the East Wing where her mother was housed. Her steps quickened as she walked further and the surroundings changed, becoming more lavish but empty and unnervingly silent.
When she reached the hallway leading to her mother's room, she saw two guards standing rigidly before the door.
When Seraphielle reached them and stepped forward, she was stopped.
The nearest guard extended a hand, his posture rigid. "Miss Seraphielle, the Marquis has given strict orders that no one is to enter this chamber at this hour."
Seraphielle looked at the arm of the guard stretched out in front of her, then dragged her cold gaze up to the guard's face. Her voice was hoarse as she raised a brow and asked, "What did you say?"
The guard opened his mouth to speak, but the other one spoke up, adopting a condescending tone as if talking to a troublesome little girl. "Miss Seraphielle, you shouldn't be here at this time of morning. The Marquis himself forbade visitors–"