Despite her overwhelming love for books and grand aspirations—which may or may not include world domination—Annabelle Dorne is, at the end of the day, still a noble lady.
And that means noble lady training.
Translation: Torture.
Her daily schedule is a nightmare.
Ballroom dancing, etiquette, tea-making, music lessons, swordsmanship, politics, painting—
It never ends.
But Annabelle, having read one too many villainess novels, knows what happens to weak noble girls.
They get crushed.
Humiliated.
Exiled.
Or worse—married off to some useless prince with no personality.
Which is why, at the tender age of eight, she makes a decision:
She will master everything.
Or die trying.
---
DANCING LESSONS
Annabelle's dance instructor claps her hands together, voice as sharp as a blade.
"Lady Annabelle! Posture!"
Annabelle tries.
She really does.
But dancing is horrible.
The music is too slow, the movements too controlled, and worst of all—
She has to be graceful.
Annabelle scowls as she stumbles through a waltz, stepping on her partner's foot for the fourth time in a row.
The instructor winces.
"I don't get it," Annabelle mutters. "Why can't I just learn how to evade attacks like a rogue?"
The instructor looks horrified.
"Lady Annabelle, ballroom dancing is about poise and elegance!"
Annabelle crosses her arms. "And survival. What if an assassin sneaks in? What if I have to dodge an attack mid-waltz?"
Isaac, who has been watching from the sidelines, lets out a low chuckle.
"She's got a point."
Annabelle glares.
"Shut up, Isaac!"
The instructor looks like she's reconsidering her entire career.
---
ETIQUETTE & TEA-MAKING
"Today, we'll be learning the art of tea-making," the etiquette tutor announces, gesturing toward the elegant tea set before them.
"A noble lady must be well-versed in the delicate practice of serving and drinking tea with grace."
Annabelle stares blankly at the steaming cups.
"…Why do I need to know this?"
The tutor smiles tightly. "It's a refined skill—"
"Can I use poison?"
Silence.
The entire room goes still.
Paula, who has been silently observing, sighs.
"Annabelle, sweetheart, we've talked about this."
Annabelle pouts.
"But it's an important skill! What if someone tries to poison me first? I need to be prepared!"
Nicholas, lounging lazily in the corner, smirks.
"Let her learn, Mother. Might come in handy one day."
Paula throws a pillow at his face.
---
SWORDSMANSHIP
Now, this?
This Annabelle enjoys.
Unlike dancing and etiquette, sword training actually makes sense.
She needs to be able to fight.
She refuses to be a delicate, helpless noble girl who gets kidnapped in a tragic political scheme.
At first, her knight instructor underestimates her.
Big mistake.
The moment he hands her a wooden sword, Annabelle swings it with alarming speed—knocking the weapon straight out of his hands.
The knight blinks.
"…I see you've been practicing, my lady."
Annabelle grins. "I have brothers. And I'm not dying in some tragic war, thank you very much."
Isaac, watching from the sidelines, nods approvingly.
"You'll make a fine warrior."
Nicholas claps her on the back.
"Or a terrifying villainess."
Annabelle sighs, twirling her sword.
"Either works."
THE NIGHTMARE CONTINUES…
Unfortunately, her torment does not end there.
Painting lessons are a disaster—she tries to sketch battle strategies instead of flowers.
Music lessons are even worse—she keeps getting distracted and using the violin bow as a makeshift sword.
And political studies?
She ends up outsmarting her tutor, pointing out glaring flaws in the empire's laws that he refuses to acknowledge.
(The tutor quits a week later.)
By the end of the month, Annabelle is exhausted.
But she is also stronger. Smarter. Faster.
She is learning.
And most importantly—
She is preparing.
For what?
She doesn't know yet.
But something deep in her bones tells her—
She's going to need every skill she can get before this story reaches its climax.