The sound of raindrops—or so I thought—pattered against the window with resolute rhythm, accompanied by the wind's soft hum as it brushed the glass pane. Slowly, I stirred from beneath the warmth of my blankets, my limbs heavy with sleep. Straining my eyes, I tried to discern my surroundings, but the darkness clung thick and impenetrable, smothering any hint of shape or light. Disoriented, I hesitated. Instinct screamed at me to rise, to investigate this unfamiliar void. Yet I smothered the urge, shoving it deep into the recesses of my mind. Why confront the unknown when oblivion beckoned? With a sigh, I surrendered, sinking back into the abyss of sleep.
I lay awake, swathed in scented silk blankets, watching sunlight waltz through the parted curtains, gilding the room in a honeyed embrace. It caught on the curves of a gilded vanity, where cherubs frolicked across the looking glass, their playful forms entwined in vines of delicate ormolu. Dust motes spiraled like fairies in the golden beams, alighting upon the powder-blue chaise longue, its silk upholstery embroidered with silver roses—each petal trembling as though whispering secrets to the air.
What the hell?
This scene was the very embodiment of a young noblewoman's chamber from 18th-century France. Again, that unsettling feeling crept into my consciousness, its tendrils coiling tight around me, squeezing with quiet, insistent anxiety. I remained anchored in bed, refusing to venture into the unknown beyond these sheets. A suspicion of what had happened to me flickered at the edges of my mind, sharpened by the fleeting glimpse of my own reflection in the vanity mirror.
Yet I scoffed—at the absurdity, at the sheer impossibility of it all.
My fingers traced the unfamiliar landscape of this face—the cool porcelain skin, unblemished as fresh-fallen snow; the delicate upturned nose, its tip poised like a sculptor's final flourish; the supple lips, parting slightly at my touch . Then, at last, I found the eyes.
Those eyes.
Almond-shaped and arresting, they tapered at the outer corners with the precision of a calligrapher's finest stroke, elongating into a sweep of feline grace. Like lilies half-unfurled at dawn, they held both softness and sly allure, their contours designed to catch the light and fracture it into something dangerous.
In the vanity's glass stared back a woman of impossible beauty—her blood-red eyes glowing like garnets held to flame, her raven hair a cascade of ink-dark waves tumbling to her waist. The faintest blush graced her cheeks, a suggestion of life beneath that marble-perfect complexion, as if the gods had breathed upon alabaster to animate their masterpiece.
Transmigration
The sensations were too vivid—too alive—to be dismissed as mere phantoms of sleep. My vision wavered as the truth settled upon me, its weight pressing against my ribs like a vise. This was no dream. This was real.
I wracked my memory, desperate to place the face in the mirror, but the descriptions I recalled from novels were too subjective, too fluid—like trying to grasp smoke. Was I a villainess? A forgotten side character? Which novel is this? The uncertainty coiled in my stomach, cold and insistent. For a fleeting moment, I even entertained the macabre thought that this might be some twisted afterlife, a purgatory draped in silk and gilded deception.
Then—a sound.
A soft knock rapped against the door, shattering my spiraling thoughts. "My lady, are you awake?" A woman's voice, lilting and polished, seeped through the wood. Panic surged, sharp and electric. My throat tightened, but I managed a brittle "Yes," just loud enough to carry, just quiet enough to betray the tremor beneath.
The moment my reply left my lips, the doors swung open, and a flurry of maids descended upon the chamber like a well-rehearsed storm. Their movements were precision itself—backs straight, hands deft, each gesture humming with the quiet efficiency of those long accustomed to aristocratic service. Before I could protest, they swept me from the bed, their practiced hands stripping away the last remnants of solitude as they bathed, perfumed, and laced me into that monstrously heavy dress.
I bit my tongue and endured, letting their chatter wash over me like distant birdsong. Any misstep, any odd turn of phrase might betray the tempest raging behind my carefully schooled expression. Better to play the docile noblewoman, to move as the current took me—for now.
But beneath the silence, my mind churned. Who was she? This body I now wore like an ill-fitting gown—what name did it answer to?What debts or dangers had it inherited? The answers would come, I vowed. Just not yet.
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I staggered down the interminable hallway, its ostentatious excess pressing in on me from all sides. Sunlight streamed through towering windows, fracturing into prismatic shards as it struck crystal decanters and porcelain vases, transforming the corridor into a shimmering dreamscape—beautiful, yet unbearably alien. Each gasping breath came harder than the last; the dress constricted my ribs like a living thing, its weight dragging at my limbs as though I wore chains beneath the silk.
The head maid marched ahead, her pace unrelenting, while I fought to keep upright. At last, I stumbled to the nearest window, bracing myself against the sill. Below sprawled gardens so meticulously manicured they seemed painted rather than grown—geometric hedges framing bursts of peonies and roses in colours too vivid to be natural. Beyond them, wilder greenery took over: ancient oaks with canopies like emerald thunderheads rolling across the hills, their shadows pooling in the valley below where a lone dirt path wound into oblivion.
The air carried the cloying sweetness of blooming wisteria, undercut by the crispness of distant pines. That sky—an impossible cerulean, dotted with clouds so plush they mocked my struggle—only underscored the isolation. No smoke from village chimneys, no distant clatter of carts. Just wilderness stretching endlessly.
An estate in the boondocks, I realized. No neighbors for miles.
The head maid had guided me to the grand dining are. Before me, its centre piece, a table groaning under silver platters and crystal goblets. At its head sat a man carved from the same sharp lines as this body I now wore—raven hair threaded with silver, a jawline like tempered steel. Our shared blood announced itself in the slant of his brows, the exacting curve of his lips. An attendant materialized, drawing out the chair to his right with a scrape that echoed like a challenge.
I sank into the chair. Through the veil of my lashes, I traced the impatient cadence of his fingers against the linen, the permanent furrow between his brows—the telltale crease of a man long accustomed to waiting. A thousand questions clawed at my throat. Should I curtsy? Smile? Claim him as Father—or was it Uncle? Each possibility pricked at me like a needle, each more treacherous than the last.
The silence between us thickened. Desperate to fill it, I seized a bread roll—too hastily.
His gaze snapped to mine, hawkish. Then, as if a sudden warmth that can even melt glacial in winter dawn , his lips parted in a smile.
"My precious Aerith..."