The sun had barely kissed the gardens when that damned bell rang.
Lígia woke up with her face buried in a feather pillow that smelled more expensive than her former dignity.
This time, no divine flashes, no celestial voices.
Just the distant sound of a harp and the unsettling feeling of sheets that probably cost more than her entire lifetime of rent.
She blinked slowly.
Light filtered through the translucent curtains like warm milk, gilding the room in a softness too refined to be real.
It was like waking inside an aristocratic dream… or a luxurious nightmare.
She sat up slowly, still foreign to her own body.
The weight felt different.
Not just physical — deeper, heavier.
As if her new existence took up more space in the world.
She stood.
The floor noticed.
Each step echoed louder than necessary.
"New body, new steps, old soul."
She muttered, adjusting the lightweight nightgown she wore — made from fabric too thin to be decent and too costly to be fair.
In the mirror, the reflection now looked familiar — or at least tolerable.
That platinum-haired, violet-eyed woman still triggered a mini reality glitch, but… there was something right about her.
Something that made more sense than her previous life ever had.
And then... the system appeared.
Literally.
With a soft ding, a glowing orb appeared above her head, morphing into a lazily floating holographic cat.
Digital eyes, pixelated tail, mocking voice.
"Good morning, reborn soul."
"You're a beta version with old trauma, moderate anxiety, and level 8 defensive sarcasm. Congratulations."
Lígia looked at it with the kind of exhaustion only someone who's cried over a Chinese drama character could understand.
"You're my tutorial?"
"I'm your system. Temporary name: Lyp. Responsive interface, witty, useful when I feel like it. I'm here to help you survive in this magical, political, and absurdly toxic world. Welcome to the Empire."
She yawned.
"I've had nightmares with fewer words."
Lyp ignored her.
"You're currently on the estate of House d'Argêntea, one of the Four Ducal Houses of the Empire. Status: heiress in reclusion, social reputation below zero, fluctuating self-esteem, and a sweet tooth that will eventually humiliate us both."
"Current social threat level: moderate. Chance of being exiled from the Empire due to poor etiquette: 17%. System update in progress..."
"I died" she said, staring at the ceiling.
"And now I'm stuck in an imperial drama RPG with a talking cat. Of course. Of course I am."
Before the sarcasm could build, the door clicked open.
CLACK.
The golden handle turned — and he entered.
Vael.
Impeccable, like he'd been summoned through a ritual of etiquette.
Tall, upright posture, expression frozen in neutral.
Dark clothes, hair pulled back, eyes so still time itself feared to disturb them.
"The young lady is awake."
His voice was low, velvet-smooth, polished by centuries of discipline.
"I'm alive, aren't I?"
"Debatable. But functionally, yes."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You're the butler who thinks I'm a walking disaster?"
"I'm Reinhardt Vael. And yes."
He extended a notebook like a psychiatric report.
"Recent behavior log: emotional outbursts, failed public rituals, panic attack at an official ceremony, and a dramatic collapse over the Duchess's tea table… with biscuits still being served."
Lígia groaned and covered her face with both hands.
"Great. The old version of me was a time bomb."
"A bomb that exploded over the entire noble audience."
Silence.
Even the holographic cat didn't interfere.
Vael walked to the window, drawing back the curtain slightly.
"Repeating. By order of Duke Michael d'Argêntea, you are in reclusion for five days. No balls, no visits, no diplomatic scandals."
She took a deep breath.
"And if I want to stage a silent rebellion with sweets and reading?"
Vael didn't even blink.
"I suggest starting with something more practical. Like long baths, posture lessons, and avoiding passive-aggressive remarks before breakfast."
Lígia crossed her arms.
"Then give me access to the library. And imperial history lessons. If I'm going to be reborn, it'll be with prep."
For the first time, Vael raised an eyebrow — the first sign he wasn't a statue.
"Are you serious?"
"I'm talking survival."
A second of silence.
"Very well. First lesson at seven a.m. And… try not to bite the tutor."
She smiled, ironic.
"No promises."
---
After he left, Lígia flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling painted with constellations.
She was here. In a new body.
In a world where magic, politics, and tradition walked hand in hand.
Where even silence had rules.
But this time, she wasn't just a spectator.
And if she was going to play this game…
She would no longer be a side character.
Nor villain.
Nor heroine.
Just… herself.
Redressed. Ready to rewrite everything.
"Milady, your bath is ready" a sweet but firm voice announced beside her.
Lígia mumbled something unintelligible that sounded like "let me die in peace."
But the maids — three young women in pastel tones and military-level discipline — stood at attention with towels, perfumes, and undeniable determination.
The warm water was a comfort.
Only then did Lígia really examine, once again, the body she now inhabited.
Every strand of hair was an aesthetic heresy that would've made her old self cry with envy.
Her skin? The work of a goddess with a skincare routine based on unicorn tears.
But what disturbed her most…
Was how comfortable it all felt.
As if this skin wasn't borrowed.
It was hers.
Strangely, irrevocably.
And more terrifying still:
She was beginning to accept it.
Of course, the moment of peace was interrupted by a corset.
"This is a torture device" she protested, panting as one maid pulled the laces with homicidal enthusiasm.
"Standard noblewear, milady. Enhances posture, bust, and… composure" replied the elder maid, her accent sharp as a sword polished by three generations of hysterical noblewomen.
"Enhances my urge to feed you to crocodiles… if there are any here."
After a sky-blue dress — so tight it felt like a fainting promise — and shoes that sparkled more than common sense, Lígia was positioned before the mirror.
For a moment, she was silent.
She looked stunning.
Like an oil painting brought to life just to break hearts and cause scandal.
"Okay… this is unfair. I'm gorgeous. I forgive whoever brought me here… a little."
The jewelry was subtle: sapphire teardrop earrings and a crimson rose brooch over her chest.
The image was perfect.
But it was just that: image.
The substance needed to match.
And so she marched — steps firm, though wobbly — toward her first lesson.
The mansion's corridors were a festival of excess: tapestries, golden frames, portraits of ancestors who looked like they judged even ghosts.
The white marble floor echoed her steps like a symphony of hesitation.
The tutor awaited her in a sunlit room with arched windows.
The tea table was set with terrifying perfection, flanked by books with titles like "The Charm of Social Submission" and "Smile Gracefully, Not With Your Teeth."
When she entered, the tutor, a thin man with a sharp mustache and inquisitor's eyes ,stood and bowed slightly.
"Lady d'Argêntea. A pleasure to see you upright… and alive."
"The pleasure is almost mine" she replied, sitting carefully, afraid the dress might detonate.
The room smelled of old parchment, dusty libraries, and suffocating aristocratic expectations.
The man cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.
"We'll begin with the basics: posture, tone, and how not to spill tea on someone else's skirt during a passive-aggressive confrontation."
"Ah… a practical lesson, then."
He hesitated.
She held her smile.
"I see I'll have my work cut out" he said dryly.
"Look on the bright side. You'll be a legend: 'The Tutor Who Tamed the Infamous Crimson Rose.' That's book title material."
He gave the faintest smile, sat down, opened the etiquette manual, and began the torture.
Lígia straightened her back, lifted her chin, and repeated her new motto in her mind:
"If I'm playing the game, then let it be with a crystal glass in one hand and a war plan in the other."
That motto lasted… exactly fifteen minutes.
After the lesson — or battle — Lígia dragged her feet like a tragic heroine who'd survived a war of teacups and improperly executed curtsies.
Her back ached from the corset, her feet throbbed in the shiny shoes, and her mind boiled with rules on how to sit, smile, and exist without disgracing seven generations of dead nobles.
"If one more person tells me tilting my chin is improper, I'll—"
But she didn't finish the threat.
Footsteps echoed on the white marble, firm and rhythmic.
She looked.
A man approached with the precision of a compass.
Dorian d'Argêntea.
Her brother.
The firstborn. The heir.
The pride of the family… and rigidity personified.
Tall. Elegant.
He moved as if the world were a dance, and he alone knew the choreography.
His silver-gray military uniform bore the Flaming Rose on the chest.
Black hair, cropped short.
Eyes — the same as hers: intense violet, cold, observant.
"Sister" he said with a slight nod.
The tone was diplomatic. But his gaze lingered — a half-second too long.
Lígia hesitated, too.
Part of her wanted to smile. Part wanted to flee.
Dorian was like an expensive painting in a silent room: beautiful, imposing, and impossible to decipher.
"You returned early from inspection, brother."
"The weather didn't permit us to proceed. Snowstorms."
He hesitated before speaking again.
Just a second.
But the kind of second that carries ten years of unspoken family history.
"And I heard about… your recovery."
She shrugged, trying to sound casual.
"Still adapting to… everything."
He nodded, not grasping the depth of it.
"If you need anything, there are servants available."
Spoken like someone offering a pillow on a sinking ship.
"Thank you" she replied, forcing the smile to hold.
He nodded again. Slower this time.
Then walked away. His boots faded around the corridor's curve.
Lígia exhaled.
He cared.
He just didn't know how to show it without sounding like he was signing a peace treaty.
Without overthinking, guided by instinct — or the need for air — she wandered north.
The halls opened into arches covered in flowering ivy.
Soon her steps met a white stone path lined with roses and camellias.
Fountains murmured between marble statues: nymphs, knights.
The air there felt fresher. Lighter. Almost… kind.
She sat on a white-painted iron bench, under the generous shade of a late-blooming cherry tree.
"Here… I can just be me."
The dress still pinched.
The system still floated somewhere in her mind.
But for a moment, everything felt bearable.
Even beautiful.
She looked up at the sky.
"For now… let me pretend I'm just a girl in a garden."
The flowers didn't answer.
But the wind did.
It brushed through her hair, soft as a caress.
And for a brief, fleeting second, Lígia felt that even if she didn't yet belong to this world…
…maybe it was starting to belong to her.