The wind danced among the rose bushes, oblivious to the cold war about to unfold in the family hall.
It twirled between petals like it was telling jokes only the flowers understood.
The leaves tinkled under the magical light like porcelain bells.
Lígia, standing amid the garden's green echoes, stared at the cat with a thoughtful expression.
The feline hologram, the very embodiment of irony, just blinked at her as if to say:
"So, princess, satisfied with the cosmic menu?"
Lígia pressed her lips together, nearly releasing another philosophical sigh, but was interrupted by a soft, timid voice:
"E-excuse me, Lady d'Argêntea... lunch is served in the Solar Hall."
She turned and saw one of the maids: short, frail, clutching a delicately embroidered cloth like it was sacred.
Lígia tilted her head slightly, then pointed directly at the feline — who at that moment was licking his paw with regal disdain.
"You... don't see this?"
The maid gave her a puzzled glance at the empty air.
"See... what?"
Lígia smiled gently.
"Nothing. Just my imagination."
The maid paled, bowed again, and quickly backed away on nervous feet.
The cat purred with delight.
"Yes... only you can see me, hear me, insult me, and endure me."
Lígia murmured something unintelligible — refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full retort.
She turned and headed back toward the mansion with the grace of someone who'd chosen walking over screaming.
The long corridors looked like they were designed to intimidate newcomers.
Stained glass windows cast unsettling rainbows on the polished floor.
Two maids passed her. They bowed. Smiled with rehearsed sweetness.
"Good day, my Lady," they said in unison.
Five steps later:
"She seems even weirder than before…"
"Do you think she snapped again? Or is she faking it to get out of punishment?"
"They say she tried to poison Lady Marian with rose-petal tea…"
"Imagine if she returns to the balls? Three dukes fell from just one look…"
Lígia kept walking, her pace steady, but her expression wilted like a sunless flower.
"Bravo, Original Lígia… You were a high-heeled, lipstick-wearing social bomb. What a lovely legacy you left me."
The mansion seemed to expand like an enchanted labyrinth, designed to disorient reincarnated souls with zero sense of direction.
Left turn. Then right. Then... left again?
"Where the hell is this Solar Hall?"
The cat reappeared, floating lazily at her side like it was lounging on an invisible pillow.
"Well, well… a noble lady who doesn't even know where she dines. So tragic. So pathetic. So... iconic."
"Shut up," she snapped, blushing, swiping at the air where he hovered.
"Don't blame me, Excellency. I'm a system, not your emotional GPS."
"But if you're looking to upgrade your dignity, I can sell you a magical mansion map for two Reputation Points. Pity discount included."
Lígia crossed her arms, face blazing.
"Just show me the way, you mustached devil, before I'm found crawling into a sewing room and become this week's gossip."
The cat spun midair, shimmering like a perfume ad from another realm.
"Very well. Initiating guide…"
A golden trail — smooth as moonlight — appeared beneath her feet, snaking off toward the east.
"This way, my Lady," he said with theatrical flair, "and try not to trip over your 'reformed villainess' persona."
Lígia clicked her tongue and walked, one step at a time, trying to keep her dignity intact.
"Drama on an empty stomach is just a revolution running late," she muttered.
Her destination awaited in the form of double doors: polished oak and dark velvet, so imposing they seemed to guard more than just meals… they guarded expectations.
Lígia stopped. Her dress swirled silently around her ankles.
Two servants, standing like sentinels, bowed and pushed the heavy doors open, their creak worthy of a tragic opera.
Light blinded her for a moment.
The hall was vast, opulent — walls carved in delicate relief, carpets woven with threads of sunset.
The main table stretched long, covered in enchanted linen and porcelain dishes that shimmered under a permanent cleanliness spell.
The air smelled of white wine, fresh herbs, and roasted meat.
But the heaviest thing in the room… was the silence.
The silence of a courtroom masquerading as a family lunch.
Lígia took a deep breath.
She remembered the morning's lessons: posture, breathing, grace... and the unofficial mantra: "Fake it until you convince the ghosts of royalty."
She walked with rehearsed calm, though every step screamed:
"I'm an impostor, please don't out me."
Her seat was beside a girl with large violet eyes, the look of raw innocence, and silvery hair braided with pink ribbons.
Her little sister.
Probably the only soul in the house who still looked at Lígia with something resembling warmth.
Lígia smiled — gentle, cautious — and sat.
Hands in lap. Back straight. Fork held with the grace of a princess trained from birth.
Inside?
A hurricane.
Her father's gaze — brief — cut like a blade. Sharp. Silent.
"How are you, after that disgraceful episode?" he asked.
The words were harsh, but… there was something else.
His gaze seemed cold, but something flickered — maybe concern, maybe just noble calculation disguised as care.
Lígia felt the corset tighten like it was whispering:
"You're a lady now."
"I'm better, Father," she answered.
Voice steady. Soft. A practiced tone that said "recovered" without begging forgiveness.
The Duke raised one brow. Just enough to signal he noticed the change.
Then he turned to Dorian, seated to his left.
"Report on the northern border."
Ah, her brother.
"The situation remains stable," said Dorian, slicing his bread with surgical precision.
"The merchants are pushing for alternate routes, but General Halbrecht is holding position."
"And the southern garrison?"
"Undermanned. We'll need reinforcements before the Blood Moon."
Dorian spoke as if reading a report.
But his voice softened — just barely — when he said reinforcements.
Lígia pretended to study her soup, but her mind was in high alert.
Southern garrison.
Blood Moon.
Merchants.
Each word was a golden nugget. A glimpse of the empire behind the embroidered curtains.
Her father was the wall.
Dorian, the sword.
And her? Just a pebble in the path.
Until now.
She glanced aside — met her little sister's gaze.
The girl held her spoon with uncertain fingers, but her eyes were curious.
Perhaps the only one at the table still untouched by the world's weight.
The silence between courses became so thick, the spoon felt heavier in her hand.
The wine's scent was too sweet, like it masked emotional poison.
A symphony of polite tension.
Lígia remained still.
Watching.
Learning.
If she was going to survive this world…
then she would do it with open eyes and a sharp mind.