The double doors of the ceremonial hall opened with a majestic whisper of well-oiled hinges. Through them entered a woman who looked as if she had stepped straight out of an aristocratic mural painted centuries ago.
She was the embodiment of traditional nobility: golden hair so long it nearly swept the floor, light green eyes like glass beneath the morning sun, and a body sculpted with divine precision. Her gown was a masterpiece of imperial excess—layers upon layers of fabric, lace and embroidery, puffed sleeves, ruffles in the most unexpected places, and a train large enough to hide a small army.
Behind her came a man with the same regal aura. Golden hair cut to perfection, dark green eyes, and a sculpted face marked by an elegant coldness that needed no words to be respected. He wore black attire with a gold and white mantle—the epitome of an imperial aristocrat. Dignified. Unshakable.
Lígia raised an eyebrow and muttered under her breath to her system.
"I think she's sweating in places even the wind doesn't dare visit."
The system, sprawled lazily on the edge of her mental table, yawned without haste.
"You're forgetting magic exists, princess of chaos. She probably has an arcane ventilation system built into that corset."
"...Excuse me?" Lígia blinked, suspicious, her gaze still fixed on the golden woman. "Then why don't my clothes have that?"
The system licked a paw as if it hadn't heard. It froze mid-gesture, its digital eyes flickering briefly. Then... a dry cough.
"Er... you should ask your seamstress. Maybe they forgot that... functional detail."
"Perfect," Lígia grumbled, rolling her eyes. "I'm the queen of lost ventilation."
While she and the system debated the magical rights of thermal comfort, the newly arrived man crossed the hall like someone who floated instead of walked and sat at the table where the young man with chestnut hair and onyx-black eyes was already seated.
But the golden woman continued toward the refreshment table.
Each step was carefully measured, as if the floor had been drawn just for her. As she approached, she gestured politely toward Lígia—a subtle wave, emotionless. The kind of greeting that could come from either an old acquaintance or a longtime rival.
Lígia, acting on sheer social instinct, returned the gesture. Slightly hesitant.
The system whistled quietly.
"Oh, look... she remembers the drama. How fun."
The golden woman stopped at the table, chose a delicate lavender biscuit, and, still half-facing the tray, said calmly, "Hello, Lígia."
Lígia blinked. The voice was smooth, well-measured... and cold as a crystal fresh from ice.
"...Hello?" she replied—not from choice, but from reflex.
The woman arched a mathematically precise eyebrow and turned slightly, evaluating Lígia the way a jeweler examines an oddly cut gem.
"Are you unwell?"
"Huh?" Lígia coughed, caught off guard. Her spine stiffened. "What do you mean?"
The woman took a bite of her biscuit with elegance, chewed slowly, and only after swallowing did she respond.
"Because the last time we saw each other, you insulted me with a level of bravery bordering on stupidity. And now you greet me with such enthusiasm I almost thought you admired me."
The system snorted.
"She remembered, sugar cube. That's memory with aim."
Lígia froze for a second, then coughed again, a bit theatrically.
"Ah... about that..." she breathed in slowly, her mind muttering, 'Damn past Lígia. No filter and a tavern mouth...'
"You look different," the woman said, not maliciously, but with clear curiosity. "Your face is the same. But your eyes... have changed."
Lígia gave a nervous smile.
"I... changed," she said, not bothering to mask her discomfort.
The woman cast a brief, enigmatic glance and walked gracefully to the main table, as if floating beneath an ocean of fabric.
Lígia folded her arms and stared into space for a second.
"Pest... who the hell is that woman?" she thought.
The system, stretching on its holographic cushion, replied in its usual tone of an interdimensional street merchant.
"Oh, now you're curious? It's in the shop. And on sale, too."
Lígia narrowed her eyes.
"You're a mystical peddler. With a tail."
"And you're a forgetful reincarnate who only seeks answers when karma knocks. But since I'm feeling generous..."
Beep!
A golden screen appeared, digits blinking:
[SHOP – MEMORIES OF OLD LÍGIA]
• Specific Info (50 pts)
• Full Childhood (100 pts)
• Full Adolescence (100 pts)
"How many points do I have?"
Beep.
"Eighty. And still climbing. That dress is generating passive attention. Keep this up and you'll unlock the 'Transdimensional Fashion Icon' trophy."
"Shut up."
Pause.
"I want the info on the dispute with the... golden woman."
"Purchase confirmed!"
The information rushed in like a silent wave. No pain—just the strange sensation of someone else's memories settling into her mind.
Flashes: sharp dialogue, tension-laced glances, noble rivalry. Old Lígia—vain, aggressive, quick-tongued—calling the woman a "useless imperial doll."
Lígia blinked slowly, absorbing it.
"So diplomatic..." she murmured, sarcastically.
"You were a walking buffet of conflict," purred the system.
She straightened her spine. Smiled.
"Now you're a new Lígia."
Before she could linger, the doors opened again.
Verdanel.
He entered with calculated grace, easy smile, alert eyes.
And he saw Lígia.
She gave a brief nod. Not warm—precise.
Vael appeared.
"Miss," he murmured. "It's time."
Lígia stood. Walked to her seat. Crossed her legs with elegance. And waited.
Soon, the hall filled with the gentle glow of floating trays bearing delicacies—enchanted and arranged with military precision. Everything moved like a living painting, every detail measured, orchestrated.
Lígia rose.
"Hello, everyone. I am Lígia d'Argêntea, second heir of the Crimson Lineage, daughter of Duke Michael d'Argêntea and Countess Selène Caelthur d'Argêntea."
She paused.
"Today, I present myself formally before the Ducal Houses here assembled as the recognized heir of House d'Argêntea."
Silence.
Then crystal glasses raised in unison. A toast.
She bowed. When she rose, she glanced at Verdanel.
Still smiling.
Still watching.
She sat again.
The system whispered.
"And the stage is set, my champion. Now we watch who dances... and who bleeds."
She didn't answer.
But she smiled.
The cutlery clinked softly as the dinner began.
Each noble at the long ceremonial table ate with a grace that bordered on choreography. Silverware glided, wines swirled, conversation murmured like an elegant stream. It was the kind of meal that could have been painted: a portrait of wealth, tradition, and power resting on porcelain and etiquette.
Lígia began to eat, though slowly. Her appetite faded faster than expected, as if her body recognized that food was not the focus tonight.
She lifted her gaze.
Across the table, faces moved like theater masks—smiling without warmth, nodding without conviction, speaking without meaning. But one pair of eyes didn't mask anything.
The golden woman.
She was watching again. Serene. Still.
Then, with the ease of someone simply commenting on the weather, she spoke.
"I suppose, now that you've awakened your magical affinities... you're considering the Imperial Academy of Solarys?"
The question floated gently across the table—casual, graceful, and dipped in arsenic.
Lígia tilted her head, matching the tone.
"That depends," she said, letting her fork rest on the edge of her plate. "It's tradition for heirs to refine their abilities there. But not every tradition tempts me."
The golden woman offered a small smile, like the beginning of a sermon.
"Of course. The Academy demands standards. Discipline. Structure. Posture."
Each word was as soft as velvet. And just as suffocating.
Lígia clasped her hands atop the table, eyes bright with polite interest.
"And you speak as someone well-acquainted with its rulebook. I imagine you've memorized every corridor, every debate hall... every mirror."
"I lived the Academy," replied the woman, raising her glass without blinking. "And it still lives in me."
Lígia's smile deepened.
"Good. Then when I enroll, I'll already know who failed to leave a mark on its history."
The system purred in her mind.
"That's my girl. Clean. Precise. Fatal."
The golden woman's eyes narrowed a fraction.
"I see you've learned to strike with words," she said, placing her wineglass down with ritualistic grace. "I must say, your tongue has improved. Last we spoke, it was as chaotic as your posture."
Lígia let out a soft, almost musical laugh. The kind that drew glances, just to be sure they heard it right.
"Oh, how sweet. Is that a compliment? I was about to return one."
The woman's expression didn't change, but her stillness sharpened.
"Truly?"
"Absolutely. You've become far more... adaptable. Walking in all that pomposity without tripping once is impressive. Carrying the imperial drapery must be a daily test of strength and balance."
A beat of silence.
Across the table, the golden-haired man bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a chuckle. The chestnut-haired guest raised a single brow, amused.
The golden woman tilted her head with calm.
"And yet, even cloaked in silk and tradition, I remain invited. It seems the court still prefers polished legacy to... rebellious improvisation."
Lígia rested her chin lightly on one hand, her voice sugarcoated with satire.
"Or perhaps the court is simply bored enough to let anything onstage. Not every relic is gold. Some just collect dust with grace."
The system practically exploded in purring.
"Slapped her with a silk glove and embroidered it with rubies. Delicious."
The golden woman took a breath. Her tone stayed light.
"Well... I see Lady Lígia d'Argêntea is determined to shine. Even if it means dimming others."
"Me?" Lígia placed a hand to her chest, faux-surprised. "I'd never dim anyone. But light—real light—tends to irritate those used to the shade."
This time, the laughter around the table couldn't be hidden. A servant cleared their throat too loudly. A duke covered a smile behind his goblet.
From the side of the hall, Selène watched with poised neutrality. Michael's fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest. Only Vael remained an unmoving sentinel.
The golden woman lifted her glass once more.
"Then let us toast. To the newer versions of familiar names. May we coexist... without stepping on each other too often."
Lígia lifted her own glass, her eyes unwavering.
"Let's toast. To golden roses. Beautiful from afar, but with thorns that never surprise."
The glasses clinked.
Crystal on crystal.