The massive door, crafted from aged oak and inlaid with dull brass, creaked open slowly—a faint groan that felt more like a sigh, burdened by centuries of secrets and official gatherings. There were no servants to open it; rather, a hidden mechanism—probably magical—responded to the escort's presence.
I stepped in.
It wasn't a meeting room in the traditional sense. It was more like a miniature theater designed to showcase power. The walls were high, draped in deep velvet the color of dried blood, streaked with golden threads weaving the crests of the great noble houses and the imposing sigil of the Empire—a sun split by a lightning bolt.
Massive stained-glass windows lined the chamber, depicting legendary heroes slaying monsters or signing treaties. The colored light they cast upon the marble floor looked like sacred blood spilled and frozen.
The air was heavy—rich with the scent of fine aromatic wax, burning sandalwood in side furnaces, and the faintest trace—barely noticeable—of old parchment and treated leather. The chill in the room wasn't natural, but carefully manufactured. It was meant to keep minds alert and nerves taut.
At the center stood a massive rectangular table, polished to a mirror-like sheen, made of black wood as glossy as a raven's wing. Surrounding it were high-backed chairs, intricately carved, and intentionally uncomfortable.
Alistair was already seated at the head of the table, in the seat designated for the Verton family's representative. He looked like a statue carved from ice and shadow. His gray hair was meticulously styled, his charcoal-colored formal coat—two shades darker than mine—was utterly pristine. His cold gray eyes scanned the papers before him, but I could feel his side glance registering my entrance. He didn't raise his head. He didn't signal for me to sit.
That was expected.
In Alistair's presence, everyone waits.
I found a vacant chair to his left, with two empty seats between us—a deliberate distance. For dignity, perhaps. Or maybe contagion.
I sat slowly, trying to keep my movements calm and deliberate, as befitting the "silent" duke's son.
The chair's back was painfully upright—designed, it seemed, to gently torture the spine.
"What the hell is this crap?" I whispered in my head as I scanned the few other faces present.
The imperial envoy: a short man with a bulging belly and a red, flushed face. He wore ridiculously embroidered crimson silk and was sweating profusely despite the cold room, dabbing his forehead repeatedly with a white cloth.
Next to him was the representative of the de Rohan family, southern nobles known for spice and ship trade: a slender young man with cunning eyes and olive-blond hair.
At the far end sat an old man representing the Tower of Sorcerers—cloaked in deep violet, holding a staff of ebony inlaid with a faintly glowing blue gem.
"If I'm not mistaken," I thought, "this meeting takes place exactly one week before that stupid novel begins. The week when Ayla enters Nier's life as a false flame of hope."
How ironic.
Here I was, inside this fool's body, about to witness the very events that would lead to that romantic disaster.
Then, before the political farce could complete itself, the door opened again.
And he entered.
Duke of the Northern Winds—Evan de Valois.
A tall, imposing man with thick silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a dark navy military uniform adorned with medals I couldn't identify—but they clearly testified to a long history of battles and leadership.
And directly behind him... was her.
Lady Celine de Valois.
Daughter of the Duke of the Northern Winds.
The girl Nier had been obsessed with before Ayla appeared.
The one whose description in the novel had nearly made me gag:
"Her hair like black silk in a moonless night, her eyes like rubies washed in snowmelt, her voice like wind echoing in the abandoned throne halls."
God, I had memorized that trash.
She wore a dress of pale sky-blue silk, simple in design, but flowing with every step like frozen water.
Her jet-black hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of liquid night, a stark contrast to her pale skin. Her eyes… yes, ruby-colored—but not the warm kind. Cold. Sharp. Like two pieces of polished glass that saw the world without ever feeling it.
She didn't look at me.
She didn't look at anyone, really.
She passed by silently and sat beside her father on the other side of the table, her dress making only the faintest whisper, like a sigh of snow. There was no detectable perfume—if there was, it was barely a trace, like morning flowers under winter dew.
I remembered the chapters of suffering the novel forced me to read.
Nier watching her from afar.
Nier writing her letters he never dared send.
Nier aching in silence because she never acknowledged his existence.
What a pitiful coward.
This girl—with her cold beauty carved like a statue—was enough to shatter his fragile heart.
Now, seeing her...
I felt nothing.
No hatred. No admiration. Not even curiosity.
Just another beautiful piece of furniture in this absurd stage.
Maybe—just maybe—there were leftover feelings from the original Nier echoing faintly inside this body. But my current mind drowned them out completely.
"I should be thinking about how to spend my money," the thought returned, saving me from the looming boredom.
"Right! The novel mentioned that Nier had unlimited access to funds. We were the wealthiest... owning rare black-gold mines, and controlling secret trade routes for dark magic. I should make good use of that."
I imagined myself ordering an endless banquet.
"I'll buy the finest foods. Not like the old Nier—an idiot who drank herbal tea and ate pale fruit to fake virtue and humility. No, I'll demand the rarest grilled beast meats—worth fortunes. I'll have a personal chef prepare daily feasts worthy of a starving king—not a poetic teen trying to impress silly girls."
Then the imperial envoy began speaking—in a gravelly voice that shattered my delicious food fantasies.
He talked about "new economic projects", "rebuilding the western provinces", "resource allocation", "ensuring loyalty of local populations."
Words.
Words.
Words.
Empty. Dull. Predictable.
Alistair appeared attentive—or at least acted the part. He occasionally jotted notes with a thin silver pen on leather scrolls.
Duke de Valois nodded now and then, while his daughter, Celine, stared into some point in space—as if counting dust particles in a beam of light.
I didn't care.
All that mattered was that I was here, trapped in this body, in this diseased world.
But at least... I was rich. Filthy rich.
And I could eat well.
That was a decent enough start.
The meeting dragged on for what felt like an eternity.
Their voices became background noise.
I noticed Alistair glance at me two or three times—cold, assessing looks. As if making sure I was still breathing... or hadn't done anything stupid.
Lady Celine, on the other hand, didn't spare me even a glance.
Only once did our eyes meet—by accident—when she turned to hand her father a document.
Her gaze was blank. Brief. As if I were part of the furniture.
No disdain. No interest. Just... cold emptiness.
Strangely, that was better than any other reaction.
I recalled how Nier described her in one of his unsent letters:
"She's like a distant star—beautiful, but unaware of the warmth she denies those who watch her."
"Idiot," I muttered again to myself. "She's just another girl, even if she's a duke's daughter. My focus should be survival. Understanding the 'system' that appeared to me. And how to turn this nauseating romance novel into my own private game board."
Another hour passed.
Detailed discussions of taxes on trade caravans, rights to mine recently discovered veins, costs of rebuilding border fortresses.
Each sentence felt like a reminder:
Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong story.
But a voice inside me—the voice of survival—whispered:
"Listen. Learn. Even crap can be useful."
Finally, the meeting ended.
After vague promises, veiled threats, and fake smiles.
I felt a heavy burden lift off my shoulders.
Everyone rose.
Alistair exchanged a few cold, formal words with Duke de Valois.
Lady Celine stood silently by her father's side—a beautiful, quiet shadow.
As they passed me on their way out, neither of them looked at me.
As if I didn't exist.
And that suited me just fine.
"Now," I thought as I rose slowly, joints stiff from sitting too long, "first thing I'll do when I get back to the castle... is order the biggest steak they can cook."
A faint, sarcastic smile touched my lips.
Maybe life in this world won't be entirely terrible after all.
As long as there's good food…
And enemies to crush later.