The last thing Élaina Vaillancourt remembered was the hiss of breaks and the cold screech of metal—then blackness.
When she awoke the air was thick with woodsmoke and unfamiliar incense. The bed beneath her was not the sterile hospital cot she expected but something softer, wrapped in lavender-scented linens and heavy quilts stitched by hand. The ceiling above was carved oak, darkened with soot. She sat up slowly, wincing as stiff bandages tugged at her ribs.
She wasn't in a hospital.
She wasn't even on Earth.
Outside the frosted window, a world of thatched roofs, narrow stone lanes, and mist-covered hills stretched beneath the overcast sky. And just beyond the broken manor walls, where burnt timber and melted glass still steamed, the once-grand estate of House d'Aramont lay in ruin.
"You're awake," the women said gently. "Praise the stars."
Élaina blinked. Her voice cracked. "Where... where am I?"
"You are safe. In what remains of Château d'Aramont," the women replied. "I am Lady Isabeau. My family found you unconscious in the rubble after the fire. You've been unconscious for two days."
Fire? Élaina frowned. "I don't understand. I was just... I was crossing the street. There was as truck. A sound. Then—"
"You spoke strange words in your sleep," Isabeau murmured, placing a cool hand on her forehead. "Of buildings that scrape the sky and metal beasts that fly. But don't worry. You are among friends now."
Isabeau helped her sit and draped a warm shawl across her shoulders. "Come. I'll introduce you to the rest of the family."
As she was guided through the hallway, Élaina tried to make sense of the world around her. The estate was large but clearly damaged—fire-blackened walls, shattered stained glass, noble banners scorched and curling. Yet even in ruin, there was grace. A sense of history.
Downstairs, by the hearth, Élaina met the family that saved her:
- Duke Mathieu d'Aramont, the weary but noble patriarch with soot still on his sleeves and dignity in his bearing.
- Duchess Isabeau, calm and composed, her hands calloused from hard work not meant for a lady.
- Lady Séraphine, the eldest daughter, elegant and curious, with ink-stained fingers and a thousand questions in her gaze.
- Lord Lucien, the middle sibling, sharp-eyed and skeptical. The heir.
- And little Aveline, no older than eight, not yet debuted, who clung to Élaina's leg the moment she saw her.
They were noble by name, but their wealth had long since burned away—if not by the fire, then by years of neglect, corruption, and royal indifference. The village around the estate was poor, barely clinging to survival. The duke's name once commanded respect. Now it drew pity.
And yet... they had helped her.
They fed her despite rationed stores. Gave her room when the half the house was uninhabitable. Dressed her wounds when they had few bandages to spare.
One snowy evening, as Élaina watched Séraphine quietly copy ledgers by candlelight, she asked the question that haunted her since waking:
"Why help a stranger when you have so little?"
Duke Mathieu looked up from his paperwork with tired, honest eyes.
"Because we still have honor," he said simply. "And honor means little if it is not extended to those in need."
In that moment, Élaina's heart clenched.
In her world, she had nothing more than an office ghost—pushed aside, overworked, underestimated. She was a woman who had managed logistics, budgets, crisis response. A strategist behind the curtain.
But here?
Here she could make a difference.
She began slowly. Organizing what little supplies the estate had. Suggesting improvements for the village well. Helping Séraphine refine her accounting methods. Whispering ideas to Lucien about trade routes and market stalls. Nothing large—just enough to ease the burden.
And over time, the family took notice.
Event the villagers did.
A merchant returned with grain. A blacksmith offered to repaired broken gates in exchange for wood Élaina had bartered from a distant forest lord. Children returned to play near the estate walls.
Hope, like spring beneath snow, began to stir.
One night, standing by the broken tower, Élaina looked up at the stars—familiar in shape but distant in meaning.
Her reflection in the frostbitten glass shimmered.
And for a brief second, she didn't see a bedraggled stranger in borrowed robes.
She saw a queen.
Not born—but forged.
She touched the glass and smiled faintly.
"Not yet," she whispered to herself.
"But one day."